There’s a Harvard Business professor named Mark Albion. He uses the term being on "the treadmill," to describe the things we do in our lives for no other reason than to keep our lifestyle going. A job, an income level. If either slowed, you’d fall off the treadmill. He’s now a proponent of value-based businesses, which you can begin to read about here if you’re interested.
So there are things I had to accept about my life. I couldn't just blame circumstances for putting stones in my road. I’ve gotten so used to the treadmill that I've grown lazy. I've sacrificed an enriching life for the safety that comes with doing just enough to get by.
How do you get out of this position? Well, if you’re fortunate, you go back to work and rededicate yourself. If you’ve taken on so much responsibility that you can’t contribute in a real way to anything, you simplify. If you’ve been slacking, you take on enough responsibility to engage your mind. You make a commitment to your investment.
Unfortunately (fortunately?) that’s not my story. I know because I tried it. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t just making sour grapes. I took years to make sure. And that’s where I stalled out, because once I accepted it, the problem shifted, to knowing what to do with the rest of my life. Again, I count myself lucky, because I had friends who helped me imagine a way out of this place. They helped me imagine a new life. And doing that is the first step in changing it.
My interest in birdwatching started out innocently. I bought a digital camera, and one of the skills I tried to develop was taking action shots of birds. I can’t say my skills have improved all that much, but with the purchase of a few feeders, I got better at attracting them. That is how I got hooked, and that went into the think tank.
It was around that time, while reading some news articles on the npr website, than I saw a web ad for a franchise devoted to birdwatching. I never knew such a thing existed. So I started researching, and that went into the think tank as well.
I don’t remember every ingredient which fed my current obsession. But I remember the day my idea came to me. I vividly remember sitting on the patio of a Starbucks establishment with two friends as I explained my idea. I was yammering like the town idiot, but it was because something I had agonized for had suddenly materialized in front of me. As I explained it to them, it was as if a mountain had dropped out of the air and landed in an open field in front of me. It was fully formed, it was tremendous and solid and all I had to do was climb it.
The more I explained it, the crazier my friends thought I was. They blamed the caffeine in the coffee. But I had just received a mountain in my front yard, and they were with me the day I sat back on my heels and marveled over the journey which had opened up in front of me, something so engrossing that exhausting all its potential could occupy the rest of my life.
--Laura
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
get the lead out - part III
So what changed? Well, the answer to that is a bit complicated. I’ll hit the highlights.
First, I got involved in a great development team at work. I can honestly say it was one of the best run projects in the company and the best things I’ve ever done with the company. Heck, it changed the way we do business. And I was thoroughly invested in it, not just because I loved doing the work, not just because I was good at it, but because naturally I believed that when I was spotted as a standout performer, I’d be elevated to a position more in keeping with my skills. I was good at the job. The programmers working on the project told me I was so good at narrowing down the problem behaviors in their work that I saved them countless hours. I was even flown into headquarters a few times just so I could sit with them and do some concentrated and intensive de-bugging. I was the flavor at the month from Baskin Robbins.
This, if you’ll pardon my French, didn’t count for shit once the project wrapped up. This taught me something important. It taught me that I didn’t matter. I suppose that sounds depressing, but let me elaborate a little. I had the misguided belief that it was just a matter of getting recognized by the right people, and I’d get ahead in the company. When this project concluded, a month went by. Then another. Then another. And another. The knock never came. The spotlight never came on. I was patient. And then, just when I despaired that they had forgotten me completely, I got a letter.
It was a $10 Gift Card from Best Buy. Thanks so much for all you did. I never used it. Somehow, using it would mean I believed it was an appropriate response for my effort.
Next, I got published in a local magazine. Through some contacts I had, I met a local artist and did an interview that was published in a small glossy, complete with a picture of a rock star on the cover. They didn’t last a year, but they paid me more than I made for a year of work at my company, so I felt pretty good about it. After that, I connected with a local organization that did a yearly festival. During the year, they published a quarterly newsletter to keep in touch with their audience and needed an editor. It was such easy work and they were so appreciative that I found it really satisfying. I did the graphics for ads, I did articles about local bars and music venues, and helped distribute the newsletter.
And I’ll tell you what I found most interesting. Everyone at work was so surprised that I possessed the talent to do any of it. In four years, that is just how little they knew me. I even remember the day that one of my co-workers said, “Wow, Laura, you’re a good writer.” I will remember the tone of voice she had when she said it. It was laced with astonishment.
Now it’s not their responsibility to know my business. I keep my private life out of work, because I think it’s important to have some boundaries. It pointed out something significant to me, however. I realized that in this environment, being part of a team doesn’t mean using your strengths or talents to benefit the company. It means that there’s a hole in the wheel that needs a cog. You’re the cog. Fill it.
Finally, while I was piecing those things together, I was introduced to people who reminded me that I was intelligent, creative and intuitive. The people at work had no use for those qualities, but others did. I was respected for my qualities, and I was listened to. My dissatisfaction was understood. And as I spoke of it, I finally began to wake from crisis mode. I realized that my dissatisfaction was something more than being picky or spoiled. I began to understand that it was actually changing who I was.
So now what? More on this soon.
--Laura
First, I got involved in a great development team at work. I can honestly say it was one of the best run projects in the company and the best things I’ve ever done with the company. Heck, it changed the way we do business. And I was thoroughly invested in it, not just because I loved doing the work, not just because I was good at it, but because naturally I believed that when I was spotted as a standout performer, I’d be elevated to a position more in keeping with my skills. I was good at the job. The programmers working on the project told me I was so good at narrowing down the problem behaviors in their work that I saved them countless hours. I was even flown into headquarters a few times just so I could sit with them and do some concentrated and intensive de-bugging. I was the flavor at the month from Baskin Robbins.
This, if you’ll pardon my French, didn’t count for shit once the project wrapped up. This taught me something important. It taught me that I didn’t matter. I suppose that sounds depressing, but let me elaborate a little. I had the misguided belief that it was just a matter of getting recognized by the right people, and I’d get ahead in the company. When this project concluded, a month went by. Then another. Then another. And another. The knock never came. The spotlight never came on. I was patient. And then, just when I despaired that they had forgotten me completely, I got a letter.
It was a $10 Gift Card from Best Buy. Thanks so much for all you did. I never used it. Somehow, using it would mean I believed it was an appropriate response for my effort.
Next, I got published in a local magazine. Through some contacts I had, I met a local artist and did an interview that was published in a small glossy, complete with a picture of a rock star on the cover. They didn’t last a year, but they paid me more than I made for a year of work at my company, so I felt pretty good about it. After that, I connected with a local organization that did a yearly festival. During the year, they published a quarterly newsletter to keep in touch with their audience and needed an editor. It was such easy work and they were so appreciative that I found it really satisfying. I did the graphics for ads, I did articles about local bars and music venues, and helped distribute the newsletter.
And I’ll tell you what I found most interesting. Everyone at work was so surprised that I possessed the talent to do any of it. In four years, that is just how little they knew me. I even remember the day that one of my co-workers said, “Wow, Laura, you’re a good writer.” I will remember the tone of voice she had when she said it. It was laced with astonishment.
Now it’s not their responsibility to know my business. I keep my private life out of work, because I think it’s important to have some boundaries. It pointed out something significant to me, however. I realized that in this environment, being part of a team doesn’t mean using your strengths or talents to benefit the company. It means that there’s a hole in the wheel that needs a cog. You’re the cog. Fill it.
Finally, while I was piecing those things together, I was introduced to people who reminded me that I was intelligent, creative and intuitive. The people at work had no use for those qualities, but others did. I was respected for my qualities, and I was listened to. My dissatisfaction was understood. And as I spoke of it, I finally began to wake from crisis mode. I realized that my dissatisfaction was something more than being picky or spoiled. I began to understand that it was actually changing who I was.
So now what? More on this soon.
--Laura
get the lead out - part II
I remember the morning of 9-11, as I’m sure most do. Because I worked on an airline contract but not for the airline itself, there was an odd combination of involvement and detachment. The man from the airline who managed our contract sat in the office next to mine. When he came to my door (yes, I used to have an office with a door), I couldn’t process what he was saying. He was the first one to tell me that a plane had hit the World Trade Center, and just in case I was worried, it wasn’t our airline. That was in the first few minutes, when we thought 9-11 was just a horrible accident.
When the second plane hit, we knew different. Then everyone was clamoring for information, until it shut down the internet. We gathered in my office and stood around a little red radio, listening. When the report came that the towers had fallen, my account manager didn’t believe me. It wasn’t absorbable without visual verification.
All non-essentials, us included, went home immediately, because no one knew at the time what the terrorist targets were. Looking back, it seems silly that we worried about being targets. But on September 11th, we all still found it illogical for planes to take down skyscrapers, and yet they had.
The TSA brought all planes down as quickly as possible. You didn’t land at your final destination. You landed where there was room to land. Until people were cleared to fly again, that’s where you stayed. When I drove in the following morning, the airport was a parking lot. And until that I day, I had never realized how loud the airport was. Because by contrast, it was utterly still. At lunch at a local restaurant that afternoon, people who were stranded confronted us because our contractor badges affiliated us with the airline. They were inconvenienced; they were away from home and relatives were frightened. Not to toot my own horn, but despite not being an airline representative, I think I calmed them down. When I told the man that the airline’s first priority was to get Americans on foreign soil back to their country, he realized that waiting his turn had a purpose.
The environment after 9-11 was about hunkering down and making do with what you had, especially at an airline. People wanted cost savings. My personal development was no longer part of the deal. Looking back, I think I convinced myself that my dreams were impractical and unimportant because that acceptance almost seemed patriotic. Besides, I was in a new city, and I with overtime gone, I needed to be practical to pay the house note on time, to maintain a house, to stay employed. I can look back at the situation now and see exactly what I did. I created a little cave for myself. Then I dove inside and prayed it would be safe enough. I spent all my energy avoiding failure.
The “Avoid Everything” strategy worked better than I imagined. I avoided both failure and success. I avoided bankruptcy and fortune. I avoided the worst and the best. I could go on, but I think you see the point. I got stuck. I don’t know if this led to the health problems I had for a while, or if the health problems I had just gave me an excuse for not trying. It hardly matters. I gained weight, I became anemic and lethargic. Not only was I physically tired, I was mentally tired as well.
More on this soon.
--Laura
When the second plane hit, we knew different. Then everyone was clamoring for information, until it shut down the internet. We gathered in my office and stood around a little red radio, listening. When the report came that the towers had fallen, my account manager didn’t believe me. It wasn’t absorbable without visual verification.
All non-essentials, us included, went home immediately, because no one knew at the time what the terrorist targets were. Looking back, it seems silly that we worried about being targets. But on September 11th, we all still found it illogical for planes to take down skyscrapers, and yet they had.
The TSA brought all planes down as quickly as possible. You didn’t land at your final destination. You landed where there was room to land. Until people were cleared to fly again, that’s where you stayed. When I drove in the following morning, the airport was a parking lot. And until that I day, I had never realized how loud the airport was. Because by contrast, it was utterly still. At lunch at a local restaurant that afternoon, people who were stranded confronted us because our contractor badges affiliated us with the airline. They were inconvenienced; they were away from home and relatives were frightened. Not to toot my own horn, but despite not being an airline representative, I think I calmed them down. When I told the man that the airline’s first priority was to get Americans on foreign soil back to their country, he realized that waiting his turn had a purpose.
The environment after 9-11 was about hunkering down and making do with what you had, especially at an airline. People wanted cost savings. My personal development was no longer part of the deal. Looking back, I think I convinced myself that my dreams were impractical and unimportant because that acceptance almost seemed patriotic. Besides, I was in a new city, and I with overtime gone, I needed to be practical to pay the house note on time, to maintain a house, to stay employed. I can look back at the situation now and see exactly what I did. I created a little cave for myself. Then I dove inside and prayed it would be safe enough. I spent all my energy avoiding failure.
The “Avoid Everything” strategy worked better than I imagined. I avoided both failure and success. I avoided bankruptcy and fortune. I avoided the worst and the best. I could go on, but I think you see the point. I got stuck. I don’t know if this led to the health problems I had for a while, or if the health problems I had just gave me an excuse for not trying. It hardly matters. I gained weight, I became anemic and lethargic. Not only was I physically tired, I was mentally tired as well.
--Laura
get the lead out - part I
It's August. Nearly September. And as the fall begins, I think it's time to collect my thoughts coherently. I have a story that it's time to start telling. So, do I start at the beginning, or do I start at the end?
Let's try the beginning for a while. I'm Laura. I’m about a month away from my 39th birthday. I live in the South. I have a job, two dogs, family and friends. I have a house. I have lots of interests, things I'm curious about.
Those are the exterior facets of my life. I’m pretty, but overweight. I’m smart, but not brilliant. I’m clever, but until now, not driven. And as a result, what I have is an ordinary life. When I was younger, I thought I wasn’t designed for an ordinary small town life, though I lived in a small town. I didn’t feel like I belonged there. I’m not sure where I felt I belonged. As I got older, I decided I would be a journalist. But what I really thought was that the bluebird of happiness was going to rest on my shoulder and reward me for being clever and intuitive. Everything was going to go my way, and I was going to become someone admired, someone interviewed on the Oprah show. I didn’t want to be a star, but I wanted to be someone who was so interesting that oodles of people would want to know me.
Here’s what’s happened so far. I left home for college. I was, well, I was ready for it, I guess, but I didn’t really know what I wanted. The bluebird of happiness probably visited a few times, but it was like releasing the genie from the bottle, but not knowing what you wanted to wish for. So I never risked anything. I never went in a single direction for more than a few months at a time.
In the meantime, things got harder. I had some tough breaks while I was out there. Some things were just part of growing up. Some things were the result of my choices. But with little direction and no practice sacrificing for something I really wanted, I sort of deflated in the face of the hardships. I got out of the experience what I put into it. In other words, not a heck of a lot.
I think it’s a bit melodramatic to say that I’ve been recovering from that ever since, but it did affect the path my life took, which was to play it very safe. After I left college, I did that for about 5 years, in a small city in north Georgia, working the job I took right out of college.
After that, I got an opportunity to move from that small north Georgia town to a large north Georgia town – the largest, in fact. The move promised new training and new opportunities, working for a large, dynamic airline. I moved about a year before 9-11.
I know. The luck of the Irish. More on this soon.
--Laura
Let's try the beginning for a while. I'm Laura. I’m about a month away from my 39th birthday. I live in the South. I have a job, two dogs, family and friends. I have a house. I have lots of interests, things I'm curious about.
Those are the exterior facets of my life. I’m pretty, but overweight. I’m smart, but not brilliant. I’m clever, but until now, not driven. And as a result, what I have is an ordinary life. When I was younger, I thought I wasn’t designed for an ordinary small town life, though I lived in a small town. I didn’t feel like I belonged there. I’m not sure where I felt I belonged. As I got older, I decided I would be a journalist. But what I really thought was that the bluebird of happiness was going to rest on my shoulder and reward me for being clever and intuitive. Everything was going to go my way, and I was going to become someone admired, someone interviewed on the Oprah show. I didn’t want to be a star, but I wanted to be someone who was so interesting that oodles of people would want to know me.
Here’s what’s happened so far. I left home for college. I was, well, I was ready for it, I guess, but I didn’t really know what I wanted. The bluebird of happiness probably visited a few times, but it was like releasing the genie from the bottle, but not knowing what you wanted to wish for. So I never risked anything. I never went in a single direction for more than a few months at a time.
In the meantime, things got harder. I had some tough breaks while I was out there. Some things were just part of growing up. Some things were the result of my choices. But with little direction and no practice sacrificing for something I really wanted, I sort of deflated in the face of the hardships. I got out of the experience what I put into it. In other words, not a heck of a lot.
I think it’s a bit melodramatic to say that I’ve been recovering from that ever since, but it did affect the path my life took, which was to play it very safe. After I left college, I did that for about 5 years, in a small city in north Georgia, working the job I took right out of college.
After that, I got an opportunity to move from that small north Georgia town to a large north Georgia town – the largest, in fact. The move promised new training and new opportunities, working for a large, dynamic airline. I moved about a year before 9-11.
I know. The luck of the Irish. More on this soon.
--Laura
Saturday, August 29, 2009
don't wear your birthday suit to this party
I engage in certain practices during the summer. One in particular is to sleep nekkid. I don't say this to be provocative, it's just the truth. My room is the coolest place in the house with my new ceiling fan, and at night, I strip down to my underwear and I sleep under a single sheet. At night, a warm dog inevitably snuggles painfully close to me, and I just find it more convenient to sleep without clothing from the beginning rather that kick them off later in a twisted heap at the edge of the bed.
Thursday night, Mollie attacks me around 4am. In short order, I realize she HAS to go outside. Now. Right now. If not sooner. The very thought makes me feel tired deep inside.
So I do what I admit to have done in the past, at least a few times. It's a little move I learned from ninjas, where I sneak the dog outside to the garden gate, then sneak back in as quickly as possible, without the aid of clothing.
This is because I am a closet streaker. I've been a closet streaker since I was five. But that's another story.
When I approached the kitchen door, leading outside, I realized two things. First, Petey also wanted to go outside. Second, it was raining. Unfortunately, this didn't change my strategy. Unfortunately, it completely changed my execution.
The dogs, leashed, ran toward the backyard gate. When they reached the edge of the carport and felt the first drops of rain, all hell broke loose. The quick sprint to the gate ended as they made a 180 and headed, not to the door, but to the front yard, thinking it might not be raining there.
Anyone who happened to be awake got an eyeful.
Mollie then turned around and headed for the side yard. Another eyeful. So, thinking that Mollie might do her business if she wasn't shackled to Petey on their divided leash, I picked up Petey, holding him in front of my "sisters" while she freely ran back into the side yard.
And around the bird pole. Around and around. Again and again.
Trying to pull her back almost uprooted the feeder, as you can see in my picture. I had to scoot back out into the rain and unleash Mollie while still holding Petey. Then I retreated, hunched over with Mollie in one hand and Petey in the other. Wet to the skin, because there was nothing between the elements and my skin, I closed the door, then lifted Mollie's front paws up in both hands, and barked, WELL ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?!
She gives me a mild-mannered look, doe eyed and innocent. As if I were the crazy one. I slept the rest of the night with the door closed, and her on the other side of it. Now, as I'm tending vegetables or mowing, or feeding the birds, I have one eye open for sly looks from my neighbors. I haven't checked it yet, but my co-workers are betting I'm already on YouTube.
My tip to you: avoid wearing your birthday suit in the rain. That is all.
--Laura
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
dog days
I got home late this evening. My tomato plants were looking droopy, so I followed the dogs through the garden gate, where the faucet is. I rounded the strawberry tree and stopped in my tracks.
Alert. Dead possum carcass, resting in the grass.
It was a little guy, probably no more than 8 inches long. And it was dead like I'm used to seeing dead possums. Because oh yes, I'm used to it. My dog is a possum killer. Serial variety.
I think he gums them to death. Certainly, whenever I've seen them, they've been mauled. Soaked in saliva. A little flat looking. Smushy.
I imagine Petey sucking on this poor unfortunate soul, murmuring, "Hold still. I want to love you and squeeze you and hug you and name you George."
So tonight, a familiar burial ritual. With a corpse my lil buddy left me right next to the garden gate, like a gift, something a cat would do. There's a reason I'm not fond of cats.
Dig dig dig. Mollie prances around the hole. You can see the distaste in her posture. She avoids dirt, rain and death.
Petey is eating a pinecone, pretending not to notice. A pinecone!
Walk back to the carcass, slide the blade of the shovel under the little dead body. Mollie prances around the shovel, clearly disgusted, but with the fascination only a bird dog can display.
Petey is sucking on the pinecone. He must be remembering the possum.
Slide the little, saliva soaked body into the ground. Shovel dirt over him. Give the ground a pat.
I dunno though. While I was out there, I was hit with an idea. Recently I've been reading a book with a truly boastful title like EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT BIRDS. Surprisingly, they've come pretty close. For example, did you know scientists are pretty sure that birds came from dinosaurs? Anyway, in this book, they describe a bird habitat.
Hmm. I have this rather large circle in the center of my yard. It won't grow grass, because it's been a burn pile for years and years. All it manages to grow are weeds.
Put a few stones in a circle around it, fill it with a bunch of dirt. I bet it would make a pretty charming bird habitat. A nice place to sit, even. Probably lots more attractive to renters or sellers than a burn pile. I think the days of burn piles are probably numbered anyway.
Wildflower garden. That's definitely what I need.
I guess I have a new project. Backyard curb appeal. Thanks for inspiring me, Petey. But please, no more surprises.
--Laura
Alert. Dead possum carcass, resting in the grass.
It was a little guy, probably no more than 8 inches long. And it was dead like I'm used to seeing dead possums. Because oh yes, I'm used to it. My dog is a possum killer. Serial variety.
I think he gums them to death. Certainly, whenever I've seen them, they've been mauled. Soaked in saliva. A little flat looking. Smushy.
I imagine Petey sucking on this poor unfortunate soul, murmuring, "Hold still. I want to love you and squeeze you and hug you and name you George."
So tonight, a familiar burial ritual. With a corpse my lil buddy left me right next to the garden gate, like a gift, something a cat would do. There's a reason I'm not fond of cats.
Dig dig dig. Mollie prances around the hole. You can see the distaste in her posture. She avoids dirt, rain and death.
Petey is eating a pinecone, pretending not to notice. A pinecone!
Walk back to the carcass, slide the blade of the shovel under the little dead body. Mollie prances around the shovel, clearly disgusted, but with the fascination only a bird dog can display.
Petey is sucking on the pinecone. He must be remembering the possum.
Slide the little, saliva soaked body into the ground. Shovel dirt over him. Give the ground a pat.
I dunno though. While I was out there, I was hit with an idea. Recently I've been reading a book with a truly boastful title like EVERYTHING YOU EVER WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT BIRDS. Surprisingly, they've come pretty close. For example, did you know scientists are pretty sure that birds came from dinosaurs? Anyway, in this book, they describe a bird habitat.
Hmm. I have this rather large circle in the center of my yard. It won't grow grass, because it's been a burn pile for years and years. All it manages to grow are weeds.
Put a few stones in a circle around it, fill it with a bunch of dirt. I bet it would make a pretty charming bird habitat. A nice place to sit, even. Probably lots more attractive to renters or sellers than a burn pile. I think the days of burn piles are probably numbered anyway.
Wildflower garden. That's definitely what I need.
I guess I have a new project. Backyard curb appeal. Thanks for inspiring me, Petey. But please, no more surprises.
--Laura
Monday, August 24, 2009
Concord Woolen Mill
Lots of people take really amazing digital pictures. I have an account on flickr, and daily I can compare my feeble artistic attempts with others who are the very opposite of feeble. 
I'll admit it: I'm never going to be a professional. I don't have it in me. What I've enjoyed about my camera, however, is the gift of memory it gives me. When I'm home, when my trip is done, I can look back at the pictures. I can google what I saw and discover that I was looking at more than I realized.
Marin Ruff moved his family to Cobb from Henry County in the 1830's. About the same time, Robert Daniel, a great grandson of a colonial Governor of South Carolina, moved from Clark County, GA. The two men developed a complete mill community with a school, church and general store. The Union Army destroyed the factory on July 4, 1864, because it was making supplies for the Confederate troops. The Mill was rebuilt and began operations in 1869. It was eventually sold by Ruff and Daniel in 1872.
Cobb County's Dept of Transportation protected the remaining structure with ghost framing. Dynamiting from the nearby East West Connector construction might otherwise have caused the structure to become unstable.
It's unstable anyway. It's dissolving into the wetlands. The bricks crumble beneath your hands. Not that I really know this. Nope, didn't climb on it at all.
It's a great place. I'm glad my camera led me there.
--Laura
I'll admit it: I'm never going to be a professional. I don't have it in me. What I've enjoyed about my camera, however, is the gift of memory it gives me. When I'm home, when my trip is done, I can look back at the pictures. I can google what I saw and discover that I was looking at more than I realized.
That's been valuable to me, as I realize how I've neglected learning about things within miles of my door. One of those is the Concord Woolen Mill. I've lived in this area for years and never visited it. Some history: The Mill was built in 1847, located along Nickajack Creek. The community located around the mill was named "Nickajack Factory" and was within close proximity of a community named Mill Grove.
Marin Ruff moved his family to Cobb from Henry County in the 1830's. About the same time, Robert Daniel, a great grandson of a colonial Governor of South Carolina, moved from Clark County, GA. The two men developed a complete mill community with a school, church and general store. The Union Army destroyed the factory on July 4, 1864, because it was making supplies for the Confederate troops. The Mill was rebuilt and began operations in 1869. It was eventually sold by Ruff and Daniel in 1872.
Cobb County's Dept of Transportation protected the remaining structure with ghost framing. Dynamiting from the nearby East West Connector construction might otherwise have caused the structure to become unstable.
It's unstable anyway. It's dissolving into the wetlands. The bricks crumble beneath your hands. Not that I really know this. Nope, didn't climb on it at all.
It's a great place. I'm glad my camera led me there.
--Laura
Saturday, August 22, 2009
humming along
Lately I've been learning how to get pictures of birds, and they've said a good bit about using blinds. Birds alert to movement more than sound, I am told. Because of this, though an odd shaped blind would seem out of place to you and me, they will tolerate it. You can stand quietly behind a one and take pictures.
Well, as you know, I'm not spending lots of money on anything right now, trying to funnel everything toward my last credit card debt and saving for my future plans. So I haven't spent money on getting any upgrades to my camera, and buying some kind of elaborate blind also seemed silly with a camera I don't have lots of skill at using anyway.
That hasn't stopped me from trying to take pictures. Outside my garden gate is a large crape myrtle. I spent the better part of the spring trimming it down this year, and now it looks fabulous, with large blooms dripping off the tree like bunches of pink grapes. I hung a hummingbird feeder here, between a butterfly bush and a honeysuckle tree. It's a minor hummingbird paradise.
Still, they were pretty shy. Until I ran out of the store bought nectar and decided to make my own, just a cup of sugar to a quart of water.
That was the key. They loved it.
Hummingbirds aren't social animals. They do not mate for life. Males do not hang around to help with the kiddies. They are extremely territorial, and will only let females in their territory if the ladies have relations with them. Females aren't as territorial, until they are defending a food resource near a nest. I've seen them buzzing around a particular pine tree branch stretched over my back yard, and I figure there's a nest there. I have three females using in my feeder, but one seems dominant. Not only will she shoo off the other two if they approach when she is trying to feed, she will actually perch in the upper branches of my dead dogwood tree and wait on the
other girls, so she can shoo them away as well. One afternoon, I got home and opened my car door to the sound of frantic chatter. As I slowly approached the tree, thinking perhaps a small bird had, at last, been attacked or injured by one of the neighborhood cats, I found all three hummingbirds, hovering at opposing sides of the tree. It was a Mexican standoff around a small feeder of sugar and water.
other girls, so she can shoo them away as well. One afternoon, I got home and opened my car door to the sound of frantic chatter. As I slowly approached the tree, thinking perhaps a small bird had, at last, been attacked or injured by one of the neighborhood cats, I found all three hummingbirds, hovering at opposing sides of the tree. It was a Mexican standoff around a small feeder of sugar and water.All this drama, and me, with no pictures! So I parked myself against the trunk of the tree one afternoon, propped my shooting arm in one place, focused it on the tree, and waited. They notice me, but because I'm partly obscured in the branches of the tree, they live with it.
They've nearly run into me numerous times, as they dive bomb each other. If I manage some video of that, I'll post it.
Around here, hummers are mostly gone by October, so I only have another few weeks with my little friends. I would love to see a newly hatched kiddie in that time. All the other birds are going through sunflower seeds like they're eating their last meal, too. And this morning, I think I spotted a new visitor -- tentatively, I think it was a blue-gray gnatcatcher. But like many backyard birders, I have been thoroughly entertained by my little hummers this year, and I feel so fortunate that they found my feeder in its first year.
--Laura
Thursday, August 20, 2009
heathen holiday
This has been an interesting month in the national landscape - embroiled in a healthcare debate I find both vital and frustrating.
Listening to people on television has been a struggle. Listening to friends has been, at times, even worse.
When I lived in Boulder, I was often chastised -- too southern to be educated, too white to be sensitive to the plight of people "of color," a term coined because we were all too sensitive to define anyone by something as abitrary as skin color -- unless of course THEY defined themselves by skin color, in which case it was okay, as long as they weren't expressing racial self-hatred. At themselves. I know, tricky, huh?
I remember the day I learned that a southern accent branded me as mildly retarded, and I also remember the day I learned that people were actually more helpful to mildly retarded white girls, and how to use this to my advantage.
Point is, I was definitely not a liberal in Boulder. And now I live in Georgia, and I'm still out of place. Too liberal to live in a red state, too Roman Catholic to live in the Bible Belt, too much of a hippy to be a real catholic anyway. Who knows where I even belong?
And I'll admit something. I'm usually okay not belonging too strongly to any one group. But right now, as the wagons are circling and camps are being formed, your allegiance is assumed. It's hard, even when you are comfortable in knowing your own mind, to be surrounded by people you disagree with and not feel like a fraud -- like you wandered into a foreign camp looking for a warm campfire, so you swallow the soup and nod a lot.
Right now, it's getting harder and harder to nod. Because right now, I pretty much don't share anyone's opinion. I don't think Obama is looking out for all his democrat friends. I don't think he's out to kill the elderly. I'm not of the opinion that my son should leave the army rather than serve under THIS president. I mean seriously, can you explain that one to me? You WANT your son to serve under a president who sends us to war, but when a president who wants to end the war is elected, you're scared THEN?
Right.
So as everyone gears up for the fall season with a sense of purpose and renewal, I feel a little left behind. Because I need a holiday from walking through the hall, avoiding the people waiting to leap on me and tell me all about their Obama Fears.
I'm taking a Heathen Holiday.
Is it the right move? I don't know. I was hit by surprise when it started happening -- the encounters in the gathering area of the church with cute little old ladies telling me how terrible our president was, how frightened they were. They are older than me. I can't chastise an elder. I don't have enough mileage on my shoes to do that.
So I'm taking a Heathen Holiday. I need a break from it. They don't need me around for a while, because I've only been Present In Name Only (PINO) anyway. With a little Heathen Holiday, I think I can get myself together, and reappear as myself.
Now, when I figure out THAT mystery, I will let you know.
--Laura
Listening to people on television has been a struggle. Listening to friends has been, at times, even worse.
When I lived in Boulder, I was often chastised -- too southern to be educated, too white to be sensitive to the plight of people "of color," a term coined because we were all too sensitive to define anyone by something as abitrary as skin color -- unless of course THEY defined themselves by skin color, in which case it was okay, as long as they weren't expressing racial self-hatred. At themselves. I know, tricky, huh?
I remember the day I learned that a southern accent branded me as mildly retarded, and I also remember the day I learned that people were actually more helpful to mildly retarded white girls, and how to use this to my advantage.
Point is, I was definitely not a liberal in Boulder. And now I live in Georgia, and I'm still out of place. Too liberal to live in a red state, too Roman Catholic to live in the Bible Belt, too much of a hippy to be a real catholic anyway. Who knows where I even belong?
And I'll admit something. I'm usually okay not belonging too strongly to any one group. But right now, as the wagons are circling and camps are being formed, your allegiance is assumed. It's hard, even when you are comfortable in knowing your own mind, to be surrounded by people you disagree with and not feel like a fraud -- like you wandered into a foreign camp looking for a warm campfire, so you swallow the soup and nod a lot.
Right now, it's getting harder and harder to nod. Because right now, I pretty much don't share anyone's opinion. I don't think Obama is looking out for all his democrat friends. I don't think he's out to kill the elderly. I'm not of the opinion that my son should leave the army rather than serve under THIS president. I mean seriously, can you explain that one to me? You WANT your son to serve under a president who sends us to war, but when a president who wants to end the war is elected, you're scared THEN?
Right.
So as everyone gears up for the fall season with a sense of purpose and renewal, I feel a little left behind. Because I need a holiday from walking through the hall, avoiding the people waiting to leap on me and tell me all about their Obama Fears.
I'm taking a Heathen Holiday.
Is it the right move? I don't know. I was hit by surprise when it started happening -- the encounters in the gathering area of the church with cute little old ladies telling me how terrible our president was, how frightened they were. They are older than me. I can't chastise an elder. I don't have enough mileage on my shoes to do that.
So I'm taking a Heathen Holiday. I need a break from it. They don't need me around for a while, because I've only been Present In Name Only (PINO) anyway. With a little Heathen Holiday, I think I can get myself together, and reappear as myself.
Now, when I figure out THAT mystery, I will let you know.
--Laura
Sunday, August 16, 2009
going to market
During the summer, fruit and vegetable stands litter our landscape. I can drive from here to the mall in Douglasville and I pass two established fruit stands, one flea market where you can get fruit and at least two areas where you're likely to see the tailgaters - people on the roadside with a folding tent or umbrella and a folding chair, selling anything from watermelon to pineapple.
Unfortunately, in recent years (I'm not sure how recent, but that's another story), this has become a sort of jaded exercise. It's because few if any of these people are growers. You don't see a long sweeping vista of farmland behind them. More often than not, they are simply mom and pop shippers. They have driven down to Florida or South Georgia, or over to South Carolina, or out to Alabama. Because of where I live, this is what amounts to fresh produce.
And when you consider that Kroger imports from California, and Publix goes to Ecuador, I have to realize -- it IS fresh produce. Baby needs to accept a fact of life. Baby doesn't live in the country anymore.
So it's a nice thing to visit a farmer's market. It's an even nicer thing to have a conversation with the people who are selling wares there. Because you have the same situation there as you do along the side of the road. Some of the vendors at the farmer's market are shippers. They've loaded a wood sided truck with boxes and boxes of "local" produce, and they've set up shop to sell it to you. But there are also those who've walked out their backdoor to fields of tomatoes, rows of squash, and planting boxes of organic eggplant. And when you speak to them, you learn their names and who they are and what they do. And before too long, you have an accurate picture of what came from where. So while I pay $3.50/lb for my farmer's market tomatoes, I come home with a sack of Cherokee purples and zebra stripes from a Georgia backyard, and they taste wonderful compared to the plastic mealy substitutes for nutrition I get from the store. And because I ask the shippers, I even know where they got their peaches from. And if I'm not convinced that his peaches are worth $2/lb, which is at least .30 more than I can find in the store, he slices off a piece of it for me to taste.
"Ma'am, would you like to try this peach?"
"Yes sir, where did you get these?"
"We went out to South Carolina for these. These are clearstone peaches."
My smile brightens. "I know what that is, I might need to get some of these."
A clearstone peach is a rare commodity in a grocery store. Large commercial shippers despise them. See, when you pick a peach, it stops ripening. The only fate a peach can suffer after it comes off the branch is Rot City. You can't buy a hard-as-a-rock peach in the store, bring it home and set it on the counter, hoping it will ripen. It won't. It will only soften as it's disintegrating into mush. I'm sorry if this upsets you, but it's true.
Clearstone peaches come into this world on the soft side. They aren't a canning peach, the kind growers love because they are firm and hardy. They are table peaches. They belong in smaller, family orchards. They are the kind you pick as they ripen. They are the kind you pick at the height of summer and enjoy in the moment. They are the high note in summer's song.
"Now ma'am, there's nothing wrong with a Georgia peach," the old man confided in me. He looked to be in his late 60's or early 70's. I had been to his stand before and bought cucumbers from his daughter. She was friendly, but it had only taken a few questions from me before I understood that she didn't know the land, and didn't know her produce. She was there to smile and take money. I had walked away a little disappointed, but I'm glad I returned the following week to speak to this man. I was now staring -- smiling -- at the brains of the outfit. And I think he was worried that I'd be offended that he wasn't selling Georgia peaches.
I wasn't. "I just want you to know, there's nothing wrong with a Georgia peach, but they aren't table peaches."
"I lived a lot of years in South Carolina, and I'm real familiar with table peaches," I said to him. "Could we fill up a bag?"
"Ma'am, I have the diabetes, but when these come in, I have to have at least one a day."
"I totally understand." And I did. And he talked me into 5lbs of fresh, delicate South Carolina table peaches. And I'm so glad he did. Because that was two weeks ago, and for whatever reason I haven't been able to get back there to the stand. And that's a shame, because while they're probably still coming in, I missed getting anymore at their peak. The next time I go, the peaches will probably be south Georgia peaches. Or they will be Alabama Chilton peaches. And they will be good. But they won't sing in my mouth the way those did. It was a fleeting glimpse of the best of summer.
--Laura
Unfortunately, in recent years (I'm not sure how recent, but that's another story), this has become a sort of jaded exercise. It's because few if any of these people are growers. You don't see a long sweeping vista of farmland behind them. More often than not, they are simply mom and pop shippers. They have driven down to Florida or South Georgia, or over to South Carolina, or out to Alabama. Because of where I live, this is what amounts to fresh produce.
And when you consider that Kroger imports from California, and Publix goes to Ecuador, I have to realize -- it IS fresh produce. Baby needs to accept a fact of life. Baby doesn't live in the country anymore.
So it's a nice thing to visit a farmer's market. It's an even nicer thing to have a conversation with the people who are selling wares there. Because you have the same situation there as you do along the side of the road. Some of the vendors at the farmer's market are shippers. They've loaded a wood sided truck with boxes and boxes of "local" produce, and they've set up shop to sell it to you. But there are also those who've walked out their backdoor to fields of tomatoes, rows of squash, and planting boxes of organic eggplant. And when you speak to them, you learn their names and who they are and what they do. And before too long, you have an accurate picture of what came from where. So while I pay $3.50/lb for my farmer's market tomatoes, I come home with a sack of Cherokee purples and zebra stripes from a Georgia backyard, and they taste wonderful compared to the plastic mealy substitutes for nutrition I get from the store. And because I ask the shippers, I even know where they got their peaches from. And if I'm not convinced that his peaches are worth $2/lb, which is at least .30 more than I can find in the store, he slices off a piece of it for me to taste.
"Ma'am, would you like to try this peach?"
"Yes sir, where did you get these?"
"We went out to South Carolina for these. These are clearstone peaches."
My smile brightens. "I know what that is, I might need to get some of these."
A clearstone peach is a rare commodity in a grocery store. Large commercial shippers despise them. See, when you pick a peach, it stops ripening. The only fate a peach can suffer after it comes off the branch is Rot City. You can't buy a hard-as-a-rock peach in the store, bring it home and set it on the counter, hoping it will ripen. It won't. It will only soften as it's disintegrating into mush. I'm sorry if this upsets you, but it's true.
Clearstone peaches come into this world on the soft side. They aren't a canning peach, the kind growers love because they are firm and hardy. They are table peaches. They belong in smaller, family orchards. They are the kind you pick as they ripen. They are the kind you pick at the height of summer and enjoy in the moment. They are the high note in summer's song.
"Now ma'am, there's nothing wrong with a Georgia peach," the old man confided in me. He looked to be in his late 60's or early 70's. I had been to his stand before and bought cucumbers from his daughter. She was friendly, but it had only taken a few questions from me before I understood that she didn't know the land, and didn't know her produce. She was there to smile and take money. I had walked away a little disappointed, but I'm glad I returned the following week to speak to this man. I was now staring -- smiling -- at the brains of the outfit. And I think he was worried that I'd be offended that he wasn't selling Georgia peaches.
I wasn't. "I just want you to know, there's nothing wrong with a Georgia peach, but they aren't table peaches."
"I lived a lot of years in South Carolina, and I'm real familiar with table peaches," I said to him. "Could we fill up a bag?"
"Ma'am, I have the diabetes, but when these come in, I have to have at least one a day."
"I totally understand." And I did. And he talked me into 5lbs of fresh, delicate South Carolina table peaches. And I'm so glad he did. Because that was two weeks ago, and for whatever reason I haven't been able to get back there to the stand. And that's a shame, because while they're probably still coming in, I missed getting anymore at their peak. The next time I go, the peaches will probably be south Georgia peaches. Or they will be Alabama Chilton peaches. And they will be good. But they won't sing in my mouth the way those did. It was a fleeting glimpse of the best of summer.
--Laura
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Monday, August 10, 2009
monday monday
Mondays come too soon during the summer, and I've enjoyed summer this year, even though I'm not a summer person by nature. I will give you some bad news though. This morning, Canada geese (the migratory kind) settled in my front yard. They are headed south. Change is on the way.
Friday, August 7, 2009
In Memoriam: Jean
My Aunt's mother passed away yesterday. It was only in recent years that she lived in Georgia, so I didn't know her very well. The last time I could say that my life intersected with hers was last fall. I drove to north Georgia to see the fall colors, and Jean had just fallen in the home her daughter set up for her. So when I went up there for the weekend, I stayed in Jean's home. The next morning, I woke up to find 3 pumpkins sitting on the porch swing, waiting for me like a little pumpkin family. I still have some of the pumpkin meat in my freezer, using Jean's kitchen to butcher them. Later that day, my aunt and uncle arrived, carrying some of Jean's belongings from the nursing home where Jean was placed until she fell getting out of bed. They were bringing her belongings home because she'd been transferred to a hospital bed.
In that time, there hadn't been much improvement. It was clear in the subject line of the email "Praise" that the family was relieved that her suffering had ended. Poorly healed broken bones because she wouldn't do therapy, infections, strokes. Her last days had been confused and painful.
Normally I would write about what I know about a person or what I know of their life. I can't do that in this case. But I can express my own thanks that her suffering has ended, and those who loved her no longer have to watch her suffering, unable to help her.
Endings make room for new beginnings. If you choose, you make them with people you've known and loved all along. So I hope my aunt and uncle and their families, with a sense of refreshment, rediscover each other now that their time with Jean has ended. They took good care of her while they could. I hope they now spend some time taking care of each other just as faithfully.
Rest well, Jean. Rest well, my family.
-Laura
In that time, there hadn't been much improvement. It was clear in the subject line of the email "Praise" that the family was relieved that her suffering had ended. Poorly healed broken bones because she wouldn't do therapy, infections, strokes. Her last days had been confused and painful.
Normally I would write about what I know about a person or what I know of their life. I can't do that in this case. But I can express my own thanks that her suffering has ended, and those who loved her no longer have to watch her suffering, unable to help her.
Endings make room for new beginnings. If you choose, you make them with people you've known and loved all along. So I hope my aunt and uncle and their families, with a sense of refreshment, rediscover each other now that their time with Jean has ended. They took good care of her while they could. I hope they now spend some time taking care of each other just as faithfully.
Rest well, Jean. Rest well, my family.
-Laura
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
what cameras do not capture
A few days ago my hummingbird feeder was empty. I filled it, took it back outside, and as I reached up to return it to its hook, a female ruby throated hummingbird arrived for a drink. I stood, frozen, perched on tiptoes. The hummingbird hovered in the air, frozen as well.
We exchanged an awkward glance. I could see her debating in her little hummingbird brain: Drink? Dive bomb? Drink? Dive bomb?
Finally, she took the third option. Dart away. What I would have given for a camera. I had to share that. It made my day.
Still, what I would have given for a camera. And a bird blind.
--Laura
Sunday, August 2, 2009
welcome back, me!
People who read this blog may have noticed that I took a month off, and so I did. I'll be honest -- I really needed to. I needed to take July off and avoid sharing every random thought in my head with the world.
I'm done with my break though. I'm back.
I had fun in July. I've spent too much at the farmer's market. I've decided on what to do with the largish burned spot in my yard. I've met some great people. I've retired over $800 in credit card debt. I've learned that I'm still considered a bird watcher, instead of the more auspicious title of birder. But I'm okay with that. I've learned that I really don't need to pay for pedicures, and even though I can't do a french pedicure myself, tropical temptation #914 isn't so shabby.
By the way, I'm not that far away of being a birder. I can identify 21 different birds. To be a birder, I have to be able to identify 40.
How about that? I'm over halfway there.
That's all for now. Welcome back, me!
-Laura
I'm done with my break though. I'm back.
I had fun in July. I've spent too much at the farmer's market. I've decided on what to do with the largish burned spot in my yard. I've met some great people. I've retired over $800 in credit card debt. I've learned that I'm still considered a bird watcher, instead of the more auspicious title of birder. But I'm okay with that. I've learned that I really don't need to pay for pedicures, and even though I can't do a french pedicure myself, tropical temptation #914 isn't so shabby.
By the way, I'm not that far away of being a birder. I can identify 21 different birds. To be a birder, I have to be able to identify 40.
How about that? I'm over halfway there.
That's all for now. Welcome back, me!
-Laura
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