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......

Leviathan

This Place Is A Beast!

New York City.

 Here it is. And I am back. As always, this coiling thing inspires both awe and dread in me. I suspect most New Yawkahs will tell you this too, if only in private moments.   Two years ago, I fled this place, figurative arms up over my head, as though running from some proverbial house fire. It would be ironic, considering my secondary name "Asha" was given to me as a teenager, a nickname for avoiding the "ashes" of getting burned; I had the ability to stay out trouble then. But not in New York.

Indeed, everything was burning then, everything I thought to be important going up in smoke. Somewhere in between my father's death, and a dream job in Kansas falling apart, all the New York anchors were cast off. My work in the arts, my work with bees, my fiance. It all sort of lay in shambles, one right after the other. In some ways my journeys on the road started by just walking away from it all in New York City, the uselessness of believing in certain people or circumstances, and realizing it might have all been a strange veneer of falsehood. New York will do that to you. It lures you in before it bites. Only the highest of skilled warriors have enough armor to avoid being vanquished.

I came here years ago, like so many, courting this stunning, sparkling, alluring mistress. But she was a fickle thing, viper-ish, with a love that ran hot-and-cold. Trust me, New York is just that kind of beast. Even now, it churns and moves, a leviathan of energy and chaos intertwined.

Oddly, I'm much calmer now, years of meeting people and being in unusual circumstances having probably better prepared me to dissect and examine the strange bedlam that makes this thing what it is (and who wouldn't be calmer, when the least of your problems has been driving through two states, for two hours, with no brakes).  And it is extraordinary indeed. It starts with the massive tumult of traffic, as you enter the gates of this place.The static, jerky, daring bravado of its impatient drivers extends down to the constantly inhabited streets--pedestrians, dogs, bicyclists--all intertwined in some sort of furious street carnival that one dares not understand.There is yelling in the streets, from building to sidewalks, down the block, loud and drunk, young and crazy. There is running, jumping, rolling skating, roller blading, too much movement. Lights emanate big, loud, from everywhere, and the glare blistering. I sit in subways and watch the faces of people, masks of tired resignation or, at least, self-preservation. A car-full of one-hundred strangers who do not realize they can be friends.

But there are shining acts of kindness. I watch a young woman--pretty enough to be a model, and with a killer outfit to match--stop and help a woman that may be as old as the prophets cross the street, inch by inch.  I help a man who is lost by letting him use my cell phone, and he thanks me profusely. Young kids are enchanted by a street mime, who will not take their money. It's a strange reprieve from the pummeling mayhem.

There are too many touchstones here: the East Village, where I graduated, and which still holds ideas of success and love, the Bronx, where it all came toppling down. It's always interesting to see the stores that have closed and metamorphed into something else. This place is like that, cannibalizing part of itself in the name of money, space, time. Capitalism reeks in this place.

I am in the midst of this Fellini sideshow, as my own part. It is a respite (if one can call New York City a respite), and a place where at least my creative soul feels at home. For now, it is a temporary little camping spot, as I am putting out feelers for a couple of projects. For now. There will be more travels to come, of course, as there ever are.

For now, I will watch this carnival of dark and light, a serpent of so much contortion and surprise and frenzy and fancy. It is a strange dance, indeed. So far, I have not been jangled, which is a good sign. I have seen friends and they have buoyed my spirits and reminded me that there is good kinship here, too. It is a big crazy blur of EVERYTHING. For now, I will dip my toe in these waters. It will be, I'm sure, an interesting journey unto itself.

Stay tuned!

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!

Outside The Box Living And Other Mischief....

                          Fixin' fences in Kansas, 2010

Ever-so-often, I will be asked how I manage to do the things I do. I suppose it's in that curious manner of how one really lives Outside the Box, or perhaps it is a general curiosity of my own personal adventures, roaming from town to town, in that feral, bardic way that people dream of?

I'm not quite sure which of these might set one's imagination on fire, so I will attempt here, to answer some of these queries of living outside of the constraints of the "daily grind."

Firstly--if you are reading this with fresh eyes, know the short story of my weird life: I'm a traveling teacher, writer, artist, and have been to Alabama, Florida, New York, NJ, Pennsylvania, Iowa, Illinois, Kansas, and Vermont pursuing and documenting self-reliant, Outside The Box people and stories for three years. It has been an amazing, surprising, heart-breaking, humbling journey--and the funny thing is, I hadn't planned it at all like this.

I was a performing artist in New York City, you see, as frenetic as any producer and artist in a highly competitive and highly expensive city, would be. I had the typical "day job" that I worked with clenched jaw to complete every day, and would come home frazzled, just to do a thing I love which barely paid the bills. When the economics of the country took a swan dive, I simply looked for another fine opportunity, and since there was a whole heck of a lot to be said about self-reliance when keeping your bills down (there's a lot of money to be saved when you grow your own food and make your own stuff, especially in the city), I turned to all the old stories of my parents farming background to guide me. Beekeeping, gardening, and livestock had me as spellbound as dance, music, and folk art. City Mouse meets Country Mouse, indeed!

Before I knew it, I was in a film for my beekeeping, and that lead me to the great opportunity of teaching beekeeping in Iowa and Illinois teaching the methods to dealing with those wee, feisty, stinging livestock...and I've sort of never stopped. So I guess you could say I owe it all to bees!

How does this story pertain to you? You need not open hives to live this type of unconventional, or voyaging life...in some ways, you won't even have to leave the life you have (for those who fear losing their jobs, or who don't quite wish to go as far out on a traveling limb as I have).

For me, Living Outside The Box simply means living life on your own terms. There is no one correct way to do it. I will say the one essential ingredient that will probably get that cake baked, though, is CLEVERNESS. While there is a certain idealism that surrounds free-spirited living, there is also a sort of "organization" about it too. At least, that is what has worked for me. There are some Lucky Joes  that always seem to get along by flying by the seats of their pants, but imagine what could get accomplished if they put  little planning behind it? Living outside of conventional constructs means thinking fast on your feet, but enjoying the ride, as well.

Alternately--and perhaps ironically--freedom actually may mean giving up a few things, as well, and that is an important crux to note. Indeed, how often I have heard people lament that they could go off on a "gypsy adventure" for however long. I wonder if they realize that past those shiny, romantic images of kerchiefed lasses in glorious fields of horses and wagons, that living like that requires few possessions, the constant leaving of a solid community of friends or family, and the literal or figurative worrying about where the next meal comes from.  And frankly, most folks don't want that.

At the same time, I don't suggest you tie a satchel to a long stick and head off on a dirt road. You can live you amazing life however you want. Again, cleverness, a certain amount of fearlessness, and being willing to go out of your way to attain your true life is going to get you the high score in this game of life.

I've thrown together a few bits and pieces to help with this strange Vagabond Soup, a treasure-trove of small advice I've found is helpful towards your Outside Of The Box Living (and, wittily, I shall be teaching such things in a workshop in New Jersey on May 16)....
1. Long term traveling requires money. Gas, food, it's all a reality. If you have no money, learn to save like the devil (which is what I did). If  you really don't like living on the cheap, you will not do well...unless, of course, you have lots of money.

2. Saving money requires discipline and creativity.
Old stand-bys always help:
Use coupons
Cut up your credit cards
Learn to make stuff to sell
Barter like it's going out of style (it really should be making a comeback)
Get a skill that's in high demand or, better yet, with which you may travel around a bit. Learn to like places like Freecycle (freecycle.com) or Craigslist (craigslist.org) which offer free/low cost stuff
Goodwill and thrift stores are your friends
3. Outside Of The Box Jobs can be had, for those of you who do not need to travel, but still feel trapped amongst claustrophobic walls, artificial lighting, and heavy deadlines. This bevvy of occupations are unconventional, indeed! However,
don't mistake unconventional for easy--you may need degrees or other requirements to pursue them. Of course, anything worth having always needs a little legwork, right?
Park Ranger or Outdoor Tourguide - Are  you athletic? Love the outdoors? Love people? Get them all together here!Farmer -If you love working in the dirt, love growing plants, love working with the seasons, and you know how to roll with the weather punches, this is for you!Logger - It's a pretty lucrative job for physically active folks who can work big machines and love the out
doors
Photojournalist - If you are great with a camera and can network, you might find yourself traveling around the world!

And there are plenty more such jobs, that can be found with  little research.


4. Other stuff.....
If you are ever so inclined, use hostels or stay with friends, which will save on hotel fees.


Learn to be a problem solver. Your trip will sometimes have several unexpected twists and turns, and you will have a far easier time if you learn to problem solve those things that come your way.


When traveling, learn to pack light. Trust me, half the stuff you won't use, and less stuff means faster getting around from place to place.

While you won't necessarily get dirty, if you are the kind that is afraid to break a fingernail then, in my opinion, you are missing out on half the fun. Yep, in my world, you MAKE the mud pies.....

Learn the art of making friends wherever you go. They will be helpful along your way, sometimes offering encouragement, sometimes offering a place to stay. You really never know. Conversely, make sure you are a good friend, as well.

Truly the world could benefit by the such fellowship.