The Story Behind The Story

This van looks very innocent, doesn't it?

I had started to write a tale of my first true, teaching, Vagabond stop in New Jersey--but to understand that, I realized it perhaps makes more sense to tell the Story Behind the Story...and so here it is.

I remember once, a young friend of my family idly, dreamily mentioning how charmed my life was, how she wished to "just run away" and do the same thing I was doing. I chuckled under my breath; this was not the first time I'd heard this, though I excused the girl's young age for this fluffy bit of thinking.

She couldn't know that this sort of thing didn't JUST happen, at least not to me. There's always a Story Behind the Story, and mine always involved a careful and long bout of planning. Trust me, I'd never been the sort to just roll out of bed, grab this strange, storied gypsy gold that I'm sure people think I have, and GO. I actually envied people who simply seem to effortlessly do things, on a whim, blindly jumping into any and all situations, and who are buoyed, unscathed, by luck--though I strongly suspect that they, too, have a story behind the story.

Indeed, I am no wealthy traveler, I do not stray, fully feral sans a trusty map--it is why I do, in fact, teach classes. While I enjoy this self-made occupation, it also quite literally pays the bills and the travel--a clever way to remain self sufficient, I'd at least hoped.

This would seem quite simple--call hosts, schedule classes, get on the road, teach classes, see the country, repeat. Except that sometimes unlucky things happen...and this go-round has been a passel full of curious new misfortunes I'd never seen before.

The Romany people believe highly in luck, good or bad (known as Baxt or Basht). Any number of things influence it, and if you speak with superstitious people (and I shall neither confirm or deny that I am in this category), you will be followed by it for some time.

If I were superstitious, I could say that the cutting my long hair (you DO remember I cut off seven-years worth of Mountain Woman dreaded hair, right?) was probably the pinnacle point for the level of crazy I was about to experience....indeed, it would unfold in such a way that would have near-grave consequences.

It started simply enough. See the beast in the top picture? Once affectionately known as "The Jalopy," it was a second-hand landscape work car that got me through my adventures in Pennsylvania, and actually managed to drive me from New York all the way down to Florida. A tough old bird, it was a well-worn traveler, like me.

Then winter came. WINTER. Now, mind you, Florida winters are pint-sized mutts compared to the Wolves of the upper half of the United States. Still, for a few days there was ice, there were freezing temperatures. Later, in March, when I tried to start the thing, it wouldn't move out of the driveway. The van was promptly taken to a HIGHLY recommended mechanic. I was told the springs were shot but also--since it was a Northern van--that the brake lines were heavily rusted, likely the result of salting the roads up North which were now wearing through the bottom of my vehicle,  and that one line was slightly leaking brake fluid. I dangerous situation, indeed.

Several HUNDRED dollars later, and I was told that three lines were repairs, springs replaced, and it was ready to go. I still had a full couple of weeks before I was set to leave, plenty of time. I breathed a sigh of relief...

...sort of. In the middle of all of these mechanical acrobatics, I was finding out from my first two hosts that they could not garner enough attendance for the classes, and would cancel them. There was no blame to be had; these fine women hosts had been prepping and posting on line and bugling them here and there in the world--one simply couldn't say whether people would be interested in bees or art or sustainability. It was a disappointing blow, but nothing could be done with it.

At the same time, I had scheduled another fine appointment to show off a bevvy of clocks at a National Halloween convention with another fine art hostess, rolling with the punches in fine fair. So, bags were packed, boxes sealed and--with lots of lifting and shifting---the old Jalopy was set to roll again.

Or so I thought. With two days grace, I had planned to drive from Florida to my sister's home in Virginia, then off to Pennsylvania, where I envisioned meeting thousands of people, talking about clocks, and perusing tons of Halloweenware.

Of course, with my backwards luck, I would have to leave the day it decided to thunderstorm and tornado. I actually wasn't worried, I'd spent thousands of hours on the highway, and this particular stretch from my home to Alabama was far less traveled, a safe little two laned labyrinth that had only two traffic lights for two hours.

So for two hours, no problems. I then reached my first light at the cusp of the Alabama border. I had a small side cross road at the other end of the red light. I pushed my foot on the brake, barely thinking about it...except I wasn't slowing down fast enough. Newly panicked, I pushed down on the brake, hard. I suddenly felt a slight give, and the car slowed down, but I still managed to roll past the red light. Even though the car in the opposite lane saw the incident and did not move, I then shot straight through, only to swerve into a side lot, shocked.

What had just happened there? It couldn't possibly be my brakes, I had just been bled solid for solid brakes. It must be the slick roads and the heavy load the van was carrying, I reasoned. Yes, I can be a genius, no?  Even smarter (do try not to laugh), I decided to continue driving, reasoning that if I just slowed down farther away from all cars, I might possibly make it. All. The. Way. Up. To. New Jersey.Right. I made it through three lights before I experienced the same thing with a MACK truck parked at a red light. Even stopping SIX car-lengths ahead of the goliath, I still had to swerve into a right hand turn lane to keep myself six feet above ground.

Long story short(er), I promptly turned back, driving like an obnoxiously slow grandmother all the way back. I took the newly named Beacon Of Death to Sears, where I was eventually told that--yes, the mechanic DID repair the brake lines, but only to the joint (middle part) of the car, but he did NOT extend this out to the WHEELS, and the front left brake line there had rusted out and leaked out brake fluids--I was DRIVING WITH NO BRAKES!

So folks, the next time you see your friendly Vagabond, or any traveler for that matter, give a tip of the hat and a nod. It sure looks fun, but there is usually a Story Behind the Story, sometimes fun, sometimes fearsome, but definitely something to tell tales about!

Countryside Chronicles I

Gather ‘round, My Lovelies, for this story is one that might best be told around campfires and gatherings and such…at least I’d like to think so.  I suppose, in many ways, this isn’t the first story about what happens to a wild-haired city girl, when she dares venture into the wily countryside, and yet, each encounter is its own fingerprint, unique and stand-alone.

You will find the fruits of my weekend as shown above, with these wonderful little trophies found along the journey. Truth is, they are but a small representation of that time,  lovely tokens of a far grander picture. I found the stoneware (and antique way to hold old kitchenware), and the two rolling pins (for future old-timey bread baking, and each a dollar, to boot!), at an old antique outdoor market near Lancaster. The soaps were a gift from Soap-making/herbalist/editor in chief/general mischief maker sisters. All in all, not a bad score for a weekend outing. Honest-to-goodness, though, that wasn’t the finest prize to be had….

So sit back, my Friends, and enjoy this story, and you will understand the Countryside Chronicles….

This tale is one that is typical in two ways: it involves the splendor of the country, and it involves some amazing women. Which is just the right mixture for abundance and--of course--mayhem. Do not put a group of high spirited females together and expect less than magic, I tell you...and you can take that statement to the bank.

I had been out into the countryside, a couple of weeks back, and spend a good deal of time, then, with artist friends Carolee Clark and Jen MacNeill-Traynor. I had also spend a few hours with friends Tina Sams and her sister Maryanne, who lived a bit further up, in Manheim, which was far more rural than Jen and Carolee’s small town environs.

It wasn’t until this trip around, actually spending a night amongst the sisters, that I would fully understand their surroundings and, to some degree, why these dames were so funny and vivacious.

Somewhere beyond long, rounded roadways, beautiful corn and cow fields, and old barns and spring-houses, is a Christmas tree farm. As outlandish---or at least unique--as this place seems in the midst of old-time conventional farming, it’s unpredictability mirrors the sisters who live in this magical place.

Tina Sams is the editor of The Essential Herbal, been an herbalist for more than two decades and, in many ways, paved the way for herbalists after her. Her magazine is superb, a full compendium of every way to use herbs, and other related herb topics. Her sister Maryanne and her husband Bob, own the Christmas tree farm, living on the opposite side of Tina, on a most spectacular piece of property. Behind the evergreen branches, you will find berries and herbs and fruit and nut trees tucked away. And beyond these, an enchanted little cottage holds a wholesale soap business of Maryanne’s, with Tina as an astute assistant.

These ladies are a hoot, to say the least. They’ve been around the block, painted the town red, and have the funny and insightful tales to tell. Within minutes of seeing them in action, I could tell that they both are a barrel of laughs, like just enough good clean fun, and are kindhearted people. They are also extremely clever business women, and willing to lend an ear, and plenty of advice in regards to helping others with theirs.

My trip to see them would also include a few other wonderful women--and I was country-bound, actually, for reasons that had nothing to do with visiting. See, you may remember I have this dancing fever. It was quite a part of my youth and I haven’t quite managed to shake it. So I drag my old(er) bones 'round and teach dance, and it would be no different in this case.

Sarah Preston is the radiant proprietress of the equally titled Radiance, an amazing shoppe that carries herbs, oils, holistic items and much more revelrie in an enchanted space. Sarah herself is the picture of kindness and beauty and was nothing but supportive when I mentioned to her that I taught dance. She wanted to host classes, and I would stop by that weekend to show her some of my fancy moves.  So off we went--Tina, Maryanne, and I--over the river and woods and into the heart of Lancaster City.

I hadn’t an inkling that Lancaster--the proverbial heart of Amish Country--had a CITY, but it reminded me of a trendy downtown…full of art galleries, cafes, outdoor parks, and other little charming nooks and crannies that make such places appealing. Not the hustle and bustle of mad metropolises such as New York, this place was quaint, if busy.  Old buildings stood as historic sentinels, and in the middle of this, on the third floor of an old brick colonial place, was Radiance.

The place swirled with color and light, and I met lovely Sarah and was ushered into the large dance space, festooned with Indian sari and batik fabrics.   I did two routines, and then suddenly, the sisters and I were off and running, out into Lancaster County and it's outskirts.....


Yes, it’s not quite a country tale, but when we were done, there was FAR more bedlam to come.  Farmer Market Mayhem, Countryside Romps,  Soap Making, and the horse and wagon tale that…wasn’t!

And THAT, my Lovelies, is Tomorrow’s Tale!