Barn

The Little Amaryllis That Could

/ wvfurandroot / 5 Comments
Bulging buds out of nowhere.
Bulging buds out of nowhere.

Sometimes I find myself standing in cut-rate shopping emporium specializing in factory overruns and slightly damaged goods waiting for the cashier to bag my purchases. Since I have a fetish of sorts for dishes, my purchase is likely to involve sushi plates I don’t need or ramekins I do, or some sort of fragile item. After a few minutes watching the cashier swaddle the finger bowls, I say something like “Just toss it in the bag. If it can’t survive the trip home, it can’t survive my house.”

This is one of the Barn’s great truths You have to be tough to live here. The second great truth is You have to thrive on neglect.

With few exceptions, if it’s in my house, it’s here to be enjoyed. That was one of the tenets of the Great De-Junking of 2005-2008 (and counting): No more “saving for something special” – wrapped in bubble wrap, nestled in a box and stored in a reinforced container pending the arrival of “Something Special”.

I’m not careless (for the most part). Still, I have things that are chipped or just downright broken that other people would toss. As long as they are still usable and/or make me smile, they’re still here. Some people are appalled by this. Some people see it as an opportunity to replace whatever it is at the next gift-giving occasion. Some people understand it for what it is.

The goal is, and has been, to have only things that I love.

I veer towards the strange in the things (and people) I choose to love.

I love this house. A sensible person would bulldoze it.

I love my dogs. Rational people would send them to foster care for rehabilitation.

I love dishes. There’s no excuse for this. I just do.

I love most of my stuff. (I’m working on that most.) People are either charmed or horrified when they walk in here.

I love houseplants, but I’ve noticed over the years that I go in a yearly cycle. I lovingly tend them from early spring to mid-summer at which time they are summarily ignored to tend to the garden. For the remaining 8-9 months, they’re lucky if they get watered. After years of this, I have plants that can thrive on willpower alone.

19 inches of spectacular surprise.

19 inches of spectacular surprise.

One of the plants is an amaryllis that I acquired from somewhere or someone so many years ago now that I can’t summon the details. I vaguely remember putting the bulb in the pot that came with it, tossing potting soil on top of it, and watching leaves sprout. It took several years before it did anything but produce leaves. I read up on amaryllis bulbs. I was supposed to do this and this and a fair amount of that, put it in a closet for X amount of weeks, recite incantations, and feed it baby giggles ground with rainbow sludge. But I never did any of that. It sat on my counter and did or did not grow more leaves. For 11 months of the year, it is droopy, long leaves collecting dust and spider webs on the plant counter. Periodically one of the leaves will turn brown and crispy and I will allow as how that leaf is truly dead, rip it off and throw it away. It always looks half-dead or dying. Other than pulling off the certainly-dead parts and the occasional splatter of water, it fends for itself.

One year, well after Christmas and without any sounding trumpets, it bloomed. Initially, I thought the end-times were upon us. Sometimes in February and sometimes in March, and this year in April, it will suddenly sprout a stalk that Jack would recognize. I do mean suddenly. In less than 24 hours, there was no stalk and then there was a stalk 19″ tall (I measured). At the top of the stalk, a bulbous, faintly obscene bulging will emerge. The bulge gets bigger. And bigger. Soon you can see hints of red in the green.

Alien probes come to mind.

A lesson to learn.

A lesson to learn.

The first year it did this, we all scooted kitchen chairs up to the counter and watched in fascination.

But this year two bulbous bulgings appeared. We’re now into Hour 36 (or so) of the alien probe. I’ve witnessed this transformation for several years now, so I’m not as mesmerized as I once was. But it’s still pretty amazing. I’ve yet to become blasé about it. When I do, I’ll give it to someone.

The amaryllis, without any help from me, is blooming. It hasn’t been repotted in ten years. It hasn’t been fertilized. Life can’t be much harder for this plant. You’ve got to thrive on neglect around here if you’re an indoor plant. You’ve got to be tough.

The fool thing is not only blooming. It’s double blooming.

There’s got to be a lesson in here that will do my beleaguered heart some good.

Morning Walk

/ wvfurandroot / 9 Comments
 
Babette walking point.

Babette walking point.

Inexplicably, I woke up at 4:20 a.m. today – wide-awake and ready-to-go.  Morning is my least favorite time of day; I never wake up ready for anything other than coffee; and 4:20 a.m. is traditionally nothing but painful.  I have to admit that ready-to-go with nowhere-to-go can be quite pleasing.  Choosing what to do is much nicer than trudging out of bed with the day’s agenda already set.

 

I went through a pot of coffee and watched my patio go from lamp-lit, newly-fallen snow to dawn-lit snow.  The urge to grab the camera, a puppy, a coat and boots was irresistible.  I’ve long wanted to get photos of the old barn in the snow – not having to work today made it an especially good day to accomplish that goal as did the unusual circumstance of being alert in the dreamscape of a cloudy dawn on new-fallen snow.

 

Babette, the grande dame of the three puppies, was chosen.  I figured her heavy coat would protect her from the cold.  She’s a sweet little thing that rarely gets her fair share of attention, because the other two puppies are far more demanding.  I’m sure Babette thinks of them as incorrigible and obnoxious brats, which is a pretty fair analysis.

 

Babette and I headed out.  She headed down the road to my parents’ house and was quite confused when I called her back.  She then assumed we were getting in the car and waited patiently for me by the driver’s door.  I confused her again when I headed to the back of the house, but she readily joined me.

Old Barn

Old Barn

 

We visit the old barn now and again during the other seasons; but usually when I think to do it in the winter I’ve picked a day when it’s too icy, too muddy, or  too cold.  As soon as Babette figured out where we were going, she ran out front to protect me from marauding deer, renegade squirrels and the assorted wildlife residing in my little piece of the world.  She’s little, but she’s feisty.  If not for me, she’d be the alpha bitch of our pack.

 

We didn’t see any critters other than some soaring hawks.  The new snow wasn’t heavy enough to wrap us in that delicious silence of heavy snow, but it was so early that we were treated to a landscape still hushed by the moon.

 

moon

Morning Moon

The old barn used to be accompanied by a small house.  Both were abandoned more than forty years ago.  The house burnt to the ground shortly after I moved here; and the ensuing decades have obliterated all signs of it.  Wild rose, grapevine, oak saplings, and shrub pine have taken its place. 

 

A few years ago, my dad was finally able to buy the land the barn occupies.  He tells me the barn is unsafe and needs to be torn down, but I don’t think he wants it gone anymore than I do. It has beautiful lines even as those lines move more and more towards the ground they used to rise above.  In this morning’s light, the weathered barn board, gray dawn, and white snow were soul soothing.   I’m no photographer and my camera is a relatively simple point and shoot, so I wasn’t able to capture the magic of it all.  Except for some flashes of color here and there, it was like falling into a black & white photo of a love affair with time. 

 

Another saggy grande dame.

Another saggy grande dame.

Babette and I continued our walk.  We found the lower pond frozen except for one small part.  We found tree stumps disappearing with the days and barbed wire merging with the thorns and brambles of wild plants left wild.  She and I peered very closely at things.  She because cataracts are forming and focus is getting hard; me because focus is always hard – my aging eyes having nothing to do with it.

 

Yesterday, I was sharing my favorite Youtube videos of West Virginia with some folks.  I commented at the time that sometimes I forget how much I love this place until I look at some of the images.  This morning had a similar effect.  This time of year, I don’t spend a lot of time outside; and I tend to forget that winter brings its own charms to both my landscape and my soul.  I may have to invest in heavy gear to keep my always-cold self comfortable.  I thoroughly enjoyed my walk.

 

Babette is curled up on her favorite pillow, deep in sleep.  Naps on lazy winter days are a hobby of mine.  It’s time for one, I think.  I have, after all, been up since 4:20 a.m.

Stuff

/ wvfurandroot / 8 Comments
Cobalt blue glass
in the morning sun makes me happy.

It’s slow going, but I’m on a mission to transform the barn from a repository of all the stuff I’ve ever owned to just stuff I love.

I’m never going to be a minimalist – cultural artifacts interest me far too much and I’m far too sentimental.  I shocked myself when I began giving away and tossing stuff I’ve schlepped from house to house, city to city, and state to state during the nomadic period of my misspent youth.   Out went the ugly side table I’ve hung onto from the early it-doesn’t-matter-how-ugly-it-is-if-it’s-cheap-enough days of home decorating.  I’ve moved that thing 11 times because I might need it someday.  Out went the jello molds.  I don’t even like jello.  Out went the bedspread that made me frown every time I crawled into bed.  Out went the George Foreman grill that my son, now known as Chef Boy ‘R Mine, would be embarrassed about.  He gave it to me for Christmas one year.  I didn’t use it but kept it for sentimental reasons.   Now that he’s into haute cuisine, I was able to keep the memory and KO George without hurt feelings.  I did keep, and still treasure, the old Campbell’s soup can transformed into a pencil holder through the application of bits of tissue paper, glitter, and glue by Chef Boy ‘R Mine when he was a first-grader.
 
The hurt feeling thing’s a complicated issue.  We’ve all got that stuff hanging around that we don’t like, don’t want, don’t use, but can’t get rid of because Great Aunt Gertrude will ask, on her next visit, “Where’s the plastic canvas needlepoint tissue holder I gave you last year?”  I don’t have an answer to that except to say that I’m getting old enough now that the Great Aunt Gertrudes of my life are so old that visits involve my going to a personal care facility or seances.  As for friends and their gifts, we’ve all seemed to reach this developmental stage at roughly the same time.  And I do think it’s a developmental stage – at least for women.  It seems to begin when the kids (or husbands) start leaving home.  After a suitable mourning (or celebratory) period, we put our hands on our hips, survey the kingdom, and announce to ourselves “Well, that can go.”   Sometimes it begins when we trip over the stupid cement goose that’s still decorated for Easter on the Fourth of July for the 85th time that day.  (Not that I’ve ever owned a cement goose, but I know people.)  I have a friend who every time someone brings something into her house, she makes them take something out.  (I tried to take the candelabra that hangs over her dining room table, but evidently, not everything in her house is up for grabs.)
 
Once I got going on giving and pitching, I decided to continue until every single thing in my 2400 sq. ft. of home was here because I love it or use it.  I was making great progress until I hit the Closets-I-Am-Afraid-Of.
 
When the barn was being remodeled, we built a closet 16 x 8 to compensate for not having an attic, basement or barn.  We knew it was woefully inadequate from the start, but it was better than nothing.  When that filled up, the coat/furnace closet was doubled in size.  By the time that filled up, I had hit the developmental stage.  I tackled the smaller coat closet early on, but a lot of the crap went into the other closet.  I am now terrified to even open the door.
 
I can’t progress much further until I conquer this fear.  There’s stuff in this house scattered about that I need or use, but am tired of tripping over that could go into that closet if the circa 1970 fan, algebra notebooks, broken lamps, cross stitch patterns, deflated basketball, threadbare sheets, egregious holiday ornaments, transistor radio, and other sheer junk was removed – not to mention the stuff that Has-Promise-And-I-Can-Do-Something-To-Which-Will-Involve-Great-Quantities-Of-Time-And-Effort-And-Money-That-I’m-Never-Going-To-Actually-Do.  And that’s just the crap i can see.  I haven’t seen the back of the closet since 1992.
 
If I ever do conquer that closet, I can start on the books – hundreds and hundreds of books.  I still have not one, but two copies of my high school trig textbook as well as tomes that I wouldn’t read a second time even on a dare.

School Supplies

/ wvfurandroot / 15 Comments

of course the chair is a tractor seat when you live in a barn

The chair is a tractor seat
when you live in a barn

Today is the first day of school for the public schools as well as for Marshall University.

I feel left out.

I was that kid that loved the first day of school. My enthusiasm would often wane after a few weeks, but the first day contains such promise. Adults rarely get that one day when everything is reset to zero and it all starts over.

My first day of school was always preceded by shopping for new clothes and school supplies. I was almost always more excited about the school supplies than the clothes.

On that first day of school, I would set out with a book bag (backpacks didn’t exist except for backpacking) loaded for every conceivable need whether it be writing my name or having to immediately produce a 700-page dissertation.

For most of my education the big box office supply stores didn’t exist – Kmart and the PX were the retailers I used most often. I would fairly swoon at the rows and stacks of notebooks and pens and rulers and pencil cases and erasers and Trapper Keepers and folders and notebook paper. I had a strong preference for the college-ruled notebooks and paper.. Even now, I can’t go into an office supply store without buying some “first day of school” item that I don’t need and probably won’t use. I have pointedly resisted getting an Office Depot credit card.

After leaving school, my passion for office supplies has been trumped by that for desks. I’m a desk junkie. I have three at home, two at the office and can’t get through a furniture store without looking at desks.

My desks are fully stocked with all the critical office supplies – pens, paper, journals, staplers, hole-punchers, calculators, tape dispensers, toys, souvenirs, essential oils, folders, binders, motivational materials, blank CDs and a coffee cup.

Oddly enough, I do all of my paperwork sitting on the sofa.