Carolina In My Mind

Seems like I'm surrounded by the theme of sisters, lately....

It was the half-way mark of the journey. It would also be the tale of sisters, and surprises, including a tiny, confessional twist. Life, like the road, is full of such winding tales.

I was leaving the golden, sun-kissed, fabled fields of Virginia, where my own sister lived, and driving Southward, a long trekk towards Florida. Before I left, however, my sister had a surprise for me. Since she taught at a fine and fancy boarding school, we trekked that morning far onto the enchanted woodscape of the massive acreage that encompassed the place. As she knew I had a thing for equines of any form, we winded 'round this bend....

To find a horse stable full of horses!

Apparently, this girl's school was dandy enough to host its own stable, and some of these young ladies apparently shipped their own animals in. Those exquisite equines mingled with the schools own riders and jumpers, with the result being a romantic scene that any discerning eye could appreciate.  Ideas of high-school aged juveniles learning equestrianism in any form was so novel to me that I was instantly tickled pink at the entire scene....

I was particularly fond of this fellow--a draft horse!--a Belgian horse named Christopher. What was this behemoth doing in a place full of sleek and light Thoroughbreds, racing crosses, and quarter horses? Why, he was the school's own low-jumping mascot. The breed's cold-blooded temperament meant he would be slow to spook. I always loved the big horses for their more tolerant dispositions. Christoper was no exception...

After that amazing surprise, I was off. I had to smile at my younger sibling--in the way you smile at the realization of someone so different from you who knows you perfectly. That girl knew my quirks, and love me anyway.

The theme of sisters would be on my mind long after I pulled out of the long winding pathway away from the Virginia school--that sisterhood would be following me for awhile.....See, I was driving to North Carolina, to see another pair of sisters, artists and friends of mine for several years. 

Before that though, it occurred to me that  the Carolinas are themselves sister states, once known as a SINGLE entity, and actually considered part of Virginia--in 1609.  It then became the Province of Carolina, in 1663, before it was split into "Northern" and "Southern" entities in 1729. The name "Carolina" hints back at it's histrionics; it was created under the charter by King Charles of England (though some have said it is part of the word Carolingian, for the Carolingian/Frankish dynasty).

Now you might be asking yourself why a traveler like myself would be so informed by any one particular place, so I will now tell you a little confession: I have had a secret crush on the Carolinas. For years. Yes, you heard that correctly--these strange wandering bones of mine have always wanted to park permanently (or at least semi-permanently) for some time now.

Why? The folkish heart of mine had always loved it's mountain ways, it's forested, four-season scene. It was smack in the middle of the East Coast, where perhaps visiting either the north or south would be within range. It's folk art scene and farming scene seemed ideal and its economy reasonable. It was perfect for beekeeping too, as it boasted sourwood honey harvests found nowhere else. I was in love with its lore, it's people--heck, the whole shebang.  If I couldn't live in the English countryside (which may be my first love, but a shame on the whole non-citizenship snafu), and outside of New England (which was by now too cold for my old bones), then this would be a lovely vision...perhaps.

I had been told North Carolina was a bit more green and economy friendly than it's southern sibling, so that's where I set my sights. And happily, I would be seeing two dynamo sisters in one of those sister states.  Brandi McKenna and Dustin Pierson Harlan were two balls of fire disguised as ordinary Southern gals (although I'm not convinced that there really IS such a thing as an ordinary Southern gal). By my understanding, they have been born and raised North Carolina beauties and blossomed into some fierce ladies, the sort with a twinkle in their eye that promised mischief and a passel of creativity.  Raised by artists and farmers from their North Carolina heritage, it would be no surprise that they turned into professional artists themselves, but with the sort of energy and DIY can-do spirit that was enviable.

I chanced upon them via the interwebs years ago, and was impressed by the endless enthusiasm and accomplishment they both displayed.  Brandi, the older of the two seemed an impossible live wire: a mother of three ebullient children and a small army of pets, she managed to run 5 miles a day and start AND finish several art pieces A DAY.  As a fellow artist who took A WEEK to produce ONE piece of work, with far fewer domestic obligations, I frankly started to feel like a stick in the mud.  Honestly, her energy level seemed abnormally high, as few artists I knew could accomplish such weighty tasks.  It would be impossible to worry about such things, as Brandi also had such an infectious sense of positivity, that one couldn't be helped but jump into such a charming and fun personality.

Ain't it great to meet friends? Dustin (l) and Brandi (r). I have no idea who the crazy girl in the middle is, though....

Her specialty was in folk-art; her medium was in paper mache fusion--wall plaques and stand alone art with a folk-art edge. She may best be known for her moons and Halloween art, which could be found in her own art name She's Off Her Rocker.

An example of Brandi's Vintage themed smiling moons...

Paper mache pup, in progress, on Brandi's table....

Eventually, I also managed to meet her sister Dustin, online, and found that she was cut from the same cloth: perhaps slightly calmer than her older sis, she seemed to share the same tomboyish, sparkling, go-get-'em attitude. Moreover, she seemed mechanically technical; she loved taking machinery apart, fixing them, or using their parts for bigger, better, things. In this case, she did amazing jewelry, made of odds and ends and beautiful findings. 

Battlecat: jewelry findings meets bicycle chain...

Further, the two often worked in art restoration, or collaborated on interesting art designs to create their own signature works. These could be found under their current works as Harlan McKenna Designs.

One of the cool, interesting Harlan McKenna collaborative pieces....

The two gals live just outside of Charlotte, North Carolina, and I would be visiting Brandi's sweet cottage in a quaint town as quiet and rural as I could hope. It was as beautiful as any place I had stepped into since leaving the hustle and bustle of NYC.  The two sisters were as warm as I had imagined, and were full of surprises. One such surprise was taking me to their new, state-of-the-art studio, as part of a huge new artists' project and collective called ClearWater Artists Studios. And it was only FOUR blocks from where the sisters live.

I wasn't so sure what to make of this place. I mean, we were in a small town in the South. How fancy could this place be?

People, I was quickly made to eat crow:  this place was hopping! Once an old energy warehouse and plant, the thing had been converted to new, lovely, usable spaces for creative types everywhere. Brandi and Dustin share a massive warehouse space and create beautiful and fine works there. There was a beautiful main gallery, a cafe planned, more artists spaces being constructed from the various work buildings, and a farmer's market in the works. Like I said, this place was full of surprises.

Of course, my ears perked up at the words "art" and "farmer's market." Wait, a space where art AND farming could exist? I was intrigued; it seemed impossible, but I was indeed standing in a place where both my interests actually collided. Sensing my excitement, the sisters introduced me to the lovely arts laison, Sarah, and a friendship was struck. Yes, it seemed that I might actually be able to somehow participate in both the arts scene and farming scene here. It would be a matter of fitting the puzzle pieces, and could only be helped by Brandi and Dustin's VERY ENTHUSIASTIC encouragement.

Ideas were batted around. And continue to be batted around. It could be exciting. And maybe it would be, but it would take some deep thinking and list making and weighing of choices. Who knew? The place was definitely full of potential. And fine friends, too. I had met Sarah, and various other artists. I had also met Alan, the contractor who worked there, a fine farmer and builder, himself. It seemed everywhere I turned, there were honest, salt-of-the-Earth people simply working and doing what they loved, unassumingly and with that certain twinkle in their eye.

Alan, one of many North Carolina folk that lend their great attitude and creativity to the place...

Dustin and Brandi were no different. As with everything in this place, they were full of surprises. I would especially be humbled to know that they were juggling these wonderful, artful accomplishments, both with their own health problems. You wouldn't be able to tell, as they maneuvered their day with that gung-ho, fearless attitude about everything. I would be surprised at how well, and with how much humor they used, even in light of situations, big and small, that might make others just back away.

Whether it was rowdy kids, nipping puppies, or a broken dryer (Which Dustin expertly TOOK APART, in front of my astonished New York City non-repairing eyes, and REPAIRED by herself, lickety-split), or possibly more, one never sensed that they were anything more than just in love with their crazy little lives. As we ALL should be, and it was THAT attitude that I love most about those two. Plus, they make kick-ass art. Pure and simple.

Brandi, Mother, Artist, Mischief-Maker: how can you not love someone who makes, from scratch, PUMPKIN muffins (with real butter!)?? How will I ever leave North Carolina?

That whole place had it's own simple enchantment. A place that really supported the arts and farmers? Did I EVEN mention this place had SEVERAL antique stores? You remember my small antiques addiction, right?

Heaven help me, I was going to have a real problem getting over this new crush of mine!

*Find out more about Clearwater Artists Studios HERE
**If you are in the Concord NC area, TODAY (as we speak), they have an artists walk. Click the above link for more info and support the local artists!

UP NEXT: MORE NC Friends!

The Birthday Week

Hugging Wooden Cows: far less crazy than walking around with undiagnosed dizziness.....or not?
Photo: Nicole Goncalves

It was getting difficult, you see, balancing myself.
I'm not talking about the figurative balance of work, play, general responsibilities, or the carried-away mischief that has generally overtaken my life. No. This was actual, literal, balance.

Yep.  I'd been wresting with a strange sort of vertigo for a couple of months, along with the volatile health care industry, and getting nowhere. I easily had been spending a couple of hours barking into a phone in between the wild-goose-chase of insurance companies and a slog of endless doctors to call, since I was just a number in a vast and overwhelmed New York City system that I had recently returned to.

Mind you, the vertigo was not severe, but the uncertainty of a diagnosis simply exacerbated the tenuous situation; for once, the Wanderer's Magic wasn't working.

But! There would soon be a reprieve, because my Birthday Weekend was coming up, which was a good a time as any to make an executive decision to fully celebrate the traditional Birthday Week.

You don't know what The Birthday Week is? That, my friends, would be quite unfortunate. In fact, I think everyone should know and actively participate in The Birthday Week, by all means possible. See, I think a birthday isn't just a one day event. No, Siree. And particularly as one gets older, I think a whole WEEK (or at least a few days, by golly) should suffice in folly and fripperies and general smile-inducing merriment of all sorts. If this sounds quaint or old fashioned, then consider me the naive fool who has jumped wholeheartedly into the abyss.

To be fair, The Birthday Week is not some old family tradition I'd been inherently thrust into. This thing was actually thought up about four or five years ago, and if you've had the wherewithal to have read about these strange journeys here, you'll probably have stumbled upon my most illustrious Birthday Week in Pennsylvania,. That shindig happened last year--a high time with handmade food with folk artists, a good old-fashioned fiddler's camp, and horses galore. The shenanigans then spilled over into last year, in Vermont, where I ate ice cream in the forest and had a bevvy of mountain men make me birthday dinner.   This year, I promised, would be of the same caliber.

I wouldn't be disappointed. My partner-in-crime this go-'round stepped up in the form of talented young furniture builder, designer, and refurbisher-- the founder of The New England Girl--Nicole Goncalves. I'd met Nicole online, through our mutual love of old things and sustainability. And let me tell you, this gal was impressive. Not yet in her mid-twenties, she already had a business of building things in a male dominated industry. She was no shrinking violet when it came to completely creating something out of scrap lumber, wielding heavy equipment, or restoring furniture. She had a love for old-world living, and was vivacious and highly skilled, so much so that her talents had recently gotten her onto the T.V. show "Flea Market Flip"--how's that for accomplishment?

At that age, I don't think I even knew what the heck I wanted to do, but here was this young lady with complete ethics and (having seen her in action), the professional confidence to tell people twice her age why they should be dealing with her when it came to building or refurbishing ANYTHING. She was also possibly the most self-scrutinizing person I'd known, adhering to an austere and high work ethic. To boot, she was kind, generous, and funny, but she could also be spontaneous and petulant--loving more than one project or interest, and jumping in wildly. Oddly, much of her outlook on life reminded her of my younger self--both mischievous and enterprising, but also highly detailed, with an old-wisdom sense of being. We also seemed to love the same things to the point it was strange. On more than one occasion, I found myself turning to her and saying "I swear I'm looking at myself in a parallel universe about 15 or 20 years ago!"

When she mentioned sh wanted to meet me for some time, I hopped at the chance because: 1. there was traveling involved, of course and  2. it allowed me to get the heck out of Dodge, and away from a stifling city and this strange sense of illness and ill-at-ease dealings with insurance companies and  3. did I mention there was TRAVEL involved?

I hopped the train, literally, the next day--this Birthday Week would be in Connecticut....and after two hours of luscious green-scapes, old white washed Victorian-aged barns and stone farmhouses, quaint and lustrous ponds surrounded by fruit trees, and the calling of denizens of crows, bellowing of cows, and even a passing of the Appalachian Trail, my heart was full and I felt like the same old happy traveler I normally was.

I hopped off in Wassaic, NY, and was greeted by my lovely young friend, and we gushed like gabbing school girls. Without hesitation, she chaperoned me through Massachusetts, and then Connecticut, boasting along the way that I could say I'd been through THREE states in a matter of hours. That was, indeed, some feat. With no complaint, she generously served as an impromptu tour guide, and we hit all sorts of hillside towns, antique stores, art havens, and little farmer's wayside stores. It was the same rural paradise I'd been to in dozens of states, and yet I couldn't lap it up fast enough.

Small town charm....yes, please!

Mountain town living....

 You can't help but find curiosities everywhere...apparently, bacon IS the universal ingredient!

After several hours of this, home beckoned, and hers boasted shaker style wood floors and beams, and farmhouse charm, to boot. The dining room had a 12 foot long raw wood table, which Nicole created herself, and the place was decked out in vintage and antique pieces that spoke to ghosts of an old Adirondack time alongside a Victorian era. It was genteel mountain-man and 60's plucky cowboy, with a dash or Amish woodwork ingenuity, all rolled in one, and it was brilliant an beautiful.

The back held possibly the most amazing deck or, rather, the view from the deck was amazing; the back of the house was built over a jutting, gradual slope and all around, there were 30 foot evergreens and lush forest. Somewhere in a lower valley, there was a fire pit. Off to the side, and ancient wood chicken coop grew moss on it's roof. I was in love.

How to get to a place like this? It was a topic of conversation for many days. The unfortunate part was that Connecticut, though beautiful and historical, was the sort of place that courted the high-denizened folk, not the working-class stiffs, of which I was solidly a part of. I simply wasn't sure if my humble soapy-farm-bee-teaching roots could sustain in such a glossy place.

Still, there was so much to see and do, a fine birthday week of friends, and quiet little artist havens, tiny towns, large fields and even a trip down memory lane by having quality ice cream, just like when I was in Europe!

Yumm.....

photo: Nicole Goncalves

I also chanced on seeing Nicole's shoppe, a fine beauty of a thing that housed her clever creations--she was certainly a mistress of her craft.There were wooden things of ever ilk, accompanied by vintage and antique dishes, cookware and nostalgia, tucked in between. One got a sense of the old mixed with chic and ingenious touches; I'd certainly recommend her hip and lovely creations for old-world lovers and heirloom enthusiasts.

Nicole's hand constructed sign shows off her talent and versatility...

Beautiful antique vases sit amongst old painted pine cabinets...

Vintage refurbished Hoosier cabinet shows off vintage whimsies....

By the end of my stay, there were tentative plans made, and a whole new business idea hatched....

But those would be put on hold once I got back to New York City, because everything I was grappling with, there, was about to come hurtling headlong into me......

The Bee Reprieve

Photo by Jenna Wogonrich
Find More of HER version of this story by scrolling to the end of her fabulous chronicles, HERE

I had just finished up an exciting trip and discussion about bees, you see. I was at the home of noted farm author Jenna Wogonrich, and the place was a small, charming village of animal and plant citizenry, a cohesive village of livestock and farm buildings and hay and manure and offspring and the hum of work and life.

I had been teaching beekeeping classes there, and it was a hoot. I had met six new, cool, farm friends, and I was about to meet a whole new group too. See, I had planned to stay at Common Sense Farm, just down the road from Jenna. After a small reprieve getting homemade icecream from the local Stewart's (which, in my estimation, was akin to the NYC Starbucks or the Philly Wawa) and after eating a ridiculous three-scoop-advertised-as-one-scoop gigantic mound of it (man, was it tasty), we headed off to the farm.

That place, sometimes called a commune, was a massive thing on about 200 acres of land. It housed about 90 people who had come to build an intentional community raising animals and making soap. Othniel and his wife Yeshiva seemed to be the go-to people of the farm, which still was beautifully old-fashioned, but clearly not small. There were chickens, ducks, goats, peacocks, even donkeys.  Someone had even found a baby deer, apparently abandoned by its mother, and were feeding her goats milk, which was supposedly gentle on the stomach. There were bees in top bar hives. There were plenty of children running around. Mostly there was kindness and politeness and, indeed, a sense of community.

I lived off of that generosity, eating good food that no one would accept money for, meeting a young girl from France who was traveling through the Americas by herself, and then an older woman, who appeared to need the farm for solace. I spoke with the beekeeper, Andre, a bearded, wizened looking man, who was as eager to hear from me, as I was to hear from him. It was a fine exchange, indeed.

The next day, I awoke and was ready--lock, stock, and barrel--to roll out by 9 AM. I cruised the town a bit, before I thought to head over to Jenna's. I'd honestly just gone to say a humble goodbye and purchase her farm fresh eggs (support a small farmer!), but once I got their, it was decided that I should check her hives to make sure her newly minted colony had released their queen properly.

This was nothing new. I'd done this for our own hives, waaaaay back when I was tending to bees on a city rooftop--the same sort of stuff that managed to get us into a film. New packages of bees come with their queen secured in a small box. The box is lowered into the new hive. One end should have a candy shell, and the bees eat through this until the hole at the end is exposed, and the queen moves through it. This should usually take about 4 day. However, if the candy is too hard, too big, or some other mishap occurs, then the queen cannot be released, and if she stays there too long, she could starve. So, it's always good for the beekeeper to suit up to check that things were going smoothly.

I donned the outfit that I had for such an occasion, and used the good tools to make my way into the hive. Jenna, meanwhile, had been working on her new bed of spring greens right next to me, and right up behind us, closer to the curving mountainside property, were her two horses, Jasper and Merlin, nickering their approval.

The day was beautiful, brilliant hued blue-skied and cloudless, The Perfect Day. I could hear chickens gallivanting in the background. Even with the hive wide open, there was nothing to worry about. I hadn't worked a hive in a couple of years, but it's sort of like riding a bicycle, I suppose. I'm not a big advocate of smoking a hive, so I simply blew them out of my work path. I saw the box easily enough, the bees had pretty much combed around the thing so that it sat right at the top of the frame, in easy view. It took a few tries, slowly, with my hive tool, to pry the thing loose, but once I did, I found the box utterly empty. I smiled and thought "All Hail The Queen."

"You are so CALM," Jenna exclaimed. Of course. You can't teach it in beekeeping 101 and not live it. At that exact moment I wondered what my European grandfather, the one who started this whole beekeeping thing in my family, would think of this. He would have no idea, in his lifetime, that eventually would come back around to this way of living. I smiled.

The farm, at this moment, looked the way romantic visions do. The wayward girl runs feral, lives her own life, owns this wonderful house, these animals. It's something out of a postcard. And seeing Jenna toil quietly, contentedly, one gets a very simple notion, too. Don't be fooled. It's hard work and it will break your heart sometimes...even in my limited visits with women and men such as she, I know the grit under the silken veneer. The things farmers must go through to get food on the table is something we conveniently take for granted.

So here's to that hard working, soil obsessed lot, the animal wranglers and weather watchers and dirt-under-your-nails sort. They're a wicked brave lot, indeed, taking risks you'd never fathom. Maybe we'll appreciate the farmer ilk, one day.

And the beekeepers, too.

I'll miss this place--I've still got to meet a small society I missed this trip around; it's definitely an excuse to come back 'round, I don't mind courting this place some more, in the future. That is, if they'll have a wayward writer-artist-beekeeper type in their midst.

TOMORROW: NEW YORK CITY--THE LEVIATHAN :)

Of Bees and Antlers

Hanging out with Gibson. His misstress wrote the fine book I'm holding.
For more on Jenna's writing, check out Cold Antler Farm!Photo by: Jenna Wogonrich

So here I was, on the road again. With over a week under my belt since I got back from my grand New Jersey excursions, I had saddled up my wayward van, and we were gulping down long stretches of black tar pavement, gallivanting three hours north of New York City.

I was there on another mission, you see. This one was to see a gal about her farm and her bees, and to impart a little third generation beekeeping for those coming to her farm, to see me. Don't be fooled though, in many ways, I was coming to see HER. Heck, many people were. See, this wasn't just any other farmer and this was no typical sojourn...nope. This was a visit to the farm of Jenna Wogonrich, of Cold Antler Farm, who possibly single-handedly made farming cool for the young (and old) folk.

Nearly a decade ago, ripe with old age in her early twenties, she graduated college with a graphic design degree and then decided to blow everyone's mind by deciding to make farming a main focus of her life. Actually, the more I learn of her, the more I realize that it is the love for the old ways and adopting those ideas and ideals as a lifestyle, that she has embraced. Nevertheless, in an era before self-sustainability became the buzzword of the day, when most young people considered farming dirty and useless work, this woman got herself some land, and then wrote about her adventures with words so fine and clever, you would mistake them for sonnets, high compositions, masterpieces.

Plus, all the information she imparted, wrapped in fine description and tooth-cut with hands-on experience, helped start a small geyser of new interest in back-to-the-land love, even if that love was in window-silled pots in urban apartments.

Natch, the girl wrote so well that she soon followed her online adventures with the real thing; she's got five books (or more? I've lost count) to her name, each imparting a different hue of life on a farm. It's a fine accomplishment. 

For all that, or perhaps because of it, she's a humble and down to earth (literally and figuratively) soul. My first encounter with the gal was when I interviewed her for my farm show a few years back: yes, that farming thing runs pretty deep 'round my neck of the woods. She was direct and no frills, and clearly passionate about what she did.

In many ways, it would be no different this time 'round, either. Her farm is found three hours outside of New York City. It was a beautiful drive--in many ways like the one I had always taken on these jaunts, but always flavored slightly differently by where I am. The Northeast holds a particularly hard grip in my heart. I suppose it's that way for many people. The rolling of the hills, the vibrant tree colors, the glimpse of farmstock all along the way...that is my heaven. Having left at an obscenely early hour, I enjoy sunrise, and the quiet of the country roads. Jenna's farm is smack atop a mountain. The farm house is utterly charming, and the outside jigs with sheep, dogs, goats, fowl, and a wiry pony and majestic black Fell pony. It seems like a typical, if staid farm scene, right? But you will be shocked, as you walk around back, to see a falcon perched outside. Yeah, Miss Jenna's a falconer. She also is an archer, fiddler, beekeeper, singer of old songs and keeper of traditions. Typical thinking, it doesn't work around here.

She walks out, all smiles and gusto. She is friendly, and direct, and without any guile. She takes me to the inside of her house, which I love: it's brim-ful of old antiques that are used in utilitarian style. An old steamer trunk is a table, vintage farm dishware is still used. I am offered cool water from a mason jar, and stare at wall hangings that are a mix of antique farm signage and Celtic paraphernalia.

I smile. I may have finally met my match, level 10, for antique love and traditions keeping.

Her house is old-time mountain décor meets 18th century farmhouse, and she moves through it in a purposeful flurry. That's farming for you--you never really do stand still. At some point, I got a sense that she was sort of apologizing for the way it looked, but I scoff at that. I consider her life an enviable one; there are at least a dozen stories I could tell her of friends who live in tiny hovels with jobs that make them cry every morning. I just left those friends three hours ago. Plus, having traveled to so many different farms and done farming has made my perspective such that you can really sense the grit of the farmer, and this farm is all heart.

By and by, our class participants arrived. There were Kathy and Mary from Albany, Darcie from Massachusetts, and Holly and Ruth a mother-daughter team. Soon enough, I was imparting the knowledge and stories about my grandfather's beekeeping, the same story I'd been teaching in Iowa, Illinois, Kansas, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, and Florida. My audience was a fun group who jumped in with their own stories and questions. We spent several hours like this, even goofing off right before lunch break.

Kathy shows off an amazing archery bow...

And so it went--beekeeping basics were dispensed, and a cauldron-full of ancient bee lore, for good measure. There was one refreshingly off-script moment where Mary, who was facing the porch's windowed door, pointed out to Jenna that her sheep had actually managed to escape the fencing and were headed across the road! In true farmer form, Jenna simply got up and tended to them, while we carried on with the class. That's just farming, folks!

In bouts, Jenna also showed us her sheep, we did go look at her hive, we met her equines-- Jasper the smaller Pony Of The Americas, and the magical Merlin, the black Fell pony.

There were chicken, turkeys and geese. There was Bonita the milking goat and her daughter. There were two pigs in the barn, and greens in the garden. Italics is the name of her Red-Tailed Hawk, a well mannered juvenile. She explained her use for all of them, and it was magical.

This little ewe was a bottle lamb, and the daughter of Maude the Angry Ewe, from Jenna's original flock...

Bonita and her daughter.

Soon enough it was time to go. I would be whisked off to the neighboring farm called Common Sense to spend the night, and already it was too short a stay.

At the end, I asked Jenna to kindly take a picture with her leading man. He had salt and pepper hair, in a way, and was full of energy and a great big smile. It was her border collie and partner-in-crime, Gibson. This fellow was quite the showman and ambassador for Cold Antler, rounding our feet all the while. As you can see by the photogenic outcome in the pic at the top of this story, he might well be a model in the making, though I'm sure Jenna would scoff at her sheepherding partner's would-be career change.

In the end, I made a whole gaggle of new friends.

Rock on, beekeeping friends!

Heck, I was so enthralled I actually asked for real estate brochures. Did I mention I loved the Northeast? And farming? Ehh, maybe one of these days. At the very least, it would be cool to get some more Cold Antler in my life. You should, too!

*Jenna's Books: "Made From Scratch," "Chick Days,""Barnheart," "One Woman Farm," "Cold Antler Farm."

Countryside Chronicles III: Into the Countryside

"Stop the Car!" I yelled to my cohorts, sisters Maryanne and Tina.  We had been riding around the beautiful countryside of Manheim (or was it Mount Joy?), amongst Amish farmsteads and rolling hills...and as we rounded the corner, there stood the vision of TWO horses and a large mule, pulling a harrow that dug up a large field. A boy straddled the equipment, already an expert in his young age.

Foolish as it was, I wouldn't have minded pitching myself right out of our moving vehicle, just to be able to trot up to the lad, and ask him HOW DO YOU DO THAT?  Nevermind that he would have taken one look at my crazy hair, and probably the dirt and mud I'd have accrued from flying headlong outside of a moving automobile...and probably pronounced me something straight from the underworld...no, I wanted to know. How, OH HOW did you train those animals to do that? What was this secret that I forever seemed to be on the other end of?

But no, my women friends managed to talk me from the plummet and rolling part, and off we went....

Along the journey, we would see charming farm stands just idly up by the road, or signs for BROWN EGGS. PEACHES. SWEET CORN. We finally stopped at a farm that had RAW MILK and RAW MILK ICE CREAM.  I can't help it, I've always liked milk the way my mother's generation had it. And in Pennsylvania, it's legal to sell raw milk.  We turned down the road (driveway?) to what would be a Mennonite farm. Their huge barn and farmyard housed several large, bug eyed Holsteins. Two young boys puttered with some sort of farm tractor. The farm wife, bonnetted and paisley aproned, was on a lawn mower in front of the house. She waved curtly as we swung into the front of a little farm store, the screen door waggling behind us as we found ourselves in front of a bare room with freezers and a refrigerator.

But...it was charming. A little board had the day's items and prices. There was an open cash register with cash and coins laid out; this place was working on the honor system, and I loved that.

I was happy to find jumbo eggs for sale at $1.75 a dozen (!!) and the raw milk in Harrisburg is almost $7.00 a gallon. Here? THREE WHOLE BUCKS (!!!)  I bought one of each and made a note to visit this place everytime I visited the sisters. I supposed I would have gorged on the $4 a gallon raw milk icecream, but how would I transport it back?

Soon enough, it was time to go drove around for a little while more, finding secrets along every road and curve. Eventually though, the sun was going down and we were off to another fun "chore."

If I hadn't divulged it before, I say now that Maryanne makes soap. Fantabulous soap. Dare I say soap as good as my super duper soap-maker and farmer friend (and writer!) Donna OShaughnessy.  Maryanne's was on par with that good soap, but it was different. Different oils, colors, designs...which is why there can be many good soapmakers out there....and I was in for a treat--I would watch Maryanne and Tina make soap.

Their soap making headquarters is actually a sweet little storefront originally made for the Christmas Tree farm Maryanne's husband runs on the farm. It has since morphed into a cozy workspace with oils, essences and soap ingredients, and has an area for soap drying. Plenty of wonderful and unusual soap is made here, and you can find these at Lancaster County Soapworks.

The ladies are super-efficient at their craft, mixing and batching soap with skill that comes with running this little business for over a decade. The sisters were funny and insightful, chatting with me about all sorts of things--business advice, life advice. I seeped this in, stunned at their candor and frankness. They told it like it was, without being harsh, and one got the sense that these two should rent themselves out as those sort of Aunties that helped you with everything. In fact, I swear that---should I close my eyes---they were filled with equal amounts of magic and gravity that the Aunts from Practical Magic could very well have been in that room.....

We talked more over a dinner of pizza and ice cream...and I suppose this is a great segue-way to introduce Tina's daughter, Molly. The young lady (I dare say we were all old enough to call her "kid") is a beauty...equally as direct and funny as her mama. I wouldn't have guessed that Tina was someone's mama, but that's only because her spirit is so daredevilish, there is nothing typically domestic about her. Let me be clear though---from what I understand of her life, that she is an absolute amazing mama....I'm still trying to adopt her and her sister as those "Aunts" I was telling you about!

I was quite sad to leave, the next day...but part of the weekend journey also had me going out the opposite way past my house to visit a woman about riding some horses. Ever the mamas that they are--I was given FOUR FREE bars of soap (I think I will be clean for at least a year!), and Tina Tucked some of her homemade applesauce into the box that held the milk and eggs for the trip home.  I loved these people. Loved them.  I was finding kindness everywhere...

Then, as it always seems, I was on the road. Those folkloric Pennsylvania roads would lead me to the horses and horse training of my dreams....or would they?

Country Chronicles II: In The Land Of Women

A long awaited 2nd edition of a weekend adventure; this life is so busy, I've NO TIME to be busy!

"A woman is like a tea bag - you can't tell how strong she is until she gets in hot water" Eleanor Roosevelt

If I think about my journey--the entirety of it, not just a weekend's worth--I realize this: the common thread binding it all....are women. Yes. Women. Strong women. Loud, outrageous and courageous women. Through all of the states I've traveled, they have been friends, co-conspirators, cheerleaders. A million mothers am I blessed with.  Don't get me wrong--there have been husbands, sons, brothers. But the ones that got me there--from Iowa, Illinois, Florida...and even now in PA, are women. They have seen me through everything.

Tina Sams and her sister Maryanne, are no different. When I last left you, we had just left another amazing woman, Sarah Preston, who had seen me audition to teach dance at her radiant shoppe, Radiance. I was amazed also, to know, that she has gotten her first hive, an AMISH made one, and would I like to teach classes?  Why yes, that I would. We talk about apiary matters, for some moments, but soon enough, Tina and Maryanne have me whisked away.

There is much to do. They have soap orders to deliver to the historic Landis Valley Museum. But first, we rush across the cobblestone street, and over to the large historic Market right in Lancaster City's square.

The place is hopping. Throngs of people walk or dally in front of various farm stands, kiosks and other shoppes that occupy a huge open floor plan. Everything, and I mean, EVERYTHING but the kitchen sink is in here. A Doggie bakery brushes against a blown glass stand, and sweet shoppes display mouth watering calorie whoppers. An Ethiopian deli neighbors a little quilt stand where a be-kerchiefed Amish grandma steadily sews--on sight--as quilted bags, purses, potholders, and more harken to another time.

I am overwhelmed...in a delighted way! Too much good food and good vibes over the loud and happy din of busy shoppers supporting local farmers and artisans....just what a gal like me likes to see.   We don't have time to dally--we are still due at the museum, but Tina and Maryanne buy soft pretzels from a happy vendor and she laughs at our jokes. They kindly offer me one....tasty stuff!

Then we are off, piled into Maryanne's car. We talk about the neighborhoods we are passing, and the two share a bit of history about Landis Valley. Seems that two antique-farm collecting brothers had gotten themselves tons of old farm equipment, and these eventually became the foundation of Landis Valley. Basically, the place is a beautiful historic property with buildings, structures, and more based on old Dutch/German farms. There are driving horses (more on this later), an heirloom seed project, and lovely old buildings and shoppes.

Soon enough, we pull into the main gift shoppe, which looks like a beautiful old Shaker saltbox construction. Inside, the ladies talk with the shoppe owner whilst I peruse the goods for sale. Beautiful redware pie plates, figurines, and even Christmas ornaments glint at me from shelves. Old woven rag rugs, beeswax candles, tin candle holders and treenware are for sale, as are handmade brooms, woolen items and other primitive wonders. I was in love. Tina shows me upstairs where tolle-ware, free hand cut out pictures (a Pennsylvania tradition), and more beautiful items awaited. I wondered how I could stow away, to permanently be surrounded by this beauty.

Soon enough, the handmade soap was offered up, and we were off...but not before we went to the main desk. My lovely benefactors wanted to MAKE SURE that I spoke with someone about the horse driving program. Tina was sure I could volunteer with the horses, but I had no luck on the phone, getting permission to do this.  The girl at the front desk, though baby-faced, was tenacious. She gave us THREE different numbers, and was sure I would get a response. I thanked her profusely, impressed by her spirit of helpfulness.  Since it was the weekend, I would pursue the matter once Monday hit.

From there, we hit the local burger joint....but there was nothing ordinary about it (though I dare say now, my old-age memory fails me for a name!).  The menu didn't sling greasy meat and potatoes...nosiree! This place was high-falutin': an interesting assortment of burgers--including vegetarian fare...and sides, were the name of the game. In fact, we had spicy fried mushrooms for a side, and I had a burger made of CHICKPEAS, with cucumber and a toasty bun. Maryanne, I remember, had a sort of apple crisp between two pieces of toasted bread. An unusual meal, with great conversation.

After that, and a moment at Tina's house, we did a most usual AND unusual thing...they actually honored my request to just drive around the countryside which, by luck, was their neighborhood. Yes, mightily exciting stuff, right?  But, indeed, THAT, to me, was exciting. I remember--too, at some moment--both mentioning how they hadn't realized,  in some time, how lovely and lucky they were. I suppose when you've lived in a place long enough, you will find a thing very mundane. I could say the same thing about the large city which I lived in--it's interesting to see excitement through a tourist's eyes, I suppose.

But truly--we went past yellow corn fields, plummeting roads that overswept old white centurian barns...zoomed past lowing black and white cows, past fields and fields of weeds that had names by people a century ago. We joked every time a saw a horse that I'd grab one and fling it in the back seat of the car. We laughed and told stories. We rounded bends with streams, watched hawks and crows dive, and...and...

We took a sharp corner past a corn field and on the other side, my heart stopped...there on the other side of a field, stood a kid--maybe fourteen or fifteen. And he was standing on a harrow, pulled by two drafts and a mule!  Foolish, indeed, but I literally yelled out with excitement...for what person like me sees such a thing this close with her own eyes. Actually, what of ANY of it had I seen. Every moment was a picture perfect post card, seared into my head...for eternity and a day...and here I was, with two new women friends, to share it all....

And there was still more to come....

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!

The Neverwas House...

                                                        What dreams would you write on this barn's bulletin?
As this leg of this peculiar little journey winds down, I find myself introspective. I know, already, that I will miss this remarkable land, these good people who have treated me as kin. "Why don't you come and live here?" is the constant refrain--from everyone, including myself, at times.


The irony of this nomadic journey is that my deepest interest lies QUITE tied to the Earth. Beyond the floaty and unreal world of performing arts, my heart flutters for FARMING--yes, that Earthy, dirty, do-it-yourself world of deal-making with Mother Nature, of nurturing plants, and animals, and ultimately oneself. Of humble rootings, and working an acreage of ones own. 


Perhaps it is madness--but what would one expect from a girl rummaging about a cross-country journey. And, conversely, it may now make sense why I have been galavanting about the Midwest...to visit farm country, of course.


My problem is that I haven't found the right spot--either it's quite out of the budget, or too far, or too small. Yes, this prom date is awkwardly mismatched, always falling short of lead dancer status.  Mostly, I worry about my little nest egg, and how far I can carry it towards a good and beauty parcel of Earth.  I've had several close calls...and Iowa was no exception.


See, it's all Dawn's fault (that Heffa). As I mentioned, she lived on a long gravelly stretch of road not far from one of the Bridges of Madison county. On one of my excursions in her well-loved SUV, I sailed past her turnoff and, unaware, turned onto the road immediately after hers. I quickly realized, by the strange landmarks, that I was off, and was set to turn around, when I noticed a huge FOR SALE sign in the driveway I pulled up into. 


AND THIS WAS THE VIEW:

Old farmhouse....plus rustic old red barn, old converted hog barn (into a garage), crunchy chicken coop, three sided shed. The whole thing screamed at me. Three acres of enchantment, and it was ALL on the same road as the Hogback Bridge. Immediately, I saw horse drawn wagons to the site, teas and picnics in pastures, a place for a heavy horse to graze, chickens and geese, a converted barn for dances or art classes...a million and one ideas for this property raced through my head...and NOW do you see why I can't be left alone by myself??

What eventually transpired was that I was shown the house (funny side note: the fellow doing the showing had ALREADY seen Dawn and I, because he had been in line AFTER us at the local icecream parlor the day before!), and this is what I saw:

The majestic old barn...

One of the side entrances of the Red Barn...here's an old ladder that leads to the hayloft. When I climbed it, I was immediately shooed away by a family of swallows, that galliantly tried to swoop at my head.

Three sided machine shed. SOMEONE can see a large gypsy wagon fitting in here!

                                              Beautiful beams on the inside of the machine shed....

Another view...

Ancient chicken coop...

                                                      Still totally smitten with this farm...

Unfortunately, though this lovely was offered for a SONG, there were reasons, and these were in the many repairs from it's age. The old plaster and daub walls were falling in some places, there was no stove in the kitchen, parts of the house needed rewiring, and even the beautiful barn had flaws....


So for now, this is a dream house only....but where does a nomad set down roots? There are imagined places, loved and dreamed about, but which ultimately run like a figment for a person who feels at times, lost--overtly inspired--restless--and not sure it the idea of settling down is worth as much as exploring the vast, wild world.....



UPDATE: for quite a while I've been teasing you with NEWS and indeed, many things have been happening since I've returned from Iowa. Behind the scenes, I have been wrestling with the idea of more security and by luck, I've managed to get a job in the Mother Of All Folk areas in America: Pennsylvania.

Indeed, steeped in history that dates back to the founding of the country, PA also is home to the original Amish community, and the place is filled with antiques, old food, ghosts and ghost stories, and plenty of folk and farm ways.  THIS JOB IS FOR A YEAR AND A DAY, which seems quite olden-worldly and appropriate....and while I will expound on details later, I find this a perfect opportunity to get my hands on much more old-fashioned skills than one would typically find in the urban throngs of New York.

Of course, this new world is full of horses, and I consider this the crucial point for doing more Vagabond journeys!  I shall try to see if I can train with them on a daily (or more regular basis), plus I would love to be a part of the artistic community, learn all sorts of things I could only imagine doing in my head (quilting, and FINALLY playing the fiddle, come to mind), plus so many other things that I shall detail in another post, soon.

I shall call this part of the journey The Pennsylvania Year. Tighten your bootstraps folks, it's going to be an entirely different level of mayhem!

It's the Bridges of Madison County, Heffa...

                                                        Wild Women: Becky and Super-Heffa, Dawn

There is a certain advantage with staying at the home of kind people, along this peculiar route of mine. And that is, you will learn so much about your hosts, people in general, and the lay of the land, than staying at a sterile hotel.

Unless you like that sort of thing. But for me, I will rough it on various couches, air beds, and other sleeping quarters. I will eat along the lines of what other people eat (home cooking all the way, or eat out), I will talk about a million ideas and I will try to see what they see, everywhere.

And in this way, I am blessed, for there is so much to see and learn in all of these places I've stayed. I have ridden in electric cars, wrangled horses, seen small curly feathered geese, visited with Midwestern bees, gotten dirty--and loved it. These might be off-put by some folks, but they are as legitimate as any other life. All are different, all are beautiful, all are happening right now, whether someone cares for it or not. The variance of life is what makes it exciting, and I say this from a place where even I thought certain ideas, and people too wild for me.

Dawn Torrents-Suarez might just be one such whirlwind, possibly more outrageously unconventional in living than I am, and rightly unashamed of it. For who is the master of the rules of their lives? No one but each individual, and individuality is Dawn's forte.

To be fair, I should have seen it coming--I'd known Dawn from my previous trips to Iowa--a massage therapist/henna artist/hooping instructor, she has mad a good living from these unconventional endeavors. And while Iowa is the land of bartering, she may be the ultimate queen of this trading, having traded food, clothing, fuel--heck, I was waiting for her to tell me her mortgage was bartered (it wasn't, but why not, Big Banks, I say?) Plus, she earned my respect for running with the New Yawka word "Heffa," and made me a cute bracelet with the slang term, which I shall treasure forever.

But that was just the beginning--Dawn owned a stunning piece of land--10 acres with a pond, long and luscious stream, woods, and a large field. She tilled it wearing dresses, ran the creek with the fury of a true nature mama, rescued what seemed like every downtrodden beast in the vicinity (three dogs and five cats...or was it six? And some chicken and ducks. Sidenote: favorite chicken name of the bunch has to be Li'l Kim) and changed her mind, and schedule on a whim. She was clearly her own person, and I admired her for it.

Perhaps more admirable is her love for her husband, which is tempered by the fact that he is a Gulf War veteran. I'm not really sure what makes sense to write, here, but I will say this: it is so easy to dismiss the horrors of war by the people ravaged by it, but the American government chooses to do this. I will say this apologetically.

I daresay we, as a society, may find more concern with the latest celebrity, tech gadget, or other fancy, but meanwhile, there are people who truly have gone out of their way, have their lives (and their family's lives) near shambles with what they have seen and done, in the name of  "the good war". My summation of thought is this: very few soldiers have fared well because of war, very many warmongers have.

Dawn is a brave and patient woman, with a loud laugh and unpredictable spirit. There is something to be said about a woman who will get three hives, find out she is allergic to them, and STILL KEEP going with them, anyway. We spent time dodging bees, swimming in her calming pond, dodging ticks (this city girl is NOT used to them at all!) and planting all sorts of trees and bushes on her acreage (I told you I didn't mind getting dirty)!

Probably the funniest time? When she kept egging me on to drive one of her cars by myself, should I want to go anywhere. Mostly, this worried me because I'm no good at driving in places I've never been and---who nelly--I'd never driven on stoned gravel roads before. Give me a blacktop highway, or the soft, sandy, Southern dirt roads, and I'm  great (well, let's not go into the rainy season and dirt roads) but the dusty, dinging gravel..that was another story. Eventually though, I did manage to buckle up and drive over gritty and smooth roads. So thank Dawn for making me an independent Iowa driver!

Dawn lives in Winterset--which is surprisingly famous, for two reasons: It is the birthplace of John Wayne, and it is home to most of the bridges of Madison County.

The Dukes house is actually nearby the main downtown area...which is charming in it's own right. Here are a few bits and pieces of Downtown Winterset:


                             Old pictures of Winterset actually grace a building in downtown Winterset...

Which is actually the side of the Ben Franklin Store...a popular "general store in Iowa's towns (consider it a precursor to Walmart, with way more character, to boot!). Notice the cute nursery plants outside...

 
                            The domed clock-tower of city hall in the center square of the town...lovely!

And here is the home where John Wayne was born. It's a sweet little sort of hexagonal home. Alas, no one was allowed in to visit...

Beyond that, there were the bridges of Madison county. Amazing luck! Dawn literally lived a couple of roads from the one called Hogback Bridge Road. So on the last few days of my stay, I rustled up my newfound  Iowa driving skills and rumbled over there.

Call it my own New York expectations, but I was used to a "famous place" being so...quiet, serene. Not that I was complaining in any way, but it was a pleasant surprise, a welcome quiet. Meditating and calm. The bridge is one of several covered bridges in Iowa, the only ones left in the United States. You can read a bit more about them HERE.

Hogback bridge was simply there waiting, off of a curvy road.  Like the girl in the simple dress at a party, she didn't ask for much. She just was what she was, take her or leave her, but underneath the exterior, there was tons of history.

Hogback showed off her red attire, and once inside, there was the truth: tons of graffiti--how old some of it was, I don't know--but there were tags and sentiments on all of the old buttresses and historical working--tag scars for this old gal.

But she was beautiful, still...stretching across the river channel she was placed over. Call it my imagination, but there was a still sense of reverence, the idea of old ghosts still jangling around this place. I could almost guess who drove here, and the days gone by that the old Hogback had seen....


                                     Old wood floors with the original tree contours still intact...

                                                   Opposite view, from inside the bridge...

A lovely surprise--on one side of the grand walls of this elderly bridge---a "sign in book" which said "how does this make you feel"....I never did know if this was something official, or whether a whimsical soul had decided to create this on the spur of the moment. But you know I loved it!

And indeed, it is this unconventional way of thinking, being and doing, that keeps drawing me back...who says Middle America doesn't have wit, courage, ingenuity, and creativity that the big city folk brag about. What rubbish thinking is it that has led us to close our eyes to all of our courageous and genius friends and neighbors!


Welcome to America, Heffa, land of wonderful people and places....

TOMORROW--- a well known, wild-haired horse and wagon riding sort of gal talks about MOVING TO PENNSYLVANIA! Yep!