Switched At Birth

Narnia!

We have had good "farmer's" rains recently, those large, fat drops that come down gently enough to penetrate the soil. As a result, the wildlife "all-you-can-eat 24 hour buffet" of oats, wheat, and rye that Buck and Harold planted for the forest creatures is thick and lush. With the black and brass lamp posts lining the driveway, it's kind of ethereal looking, in the way unexpected combinations can be.

Last week, a visiting grown daughter along with her teenage daughter came into the house breathlessly, smiling with the bright knowledge of inadvertent explorers, as though they had just come through a secret door: "Narnia! It looks like Narnia!"

And today the green fields have an exquisite icing of frost.

December 27, 2006 in Life at Longleaf Preserve | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

We have had good "farmer's" rains recently, those large, fat drops that come down gently enough to penetrate the soil. As a result, the wildlife "all-you-can-eat 24 hour buffet" of oats, wheat, and rye that Buck and Harold planted for the forest creatures is thick and lush. With the black and brass lamp posts lining the driveway, it's kind of ethereal looking, in the way unexpected combinations can be.

Last week, a visiting grown daughter along with her teenage daughter came into the house breathlessly, smiling with the bright knowledge of inadvertent explorers, as though they had just come through a secret door: "Narnia! It looks like Narnia!"

And today the green fields have an exquisite icing of frost.

A Panhandle Pine Forest Morning

The clearing is planted with oats, wheat and rye. Moving shadows appear each evening to mow the lawn.

December 18, 2006 in Life at Longleaf Preserve | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

The clearing is planted with oats, wheat and rye. Moving shadows appear each evening to mow the lawn.

Fog

It was almost midnight when Buck, Maggie and I walked up two flights of stairs to the small third story open deck. Wrapped in white fog, it held a special allure. Mellow from lots of talk, spaghetti, rosemary garlic peasant bread, zucchini, feta with oregano and Mark West Edna Valley Pinot Noir (oh yeah), plus a piano playing, pool shooting session, we draped ourselves over the deck railing, sighing, contented.

GRRRRRR. GRRRRRR.

Maggie?

GRRRRR.

Nose pushed through the railings, Maggie was at attention. Following her nose, we saw that she was looking at a denuded pine, whose fallen bark was gathered in shards around its base. It gleamed whitely through the fog, and seemed worthy of a loyal dog's protective growl.

December 15, 2006 in Life at Longleaf Preserve | Permalink | Comments (0) | TrackBack (0)

It was almost midnight when Buck, Maggie and I walked up two flights of stairs to the small third story open deck. Wrapped in white fog, it held a special allure. Mellow from lots of talk, spaghetti, rosemary garlic peasant bread, zucchini, feta with oregano and Mark West Edna Valley Pinot Noir (oh yeah), plus a piano playing, pool shooting session, we draped ourselves over the deck railing, sighing, contented.

GRRRRRR. GRRRRRR.

Maggie?

GRRRRR.

Nose pushed through the railings, Maggie was at attention. Following her nose, we saw that she was looking at a denuded pine, whose fallen bark was gathered in shards around its base. It gleamed whitely through the fog, and seemed worthy of a loyal dog's protective growl.

Sweetness of Life

Marvels on a Tuesday night:

The incomparable smell of clean sheets; hearing a farmer's rain falling through the open door; a furry brown Maggie dog lying by the bed snuffling, tail thumping in a good dream; Buck engrossed in a new book; the good feel of dinner in my belly, my mouth tasting of sweet potato, pork tenderloin, warm apples; and the sounds through the open door of our far neighbor's geese honking a good night, good night, good night to all.

December 12, 2006 in Life at Longleaf Preserve | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

Marvels on a Tuesday night:

The incomparable smell of clean sheets; hearing a farmer's rain falling through the open door; a furry brown Maggie dog lying by the bed snuffling, tail thumping in a good dream; Buck engrossed in a new book; the good feel of dinner in my belly, my mouth tasting of sweet potato, pork tenderloin, warm apples; and the sounds through the open door of our far neighbor's geese honking a good night, good night, good night to all.

Skate City

I could hear the rumble of their pickup trucks before they arrived, tearing up the gravel road, rockabilly blaring out from the open windows, dust flying. A small convoy of trucks in various shades of red, spewing out skinny male young'uns, looking for all the world like a cross between tumble bugs and daddy long legs, making tracks across the red clay, navigating exuberant wheelies, laughing, singing, playing at mock swordfights, strutting like banty roosters when their sweet thing girlfriends called them on their cell phones with their very own special ring tone.

 

Oh my.

Some might call it a driveway. Not me. I'm heading out to the nearest sporting goods store for some old fashioned roller skates, if they still exist. Roller blades sound too avant garde for this 55 year old babe. But if that's the choice, I'll adapt.

I always do.

Maggie sez, "Too much drama. Time for a morning nap."

October 13, 2006 in Life at Longleaf Preserve | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0)

I could hear the rumble of their pickup trucks before they arrived, tearing up the gravel road, rockabilly blaring out from the open windows, dust flying. A small convoy of trucks in various shades of red, spewing out skinny male young'uns, looking for all the world like a cross between tumble bugs and daddy long legs, making tracks across the red clay, navigating exuberant wheelies, laughing, singing, playing at mock swordfights, strutting like banty roosters when their sweet thing girlfriends called them on their cell phones with their very own special ring tone.

 

Oh my.

Some might call it a driveway. Not me. I'm heading out to the nearest sporting goods store for some old fashioned roller skates, if they still exist. Roller blades sound too avant garde for this 55 year old babe. But if that's the choice, I'll adapt.

I always do.

Maggie sez, "Too much drama. Time for a morning nap."

Ode To Lazy (Creative) Wireless Joy

Lyle Lovett is singing "You Were Always There" in my left ear as I type. Oh, man, it's great to be untethered, disconnected, listening to music piped straight from Lyle's mouth to my ear, propped up in bed with a stack of pillows behind me, Buck running the day's market numbers from his laptop, and Maggie lying on her fluffy shearling bed down on the floor right at the bed's edge.

After Hurricane Ivan last year, we limped along with no landline phone for more than two months, tv service stuck together with string and sealing wax, and occasional dial-up internet service provided by an expensive cell phone connection.

Service was restored eventually and life as we had known it continued. But, somehow in the melee of rebuilding their sytstem, our cable television high speed internet signal  became anemic. It surged and ebbed, in unsatisfactory proportions.

I got a notice in the mail that Bell South in their wisdom had finally decided to extend internet service out to the back of beyond, where the busses don't even run, to our neck of the woods. Glory be.

We had just spent a frustrating week with Road Runner, their various nice fellas stringing line and new transformers, with much head scratching and mixed results. Bell South offered a rebate, discounts, and other blandishments that at the moment seemed purely irresistible.

Well, as the old saying goes, there ain't no free lunch. In my haste to install the latest greatest Bell South software, I screwed up the wireless connection to my own laptop, turned the old desk top into what might as well be a fishing reef, and worsened our position by at least 33%.

Hard headedness being what it is, I have lived with my errors for months, but the shoe finally pinched enough that tonight I dug around and found our ancient wireless router, hooked back up to the old cable system, didn't think about it, analyze it, or look at a manual. Low and behold, it worked smooth as silk and here I am listening to Lyle Lovett, untethered and unattached except for my undying love for the man by my side and the dog at my other side, writing to you.

Yes, writing to you. Here's the nub of this ramble. With my laptop hard wired, I was limited by time, energy and comfort level. The days are so frenetic right now with our building project that by 10 p.m. I am ready to hit the hay. Early in the morning is walking time, crucial to my physical, emotional and mental well-being. The time in between brings stock market trading and home building on-the-spot decisions.

So you guys have been getting on-the-fly pictures with Reader's Digest condensed versions of events, mostly sans reflective thought. I do the better, acutal writing stuff best about midnight-thirty, wirelessly typing, listening to music while Buck and Maggie recharge their batteries for the next day.

And worst of all, I haven't been reading your writing. That changes -- tonight.

Missed you. Nice to be back.

09:27 PM in Day Book | Permalink | Comments (2) | TrackBack (0

Piney Woods Gymnast

Lithe grace on the balance beam, creation without a safety net. For John, it's all in a day's work. Buck captured these shots when the crew was working Saturday.

12:47 PM in Homeplace | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

Whole Lotta Shakin'

The first clue I had that the framers had cracked into the old roof to attach a new wall was when I was almost hit in the head by a flying duck.  The porcelain critter had slid off its wooden base from a shelf above the sink. In a flash I grabbed a step ladder and began removing dishes from cabinets along the wall where all the commotion was going on. My late mother-in-law would never forgive me if I let her pretty dishes fall off on the floor. I climbed onto the sink to reach the shelf above it from whence the flying duck had fallen, handing down tall old steins to Buck's waiting arms below. The old turkey platter was vulnerable on it's stand on the top shelf, so it came down, too. The noise level was deafening as the guys cut into the roof. Then with a big "heave, ho" three of them pushed the wall framing from where it was lying flat on the concrete up to a standing position, where it will form the exterior wall of the new laundry room and half bath.

Bam!

07:29 AM in Homeplace | Permalink | Comments (1) | TrackBack (0)

The Lintel Blessing

Coming home from an expedition in search of an exterior front door, we were surprised to see a bold, black scrawl of words written on a piece of framing. We were even a little uneasy, at least at first. The words, "God bless this house with spiritual growth and love," were written on the lintel of what will be the opening to the front door of the new house. The frame containing the lintel piece has not been nailed into place yet, and is lying flat on the concrete slab.

It was late afternoon, one of those crispy blue moments when everything is seen in sharp relief, breezy and fresh. Quiet.

We opened the door, went inside and Buck asked me for a marking pen. I found one, and he added his own addendum to the message: "And God bless all who built it," with our names and the date.

I have an idea who wrote the blessing. And I have an image of that person finding himself alone at the job site this afternoon doing a bit of work. I even have a sense that he may have found a space for spiritual communion here among the longleafs. Maybe it didn't happen that way, but not everything needs to be fully explained. A little mystery along adds depth to the richness of our tapestries, and allows for the open moment of possibility, a respite.

 

 

09:55 PM in Homeplace | Permalink | Comments (4) | TrackBack (0)

Plain Vanilla?

Vanilla Steam

Lyndhurst Gallery Beige

Free Wheeling

Riviera Dune

Desert Fortress

Mesa Tumbleweed

Churchill Hotel Navajo White

Muslin Wrap

Polished Ivory

Whispering Wind

Quill

Stormy Weather

Homestead Resort Cameo White

Thistle Seed

Ivory Lace

White Light

Raw Linen

Cloth

White Smoke

Pale Silk

Pale Chamois

Gypsum

Dusty Sands

Cassia

Courtyard Tan

Warm Buff

Milk Paint

Stone

Latte

Bay Oyster

Garlic Clove

Cafe Cream

Pecan

Quail Egg

We're collecting paint chips. The search is on for that perfect neutral -- not stark white, not yellow, not tan, not tinged with blue, pink or peach.

Plain vanilla. One would think it would be ubiquitous in the paint department, but alas, not so.

This is more confusing than wine tasting or perfume testing.

"And you, sir/madam, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a recovering blogger*. Now I have a real job. I think up names for paint chips."

"Ah."

* An homage to Tom Montag, The Middlewesterner.

10:14 PM in Homeplace | Permalink | Comments (8) | TrackBack (0)