Wednesday, November 10, 2021

A Homeowner's Anniversary

So one year ago today I put some ink on a few lines and became a homeowner once again!

It came at the end of a long, drawn-out process – almost six months! – that was weirdly complicated, but I’ll spare the details on that. It finally happened, and that’s all that matters. The house needed some upgrades and repairs, and some of the things I’d really like to do will take years. But the excellent news is that none of the needed repairs/upgrades was necessary before I could move in.

First order was to remove all the old wall-to-wall carpeting. 

Discovered pretty hardwood underneath! 

A couple of days of crawling around on hands and knees to remove carpet staples, some buffing and a coat of wax, and here’s the result:

Check out that front door while you're looking! Pure '50s! 

A closer look, but don't look too close! I have a dog, after all.

After removal of the carpeting, and its years of accumulated dust and inevitable decay (no judgment; that’s the nature of carpeting) and it was time to clean and move in a few essential pieces of furniture, like a bed, a couple of chairs, and this really cool dining table with benches that I’d spied in an antique store.

The chairs had been forgotten by the previous owner, and coordinate oddly but well with the “new to me” table.

Over the months, and with help from various friends, I’ve converted what was intended to be the master bedroom

Into a music room

Closet doors removed and I can have a small library and a place to store instrument cases. Really excited about that!

Complete with orange wall.

I’m pretty thrilled to have a fireplace, even though it doesn’t “work” – that unsightly and rusted out, inoperable Buck stove had to go, and the chimney needs MAJOR attention before it’s safe.

But no matter. I never had a fireplace before, and it comforts me just to look at it.

I’ll keep painting and upgrading/repairing as the months and years go by, but for now I’m happy and content. Almost as happy and content as Henry-Dog.

My patient pet has supervised every moment of removing, moving, cleaning, painting and making messes and cleaning again.

Brigid's Cross. Properly hung above the entry door.

Sunday, June 20, 2021

I Bought A Bowl

 I bought a bowl yesterday.

It’s 4½ inches in height and 9¼ inches in diameter, so, much bigger than a soup bowl or a salad bowl. I might use it for a serving bowl sometimes, or maybe it’ll sit on the table keeping a few apples. (It’s nice to have art you can use everyday.) It’s turned from burl maple that was sourced from a local (Mitchell County, NC) forest and allowed to air dry.

Those are its specs, but they’re not the reason I bought a bowl. A closer look at its inside reveals the reason I chose this particular bowl:


It’s easy to see its imperfections. The grain has grown in an irregular manner due to some kind of stress – maybe injury from insect infestation or a fungal infection. The discolorations in the wood suggest mold – yes, mold can have some pretty interesting color. The irregularities are part and parcel of a “burl,” an unsightly, bulbous malignancy that often is attached to the tree’s roots, though sometimes is attached to its trunk.

Oddly, among artists burls are highly prized for their beauty and rarity. Burl wood can be very hard to work with; because of its twisted grain it can chip and shatter unpredictably. But the very thing that makes it difficult to work with is the thing that makes a high-quality end product: the twisted grain makes the product resistant to splitting.

The burl can probably be a metaphor for many different aspects of human life, but I don’t really want to overthink it right now.

I’ll just content myself with admiring it as something beautiful and useful that came from something initially devastating. Maybe from time to time it'll symbolize something I am experiencing in my own life. Either way I’ll bless the kind, gentle, and imaginative soul who was able to recognize potential, and then use his talent to fulfill that potential.

I bought beauty and function and life lessons, all in the shape of a bowl, yesterday.

Monday, March 29, 2021

Baby-Steppin' Back to Normal?


Just got home from a fun night out with friends - I can count on one hand the number of times I've done anything "social" like this in the past year.

It was exactly one year ago that I left Florida to "shelter" with family in North Carolina. It was a good move. Living alone as I do, to spend days and weeks at home in Florida "isolating" with Henry and going out for groceries only every other week or so, would have been dangerous from a mental health perspective. Living with my cousin Sally and her husband, and their three cats, was a lifesaver for me (and the cat situation was only mildly challenging for Henry).

Over the past year, a few friends/acquaintances and relatives have been sick with COVID, and a couple were lost. I've been vaccinated; everybody at tonight's gathering had been, as well. I'm very hopeful for the times we can safely gather -- even in large groups, like festivals! 😁 -- again!


Wash your hands.

Wear a mask. 

Practice social distancing.

Get yourself vaccinated when it's your "turn."

Be kind.

(I threw that last one in there because I wanted to. It has nothing to do with physical health, but it'll help someone feel better ... and make you feel better too.)

Be kind. Even long after COVID is a bad memory.

Wednesday, March 17, 2021

Big News!

I’ve moved!

Over the past 30 years, perhaps even longer than that, I’d given serious consideration to relocating from Florida to North Carolina. Call it bad luck, or bad timing, or just Fate, but each time I started making inroads toward a move, one thing or another always got in the way. When I came up to Carolina in March 2020 to shelter with family against the uncertainty of the pandemic, I had seemingly all the time in the world to find the right situation.

And find the “right situation” I did! A cute and somewhat quirky house in a quiet old neighborhood in the town of Spruce Pine – 3 bedrooms, the largest of which is now a music room, the smallest of which is now an office. A yard big enough for Henry (my 13-year-old dog) to ramble a bit, but not so big that lawn maintenance will be a huge chore (I hope!). A previous resident had planted purple crocus and daffodil, and I’m delighted to watch as they spring up! I think there’ll be tulips in April, and across the street there is a virtual wall of rhododendron that will begin showing off sometime in May.

One of the biggest bonuses of this move is that, after cutting the driving distance between us in half, I’ve seen my brother more in the past 6 months than I’d seen him in the previous 6 years.

I’ll continue performing and producing festivals in Florida with my company Celtic Heritage. Over the years I’ve gotten a lot of experience planning events from the road – “taking care of business” from various locales such as coastal Maine, northern Ohio, and even Calgary, Alberta – so nothing really changes in that department. Plus, who knows? Perhaps I’ll once again find myself producing events in North Carolina.

I’m super-excited about this new chapter of my life! 

photo taken January 8, 2021

Tuesday, March 2, 2021

Tripping Mines


Late February/Early March is apparently an emotional minefield for me. Birthdays of my beloved mother and grandmother, now both departed, plus the anniversaries of Greg's entering hospice and his death all fall within a week. Although I've long since grieved the passings of mother and grandmother, and Greg's death occurred six years ago come Friday, still my mind somehow goes into a sort of -- I don't know how to characterize it, exactly -- a sort of limbo at this time of year.

I’ve been pretty listless the past few days, and today I feel like I'm slogging through quicksand. I didn't even understand why until I put my hands on something that had belonged to Greg and I consciously realized that "It's that time of year again." It's like my subconscious is working to slow me down; during most of the year I'm barely aware of the calendar, yet at this time I come into a somewhat painful awareness ... even without actually looking at a calendar.

It's pretty weird, actually, and kind of fascinating in a way. Don't worry about me! I'm just going to sort of give into it and be easy on myself for a few days.

But I mention it because it may be the one facet of my life experience that I had absolutely no inkling of, prior to its happening. I mention it today because I'm aware of it today ... but also because maybe it's happened to you or maybe it will one day happen to you. Sure, everybody walks their own path, but when you trip one of the emotional mines in your way, it can be comforting to know you're not alone.

Thursday, November 26, 2020

Memories of Thanksgivings Past

Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. I don’t suppose that’s always been true; as a child, Christmas was probably my favorite. Or maybe Easter. But in my adulthood, Christmas’s commercialism finally got to me. And for the past several years, I’ve celebrated Easter quietly, usually with viewing the sunrise over the Atlantic Ocean with my beloved little Henry-Dog. Thanksgiving though, that one has always been about family – whatever that family may look like.

My earliest recollection of a Thanksgiving is at my Wallis grandparents’ home in Arcadia. I don’t particularly recall any of the food; what I remember best is the great spectacle my grandfather – “Grandy,” we called him – made of honing his knife prior to carving the turkey. He made that blade sing!

As for the rest of the meal, I’m sure it was pretty fabulous. My “Meemaw” was a great cook … and she believed in making sure everyone was WELL fed. Surely her biscuits were on the table, and maybe my mother’s dressing. I’m betting that dessert was split between Meemaw’s absolutely divine chocolate cake, which I always referred to as her “black cake,” and my mother’s amazing pecan pie. I couldn’t have been very old, maybe eight at the most, because my grandfather died before my ninth Thanksgiving.

And so Thanksgiving changed, somewhat. For a few years, my mother was in charge of Thanksgiving. And man, did she do it up! Appetizers like celery stuffed with cream cheese and olive, and you had to be sure not to get too stuffed on the stuffed celery, mainly because the turkey – a slow-roasted masterpiece that took HOURS and meticulous basting – awaited, as did her beautiful dressing, mashed potatoes and dreamy giblet gravy, green beans, other fresh vegetables … whatever she dreamed up. Plus that amazing pecan pie.

But then Thanksgiving changed again, when we started to get together with local farm families, first, under the shelter of a vegetable stand operated by one of my mother’s friends, later, further away from town in someone’s pasture off of Hog Bay Road. These were no quiet pass-the-plate affairs; they were huge potlucks reminiscent of a church supper, with one large flat-bed trailer holding all manner of scrumptious side dishes and a slightly smaller trailer laden with decadent desserts.

Oh. And a HUGE cauldron of swamp cabbage. Always a prime feature for me: swamp cabbage sure ain’t much to look at, but it is dee-licious. You may know it as “heart of palm” from the menus of fine restaurants or maybe you’ve seen a can on the shelf of a grocery store. But we know and love it as the vegetable that helped many a rural Floridian survive during the hard days of the Great Depression.

Swamp cabbage isn’t the only thing that set those pasture Thanksgivings apart, though! There was no turkey served at these affairs, just an appetizer of pork ribs and the main course of fresh, local Florida beef. On one particularly memorable Thanksgiving, I saw the most magnificent Tom turkey I’d ever seen before or since, parading around the gathering as if he knew that, among these cattlemen and their families, he would never be the hapless guest of honor.

As fun as those times were, they came to an end. I’m not really sure why – whether it was just our family’s participation that ended, or whether some of the key organizers were finding the gatherings more difficult to manage. At any rate, Thanksgiving changed again, and in this next phase I was in charge. I managed the turkey well, selected really wonderful appetizers and side dishes, including making my mother’s dressing for the very first time … but had to use gravy out of the Franco-American bottle, because I have never mastered gravy. And I still depended on my mother for that amazing pecan pie. Sometimes the gathering would be at my house, sometimes at my best friend’s house; and although Thanksgiving had by this time become a sort of blended-families affair, it just seemed right and natural.

As my parents grew older, large gatherings with heaps of food and turkey leftovers that lasted for days and days were no longer attractive to them. And so Thanksgiving changed yet again; once we ordered a complete meal from Publix, and once while visiting in North Carolina we actually had our Thanksgiving dinner in a restaurant. After my parents moved away from Florida, Greg and I sometimes had dinner at his sister’s house and once at his niece’s house – and I was introduced to turnip and potato mash and pierogi.

In 2015 Greg passed away and as Thanksgiving approached I realized how very much I loved the holiday and yet how very much I dreaded that day without him. I invited myself to a close friend’s house, and she and I went for Thanksgiving dinner to the Dillard House in the north Georgia mountains. We enjoyed the experience so much that we did it again the following year!

And then Thanksgiving changed again, and I actually spent the day all by myself. I was supposed to have gone to the Thanksgiving Bluegrass Festival at Sertoma Youth Ranch. Had my dish – my mother’s dressing, of course – all picked out and everything. But as much as I love bluegrass music, and as much as I love Sertoma Youth Ranch, at that time I did not expect to see anyone I knew very well … and I realized that I needed to be with family, or with friends who are like family.

Isn’t that what Thanksgiving is really all about? Evidently, it always was for me, even though I did not always truly recognize that fact. The past couple of Thanksgivings have been extremely quiet ones, spent with two very, very dear friends/neighbors, their dog and mine vigilantly waiting for a morsel to hit the floor, hilariously jockeying and maneuvering positions as they sized up which of us might be the messiest eater.

And here we are. Thanksgiving 2020. Where any of the above-described gatherings would not be particularly safe. I’ve been “sheltering” with cousins in North Carolina since the end of March, and so our small gathering, with the Maine Coon, Gwen, yowling for more servings of turkey and the Henry-Dog strategically parked underneath the table, was as safe as can be reasonably expected. The food was prepared by a couple of friends from our small circle, to be distributed among about a dozen of the circle. We all had our own Thanksgivings, enjoying artfully-prepared food in the safety of our respective homes.

If I’m honest, I missed the gathering, the assembly of family and friends who are like family. But this is not the first hard or unusual Thanksgiving of my life, and realistically speaking, it will not be my last. It … changed … is all, and I’m so proud of the friend who came up with the concept of a shared Thanksgiving that – for what is, hopefully, the one and only time – we did not share in each others’ company.

For me, personally, Thanksgiving will change again in 2021. But more on that in a future post …

Wednesday, May 27, 2020

Cane Grindin'

“Our human capital stock is ready to get back to work.”

Kevin Hassett, economist, Senior Advisor to the Trump administration
Wow. That's cold.
Puts me in mind of a cane-grindin'. For those who don't know, this is how juice was extracted from sugar cane: Freshly cut and stripped stalks of cane were crushed in a roller mill, and the mill was powered by a mule tethered to a pole, as you see in the picture. The mule would walk in a circle, round and round.
Sometimes they'd tie a stick to the mule's bridle; the stick would have a carrot dangling from it, just out of the mule's reach. The theory was that the mule would keep chasin' that carrot and keep walkin' in that circle, round and round.
The mule would walk in that circle, round and round, until the farmer stopped him. Or until he just dropped dead.
(Cane juice is extracted differently these days. The process is automated, and even those who like doing it the "old-fashioned" way use a tractor or similar vehicle. Nowadays, if you attend an old-timey event and see an actual mule powering the mill, the demonstration is brief -- for what I hope are obvious reasons.)
Kevin Hassett, and plenty of others of his ilk, see the working person like that old farmer saw his mule: as stock. You, like that old mule, are supposed to chase that carrot -- your “carrot” is a vacation, or an end of year bonus, or retirement ... but Kevin Hassett is not going to care much if you just drop dead chasing that “carrot.”
I’d like to think we’re better than that. I was raised to believe that we were worth more than that.
Round and Round.