Monday Journals

August 16, 2018

There is nothing like holding a newborn baby and that is especially true when that baby is your grandchild. 

Mike and I made the trip to Harrisonburg on Monday so that we could be at the hospital when Kristin and Nate had their baby.  Kristin went into surgery at 7:30 am for a Caesarean birth and we were aware that there would be a two hour recover period as she bonded with the baby.  However, we made the decision to go early because we couldn’t stand the thought of not being there in case she needed us.  We were so happy that everything went well and baby girl arrived at 8:05 am.  What a joy to hold sweet, Teagan Collette in our arms and look at her beautiful face.  Nineteen inches long, and weighing 8 pounds and 7 ounces, she is a nice sized baby to hold.   Kristin was tired and I believe hurting when we went to be with her, Nate and the baby.  We didn’t stay long so she could rest.  She has plenty of help this week with her mom in from Texas and Nate on paternity leave, so we told her we would make a return visit and help her at a later time when she needs us.  It was hard walking away and returning south by three hours.  We were “there” for all the other grandkids on almost a daily basis for the first five years of their lives and spent so much time with them. 

It was a long day.  We woke up at 3 am only to find that Mike had accidentally locked the garage door opener in the garage.  We spent a good hour trying to get into the garage and were finally successful with that.  I milked Princess and then processed the milk by straining it and pouring it into jars to chill.  After cleaning up all the equipment, I showered and we managed to leave by 5 am.  After spending half the day in Harrisonburg and the afternoon and evening in Staunton where I ran errands, worked at the antique malls and spent time with Analia and Rory, we made it back to Laurel Fork at 11:30 pm.  We had a truck load of things we brought back with us.  Still we bring as much as we can every time we make the trip.  I wonder if we will ever get everything moved?  A cooler full of beef, boxes of canning jars, “cheaper” groceries from Sharp Shoppers in Waynesboro, boxes of tomatoes from the garden are just a few of the things we brought back with us.  We fell into bed exhausted. 

Tuesday, I milked the cow, canned tomatoes, and worked around the house.  Mike worked outside.  It was a routine day other than the fact we ended up taking a nap as we were both so tired.  Getting older means we don’t go as long and as hard as we use to.  I am just thankful that we can still go and do and accomplish as much as we do accomplish.  Mike often comments that he can’t do half of what he used to do, but I remind him that he used to do far too much and that he does more now than many men half his age. 

Mike thought he might go back to Staunton and make hay this week, so he mowed the lawn on Wednesday so that I would not have to do it.  (He later decided not to go back to Staunton this week.)  I spent the day doing things like laundry, milking the cow, and making butter and mozzarella. 

Having caught up with the large amount of milk that needed to be used and being up to date with my canning, I spent today (Thursday) deep cleaning some areas that needed my attention.  We use the enclosed, small back porch as a “mud room”, a place to store wood in the winter, a place for my milking equipment, as well as an extension of my small kitchen.  I have an extra refrigerator in there and a small cabinet where I store some of my half gallon jars that I use for milk.  On top of the cabinet, I have a place to put my milking equipment to drain and dry after each use and cleaning.  There are coveralls, hats, boots, and shoes in the small space as well.  We walk through it dozens of times a day.  I pulled everything out of the room except for the refrigerator and cabinet, knocked down cobwebs, swept and mopped the floor, washed the small rug, and tried to arrange neatly all the egg cartons, various sizes of hot water bath canners, vacuum sealer, pressure canner, milk cans, and flashlights that are on top of the refrigerator.  I also made my way to the unfinished basement, knocked down cobwebs, organized and swept. I need to do the entire house the same way, but who knows when that will happen?  I use to think the dust from living in the middle of hay field (in Staunton) made it hard to keep a house clean.  Here there are so many bugs and spiders that the cobwebs from the spiders and the remains from the bugs mean my house is never “clean” for the crawling critters are back almost before I get them knocked down and cleaned up. 

  It was nice just to be able to stay in one place and do some of the more mundane things that needed to be done.  Of course, there is milking every day, laundry to be hung on the line early enough so that it can get dry before evening dew or afternoon rains, eggs to gather and the typical every day routines that sometimes get rushed when we are doing other things.  Having the time to just enjoy the simple things is nice.  We had thought we were going to make a trip to Georgia this week, but some things changed on that end and we are needed at a later date, so that was postponed.  It was nice to have an unexpected week to just fall into our normal routine here in Laurel Fork.

August 19, 2018

Friday morning, we got up early enough to get the laundry washed and hung on the line, to dry.  Managing the laundry takes thought when one doesn’t have a dryer to fall back on, especially with the damp mountain mornings and evenings as well as the frequent rains and thunderstorms.  Mike looks at the weather multiple times a day to see about making hay and I look at the weather multiple times a day in order to manage my clothes that are on the line.  It’s pretty funny actually.  We also needed to milk, take care of the animals and get our little “honor system” produce cart put out at the end of the driveway.  The produce care continues to be popular among neighbors and those who pass our house.  We make a few dollars, not enough to brag about, but it’s the spirit of the cart that makes it enjoyable for all.  I smile sometimes when I think about how “big” we were selling produce in Verona with our mobile produce stand and then think about our little cart at the end of the driveway.  There’s something to be said about keeping things simple and the joy it brings.   We finished our early morning “chores” and headed out by 8 am so that we could make it to the Foot Hills Produce Auction in the Roanoke Valley.  We had another load of boxes we wanted to take for resale.  We are getting pennies on the dollar for the boxes we are taking in, but still, we got a check for $70 for the past two trips and we enjoy the drive and the auction itself.  We are getting ideas about maybe growing some produce next year to sell at the auction.  I don’t know if that will come to fruition, but I think it would be a good project for Mike who will always love “dabbling” in the homegrown, produce market.  We just don’t want to get into it so big that it becomes a burden.  I bought a half a bushel of cucumbers while we were at the auction.  Our cucumbers have played out and I wanted to make some more Bread and Butter Pickles.  When we were in Staunton, I had a few folks that were crazy about my Bread and Butter Pickles and years ago, I would sell some of them, especially to a lady who lived down the road.  She would buy cases of them to take to her daughter in North Carolina.  I put jams, jellies, pickles and eggs on our little produce cart that sits at the end of the road and Mike just shakes his head because people will stop and buy those things faster than they will buy produce sometimes.  By the time I figure the ingredients that I use to make the products I am not making much of a profit.  If I figure in my time, I am not making anything, but again, it is a few dollars here and there and I can make the time to throw together a few pickles or jams and jellies from time to time.  It’s fun to see people enjoying these things.  When we bought this house, we were told that the woman who lived here years ago (and the story was backed up by a neighbor who has lived here all his life) canned large amounts of produce from their garden and sold the canned goods along with milk and eggs from the farm.  One version of the story is that the family actually had a small store about a mile and a half down the road in the “main” section of Laurel Fork (about where Highway 58 runs through now) and they sold a lot of what they raised or grew there.  We always get conflicting stories and information when we start asking about the former residents of the home, but I think people’s minds get clouded about details over time and each person’s reality is shaped by their personal experiences which lends itself to different versions of the same story.  As we learned of the history of this place, I thought it would be really fun to recreate that atmosphere on a small scale, where this little farm could provide a few home grown, home raised and home made goods to a few of the neighbors.  Watching folks deliberately come “up” or “down” the road to grab a tomato off the cart, get an onion to use with their supper, or a jar of jam to go with their toast brings us joy.  Only once did we come up short a few dollars in our money box at the end of the day, and while it is possible that someone might have cheated us, I prefer to think that someone just miscalculated their purchases. 

Saturday, again, we got up and did the necessary things to facilitate our leaving the house for a while.  The auction we like to attend in Galax was packed with a lot of small items for sale and the crowd was larger than most Saturdays.  The first part of the sale was outside and the weather was not cooperative.  There was cover but people were packed in and it was too close for me to feel comfortable, so I went inside where the crowd was much thinner as some of the elderly (and a few others) who found the conditions out doors to be unpleasant or too difficult gathered in small groups talking and waiting.  I had time to look over the merchandise inside and then found myself a seat on one of the sofas in the back that would later be sold.  The sale was a couple of hours longer than usual and the prices, overall, were higher than usual.  There were a few “deals” to be had but the pieces that were priced right, were not right for our booths.  Mike picked up some wooden crates outside that were reasonably priced, we got an advertisement piece that we probably paid more for than we should have, but I think we can still make it work for the booth and come out all right.  Mike is so sweet.  He knew I really liked the piece and that it would look good in the booth, so he bid it slightly higher so we would get it.  I also got a nice piece of art in its original frame that has a young boy and girl meeting at a well where the cattle are drinking from a large wooden trough.  I fell in love with the scene as soon as I laid eyes on it.  It is a lovely picture and the Jersey Cows made it irresistible to me.  I am drawn to pictures and paintings but because they are so difficult to sell typically, hard to display, and take up so much space in the booths, I won’t pay more than two or three dollars and often get a whole wall of pictures for a couple of dollars when I am careful and wait at an auction.  By paying so little, I can afford to sell one picture for a fair price, make enough money on that picture to make a nice profit and then move anything that doesn’t sell within a reasonable amount of time by donating it to a thrift store.  This works and I make money by having an eye for a piece I can get for pocket change and then turning it around, but it is work because I usually end up with multiple pictures/art in these large lots that I get for “nothing” that I have to manage for a while and then donate what doesn’t sale.  I often do this because there is one piece that I want in particular.  If another piece or two sells, then I have not only made a little money on the deal but have paid for the piece I kept as well.  This was not the case yesterday.  There were two P Buckley Moss pieces that went for well over a hundred dollars each.  There were a number of wonderful vintage pieces in gorgeous frames that sold and folks were paying more than usual for art.  I wanted this picture so badly for myself and I waited anxiously.  The way this auction sells their art is to hang all of it on the wall and then start the bidding.  The highest bidder gets to choose what items they want off the wall.  One doesn’t know what piece is causing other bidders to drive the price higher.  I usually play a game where I will tell Mike what picture I think the highest bidder is after.  Often, I am right, although occasionally I get fooled.  As the bids went well over a hundred dollars in the beginning, I sat with what I hoped was a poker face.  Several times, I saw individual get up for a closer inspection of the picture I was interested in buying, a sure sign that others are going to drive the price up and then grab what I wanted.  I observe and watch body language when I want a particular item.  I knew I was going to have to spend more than I usually spend for this picture, but I had given myself a limit of twenty dollars.  I held my breath each time someone bid higher than me and took a picture off the wall.  Finally, at sixteen dollars, I was the high bidder.  I was so happy to have that piece in my hands and eventually on my wall.  This auction always ends with the selling of “shelf items” which are sold very similar to the way the artwork is sold.  A whole section of small items is available and the highest bidder gets their choice off the shelf.  After everyone is finished bidding and making their choices off the shelves, then what is left is put together in groups and sold as a lot.  In this manner, the auction companies get rid of small, bulk items that wouldn’t sell but often, there are some good pieces left on the shelves and with a decent eye, one can pick out lots and get them for a couple of dollars and make decent money on a few items.  It requires work, because there is often a lot of yard sale quality items left that must be sorted out and given a home.  Sometimes I can use some of these items such as bed linens and towels.  Anything that isn’t in great condition, I can use in the barn for rags to clean my cows when I am milking.  There is usually a lot of glassware that is difficult or impossible to sell.  Most of that goes to the thrift store.  If it is a quality yard sale item, I will sometimes hang on to it for a future yard sale.  It’s work and requires time, organization and storage space as well as the willingness to make frequent drop offs to the thrift stores.  Mike doesn’t want to discard anything but I am diligent to go through the lots we buy immediately, divide it up, discard what isn’t easily profitable and move on.  Otherwise, a person ends up with a lot of “junk” piled up and that drives me crazy.  Mike is doing better at “letting go” and while our differences often lead us to disagreements, they just as often make us smile.  On the other hand, I have learned when Mike pulls out an “odd” piece here and there and says, “This will sell”, he is usually right. 

By the time we got away from the auction, went to our booth in Galax, priced our new merchandise, and straightened up our booth, it was past supper time and we hadn’t eaten all day.  Mike too me to our favorite Mexican restaurant.  I was famished.  We returned home and got the evening chores done and settled in for the evening.  I had way more interaction with people than a typical day, had stood in the crowd around the shelf lots with people breathing down my neck and bumping into me, and had tried to price and organize the booth with a large number of folks coming through the small walking space shopping while I was in there working.  It’s all good and part of it, but that much “peopling” without space for me to get away is exhausting to me.  Being an extrovert, Mike thrives on that kind of interaction and it energizes him.  Being an introvert, that type of interaction completely drains me, even though I enjoy it from time to time.  I was ready to get home to my quiet, little house. 

August 20, 2018

The place was packed when we walked into Floyd Country Store and the sound of lively, mountain music filled my ears.  We weaved our way through the front of the store past the few folks looking at merchandise.  I briefly noticed that the staff in the café portion were as busy as usual putting together orders and carrying them out to the tables.  We stood between the merchandise area and the tables that are set close together to provide as much seating as possible for those eating.  At the back of the store two rows of chairs made a large circle with one row inside of the other, each chair holding an individual who held some type of mountain instrument:  banjos, fiddles, guitars, dulcimers, mandolins, harmonicas and a bass guitar.  The ages of those playing ranged from young teen to ancient.  The number of musicians gathered for this “jam” session took my breath away.  I stood unable to move watching from a distance and whispering to Mike, “I can’t believe how many people are playing!”  As I stood making mental notes in my writer’s mind, lost in absorbing the sights, smells, sounds and emotions of the moment, Mike being more practical about the adventure counted and whispered, “There are forty people playing instruments.”  His information garnered the appropriate “Wow” response from me.  In the middle of the circle a mature man and woman danced, obviously enjoying second of the moment.  I thought to myself as they moved together to the music how sweet they looked and how much they didn’t seem to care what others thought.  They were dancing because it made them feel good.  They were dancing because they enjoyed it.  Being raised strict Baptist, I wasn’t allowed to dance growing up.  As a teen, I would turn on American Bandstand on the TV when my parents were gone and risk a beating if they caught me, dancing wildly, alone to the music, but I always lacked the confidence to step out and dance in public.  Typically, I sit on the sidelines wishing I were brave enough to be in the middle of things.  I keep telling Mike that this fall I am going to take classes to learn how to Flat Foot dance.  I feel the mountain music in my bones, something more than just a casual liking of the upbeat sounds of the instruments, perhaps a tie to my own Appalachian Mountain heritage from whence I was so carefully, mostly removed as I grew up, but that still burns deep inside my soul as I recognize so many of my “good” qualities hail from the resilience of a people who faced difficulties with resourcefulness and whose loyalty to those they loved gave them the strength to face each difficult day.  The song ends and the couple sit down, the group sit for a moment deciding what they will play next.  Someone begins a tune and the others quickly join in, the music loud and happy.  I finally take my gaze away from the musicians and search for a place to sit.  It is basically standing room only.  We have been to the later gathering before, a much smaller group, the music a bit more reserved with some mournful Blue Grass tunes thrown into the mix.  This is our first time to the earlier jam session.  I spied a couple of bar stool type chairs sitting against a short wall right by a side exit and motion to Mike.  We carefully made our way through the crowd and sat down.  With the music filling my ears and warming my heart I watched as a larger group went out to dance, since this time it was not a couple’s dance.  The age of the dancers ranged from about four years old to advanced seniors.  Some of the folks were flat foot dancing and others were clogging, a few of them drawing a lot of attention with their animated steps but most sticking to the traditional methods of flat foot dancing.  Each person’s dance was unique to them and yet somehow connected to the music and to each other.  I am not an expert on the dance but from what I have learned and read, this is a tradition typically learned by children and passed on from older siblings, parents and grandparents.  I watched as the younger children danced with family members, watching their feet, mimicking what they observed, and adding to it their own interpretation.  My heart swelled at the goodness of it all, the smiling faces, the interaction of family and friends, the lively music, and atmosphere that transported all of us to a place of goodness.  I understood in that moment why our ancestors made music.  I understood in that moment why our Appalachian ancestors made THIS music.  One of the dancers, a man, would go out to the group of observers and pull people in to participate.  He chose the “visitors”, many who obviously were from far away places and totally different lifestyles.  I watched a group of young people probably in their late teens or early twenties who looked like they were completely out of place be drawn into the circle of dancers.  They had no idea what to do and did not come anywhere near dancing like the seasoned Mountain Dancers, but they stomped their feet happily after getting past their initial embarrassment.  At the end of the song, their faces were filled with joy and they laughed together at the experience.  After a number of songs and dances, I managed to tear my gaze away from the main activities and begin to scan the crowd.  I heard a tapping as someone kept time with the music with some sort of wooden device.  I was looking for some sort of wooden spoons or a wooden “clicker” when I saw directly in front of me a woman with a hinged, puppet type, wooden, dancing doll that was attached to a long stick.  She held the doll over a light board held under her leg and extended past the edge of the chair.   The doll’s feet just touched the board. With one hand she held the stick with the doll and with the other hand, she tapped the board causing the simple, little, wooden hinged, doll to dance in time to the music in such a way that it seemed almost magical.  Mike and I both exclaimed that the little doll looked like it was making the same flat foot moves that the old timers were making as they danced in the center of the floor.  I could now not pull my eyes away from the little magical doll.  When the song ended, I forgot my introversion and my dislike of making myself visible in large settings of people I don’t know.  I jumped down from my tall chair in the corner and ran over to the woman who had been creating such magic with the doll and asked her what type of doll it was.  She graciously explained that it was called a “Limberjack” or a “Jiggy Doll”.  She offered to let me try to make the doll dance but too self-conscious, I thanked her for her kindness and told her I would rather watch her make the doll dance. 

I always love the way the music connects so many different people whose lifestyles and self-expression through outward appearance might typically alienate one group from another.  I watched as the session was coming close to ending and a woman probably in her sixties stood off to the side, eyes closed, hands raised slightly above her shoulders, her feet moving to the music and her upper body swaying with some moves from the 70’s.  Dressed like a child of the 60’s with long gray hair pulled back in a pony tail, she had her eyes closed and was completely in tune with the spirit of the music that surrounded us all.  I envied her ability to be lost in the moment and in her own world.  I envied her ability to feel the music that deeply and be able to express herself without inhibitions.  I think we were all a little sad to see the session end.  Folks moved away reluctantly from the scene.  I tucked the feelings of that afternoon away and told myself that I would express myself through words for now.  I would write about how I felt and what I saw.  I would put all the emotions and feelings of that afternoon into words and try to recreate what I had seen and heard.  I would try to express that in those moments, somewhere in rural Virginia there was hope, there was music, there was dance, there was goodness.  The group of people that gathered to share in their loving of Appalachian song and dance, represented what it takes to make our communities and our world a better place. 

Beneath the  joy demonstrated outwardly by this  group of singing, dancing, playing people lies the very same grief, problems, pain and disappointment  common to all of humanity.  These people know the secret:   It's ok to express joy when it arises in unexpected places, even if it comes in  the midst of hard times...….ESPECIALLY  in the midst of hard times.  

Perhaps someday my soul will break free of the things that keep my feet from finding the freedom to break all inhibitions and outwardly dance and dance and dance.  

Until then, I can write.