EAT. Don't let your food spoil...

“You might as well learn that a man who catches fish or shoots game has got to make it fit to eat before he sleeps. Otherwise it’s all a waste and a sin to take it if you can’t use it.” 

―Robert Ruark, The Old Man and the Boy 

Duck breast pre-grilling

Duck breast post-grilling
(with fresh sweet corn and green beans)

The changing of the seasons is always special.  Fall in particular.  Everything happens so abruptly. You wake up one morning, feeling like it was Memorial Day just a few days ago, but your tan lines are fading and you are sitting in that same part of town, behind the same darn school bus that was there in May.  Where did Summer go?!?

Behind the frustration, you manage a smile as you think of the next "warp-speed cycle of life" we call Fall.  In the back of your mind, you know the holiday seasons of Thanksgiving and Christmas will be here―with all their hustle and bustle―way too soon.  

If you live in the South and are privileged enough to have grown up with the obsession of college football, you take a large deep breath through the open window of your car hoping to smell freshly cut grass while driving by the recreation park or high school fields.  A deep breath in and ah...you think the word―Football.  And like God, at the end of each day of creation, you smile, as you tuck away your last thoughts of Summer saying to yourself, “And it was good.”

Fall means many things to many people.  In my family, fall was the time of year that those funny looking clothes were pulled out of old trash bags with baking soda sprinkled in them (to keep them from absorbing the cleanly smell my Mother had permeated into every part of our house).  The shotguns and rifles and were cleaned to a shine.  Hair dryers and snow-seal were pulled out to weather proof hunting boots for yet another season.  And my Father would check to make sure I hadn’t outgrown last years hunting clothes.  (Back in the day it was awfully hard to find hunting clothes to fit a little girl).  

An early morning sunrise duck
hunting in a favorite spot with
one of my favorite people

I thank the Lord for She Safari and the advances in hunting gear in general.  I have learned three things about myself through hunting that are very important when it comes to gear.  1) I can do cold 2) I can do wet. 3) I cannot do both.  

Often when I was a child I was frequently both. There wasn’t a “knock-off version” of gortex back then.  A decent hunting jacket was expensive and I would have lost it or outgrown it before the expense could be justified. So when it rained, I got wet. I used an old fashion camouflage poncho that would blow and flap in the wind like a flashing sign that read “HUMAN SITTING HERE!"  It would often let in more rain than it would keep out.  Not to mention the temperature would rise to 104 degrees underneath it. 

Cold feet were what I discovered made me really miserable. Most of the time, I had to decide between cold or numb because my socks were limited to big and bulky wool ones.  So if I chose to double layer them they ended up getting stuffed into my boots so tightly I couldn't wiggle my toes and they would go numb but stay relatively warm.  If it was cold and I did a single layer, I could wiggle my toes but my feet would freeze.  I usually chose numb. These days, I thank God every time I slap on my "ToastiToes" (like Scarlett O'hare saying "As God as my witness, I'll never go hungry again!") and I say, "My feet will never be cold again!"

As a child, my feet were not my only problem. My pants weren't much better either. I wore a pair of thick oversized corduroy pants that were usually layered over sweatpants.  Due to the bulky under layer of sweatpants the corduroy made a “zip―zip” noise as I walked. The only way to walk quietly and prevent myself from being heard by the game I was hunting required walking with extreme bow-leggedism (if I may invent a word).  I’m surprised this did not create a permanent Forest Gump-like gait deformity as much as I did it.  I can't imagine what I looked like doing this.  With the sweatpants and the bow-legged mambo thing going on I must have looked like a very weird cross between the Michelin tire man and Elvis walking in the woods.  It's truly a wonder that I ever shot a deer.

Now as I have gotten older, I have moved away from deer hunting. I still enjoy eating the meat immensely.  I simply prefer to focus my passion on game that possesses feathers or scales because I love EATING these things too.  All of these pursuits (both in harvesting, cooking, and eating them) are in one way or another inherited loves from my father.  It is impossible for me to engage in these activities without thinking of him or feeling like a part of him is there with me.  I can say that many of the “life lessons” I have learned from my Father have been extrapolated from the basic lessons that came with hunting and fishing.

For instance, as my "title quote" suggests, one of the Cardinal sins a sportsman can commit is to let their bounty spoil.  I learned very early that if it took until midnight to find a “downed” animal―that is how long we would look for it.  It didn’t matter if I was hungry, or cold, or wet, or both.  It was not acceptable to take another life without making good use of it.  If it took tracking dogs and the efforts of every other hunter at the club that night, that is what happened (along with a great deal of harassment to the shooter about learning how to shoot better).  
I have also stayed up heading shrimp and freezing them or scaling fish to the wee hours of the morning too many times to count.

I took this picture and sent it to my
brother-in-law making fun of how
long it took my Dad to "bait up" and
start fishing...FOREVER!

A friend took this one of me
doing the same thing (for
about as long) just a few
weeks later

In the process of learning that lesson, my Father exposed me to a host of other lessons:  Persistence is necessary to finish any task in life; Be prepared for anything at anytime (hence the assortment of paraphernalia that stays in my truck); Do not waste things (especially food); It is wise to wait for the right moment to pull the trigger or to pass up the shot if you don’t have a good one (yes, in life, not just from the blind); Always have good friends to call when you need help; You are responsible for your own actions. 

That last lesson―being the most important one.  

Ruark had two great lines about being responsible for your actions in particular... “You always got to remember that when the gun is loaded it makes a potential killer out of the man that’s handling it.” AND  “Any time a boy is ready to learn about guns is the time he’s ready, no matter how young he is, and you can’t start too young to learn how to be careful.” ―Robert Ruark, The Old Man and the Boy 

Papa and Me--first time shooting a gun.

I think hunting was the first place I felt the responsibility for my life and others around me.  My Dad told me as many stories as he could about other people's accidents to increase my sense of responsibility for my safety and those around me. The seriousness and expectations that came with handling a gun were not taken lightly, and to feel that burden at a young age was a very good thing in my opinion. Later in life, I think it made it easier to recognize that same expectation of responsibility when my Father spoke in a similar tone.  Most notably as a fifteen year old when he said,  “That car is just as dangerous as a loaded gun.”  And with the way I drove (back then) he had no idea how right he was―or maybe he knew exactly how right he was....

With fall hunting came more than lessons of responsibility―there was also tradition.

My dove hunting partner, Duke!

Fall hunting (and fishing) brings order back into the world of the sportsman like the rhythm of a pendulum on a grandfather clock.  It's predicability and occurrence is ordered like the tides of the ocean. Tick-tock...It will come and go yet another year. Tick-tock...The birds will fly south once again.  Tick-tock...The deer will go through another rut. 

Tick-tock...The tradition of fathers and sons (and daughters too)  and early morning sunrises over familiar tall trees will come and go yet another year.  Tick-tock...Labor Day hunts with doves and dumplings and scuppernong hulls tossed on the ground around the tailgate of a truck will come and go.  Tick-tock...The tradition of Thanksgiving week duck hunts over water holes that had hours of sweat poured into them over the summer will come and go. Tick-tock...The tradition of bonfires and oysters and beer at cabins in the woods will come again another year.  

That is Fall.  We will harvest our game.  And we will eat it.  And we will say, "it was good."

I am going home this weekend for the first time since leaving home and (excepting a weekend in October for one football game) quite possibly the last time for a while.  So here's to one of life's best traditions...coming home to those you love...and to those who have taught you so much.

My home...Southern Comfort Farm

Pray: An unexpected gift

"I've been to church; I've read the book; I know He's here but I don't look near as often as I should.  Yeah I know I should.  His fingerprints are everywhere; I just slowed down to stop and stare; Opened my eyes and man I swear, I saw God today"  ---George Strait

I have always loved the George Strait song “I Saw God Today.”  I think it is a great way to simplify how God works in our lives.  He can give us the gift of one tiny flower blooming up through the concrete in a sidewalk (where it has no business being) and we are touched by the thought that He put it there “for us.”  

Not everyone sees things from this point of view.  I think that is okay.  But I had a compelling case for seeing God in a daily occurrence just yesterday.

I was walking in to an assisted living facility to see my last two patients of the day when I heard something up and off to my left.  I looked up at the ceiling on the open porch and there was a hummingbird franticly trying to free itself.  It could not figure out that the six inch overhang of wood surrounding the porch ceiling was the only thing keeping it stuck there.  All he had to do was fly down six inches first and he would be free.  Instead, he was fixated on a light fixture in the middle of the porch ceiling--convinced this was the exit.  I had seen a hummingbird stuck like this before on a friends porch who knew more about them than me.  And she said every now and then this “would happen” and the hummingbird would often die if she wasn’t at home to free it by gently pushing it free with a broom.  The hummingbirds fast metabolism requires that it eat about every two hours under normal circumstances (but under the stress of being trapped they would only last about an hour).

Right about the time I was pondering this situation a man in his fifties hurriedly walked out of the main door.  I said to him, “Hey, do you know where I can get a broom to help free this bird?”

“Yeah, he’s been stuck there for almost an hour,” the man said.

“Thanks for noticing buddy,” I thought to myself. 

“But there he comes, right now!” the guy said and pointed.  I turned around to my right (in the direction he pointed) and sure enough the little bird was fluttering to the ground.  “Oh no!” I thought.  

It was like watching one of the Jetson’s cars sputter and run out of gas.  For the first time in my life I could actually see the wingbeat of a hummingbird (they were moving so slowly) as he softly landed on the ground.  I immediately dropped my bags and scooped the bird up--just incase he tried to fly again--I didn’t want him to fly right back up into the same situation. 

He did not try to fly though.  He lay in my cupped hands without moving at all.  I was so upset.  “This little bird is going to die right here in my hands,” I thought to myself.  

Thinking that was his fate, I walked out to the lawn near the hedges that surround the building where I could lay the little bird down under a bush or something.  Something was very special about knowing I was holding a hummingbird that made me want to hold onto him a little longer.  I was wishing there was some kind of “bird CPR” I could do to him.  However, I knew what he needed was food and I had no means to give him any.

My hand was cupped but open.  He could fly away if he was able.  But for five minutes he just sat there in my hand.  He blinked every now and again but no other effort to move.  I was still hoping.  I wasn’t ready to give up on him, and seeing how aggressively hummingbirds fight over food at feeders I was convinced that he could muster up some strength from somewhere.  So in one last ditch effort to coax him to try, I began to “stimulate his feet.”  You know how when you push on the front of a parakete or other “house bird’s” feet they seem to automatically pick them up and perch on your finger?  I was hoping there was some sort of "perching reflex" I could stimulate by doing this.  (This was digging DEEP back into the neuroscience classes of PT school for Lucy).  I couldn’t believe it!  It was working.  The little bird began to open and close his feet and I felt him go from being “dead weight” in my hand to feeling more rigid and alert.  He picked his head up.  He came to full perch even!  He looked straight ahead just sitting in my hand, still resting for about two minutes like that.  

Then he turned his head back toward me one last time.  I saw him blink. And he flew off. 

I went in and treated my patients and told one of them (the one who was in her right mind) the story and showed her the pictures I had snapped off while holding him. I loved what she said, “Well, you rehabilitated more than just humans today.”

I guess I did.  And THAT was an unexpected gift from God.  I saw God today for sure.

WORK.

“Only people who are capable of loving strongly can also suffer great sorrow, but this same necessity of loving serves to counteract their grief and heals them.” ― Leo Tolstoy

I haven’t blogged about WORK yet...Not really.

Friday I treated a woman who was “status-post stroke.”  It was a massive stroke.  And trust me, that term, “massive stroke” is right up there with the term “cancer.”  The situation is not good when you hear a doctor utter those words.

The woman I saw Friday looked at me very early in the visit, with honest eyes, and said, “I am just done with all of this.” I knew what she meant and had heard that “white flag of surrender” tone before.  But to be sure I asked her to explain what she was talking about.  She was “ready to die” she went on to say.  “I can’t eat or swallow, I am a silent aspirator (which means she will get pneumonia easily), I’m in diapers, I can’t walk, and I am in pain all of the time.”

This is the hard part of my job.  What do you say to that?

After some gentle conversation that centered around assessing her depression scale (which turned out to be low), it was obvious that even though the impairments she had listed out were depressing, she was not depressed.  She was just ready to die.  She was totally at peace that her body had been robbed of all of it’s function, and after a year and a half of fighting to get it back--unsuccessfully--she was just done.  She was proud that she had “fought a good fight” for as long as she had.  But she was ready to take the “next train home,” she said.

My job deals with this decision frequently.  More specifically...this question: “when is time to stop fighting?”  It is a very hard choice to decide to die.  Our minds don’t handle it well, sometimes--even when our bodies are ready.

In response to my patient on Friday, I could only think of one thing to tell her to console her in the bowing of her head in defeat.  I told her my story...which is not really “my story”--but a story about how someone else’s misfortune can lead to something good for someone else. I told her about how I ended up being a physical therapist.  It was the only thing I could think to tell her to help make sense of everything she was feeling in that moment.

The story starts like this...

“Let me tell you about the worst stroke I have ever seen,” I said.  

“Worse than mine?!?!?” the patient questioned with anger and suspicion. 

“Much worse,” I answered.

One of my best friend’s grandmother had a “massive stroke” my Freshman year of college.  I was doing very poorly in school and struggling on multiple levels.  I had no direction. No drive. No God. No dream. No purpose.  

Then, one evening, a phone call came from the family going through this nightmare from the Mother of my friend (her Mother was the one who had the stroke).  “Lucy, you have to come see this place (HealthSouth) and these people (the therapist)!”  “You were born to do this...”

So I went to HealthSouth to see for myself.  I remember the moment I knew my friend’s Mother was right.  I was watching a girl (about my age) who had sustained a spinal cord injury and lost the use of her legs learn to get her sitting balance again.  There was a moment I witnessed that was like watching someone teach a child to ride a bike for the first time.  The therapist held onto the girl until the last possible moment, withdrawing her support as slowly as she could.  When the PT knew the patient was ready, she let go of her.  The patient balanced on her own for a few seconds before she even realized that she was doing it on her own.  Then the patient realized the success and believed. The therapist knew the patient could do it, but she had to teach and support the patient in a way that allowed the patient to learn at her speed.  That was the only way to get the girl to believe she could do what was being asked of her.

Well, I was hooked.  It was the coolest combination of coaching and teaching that I had ever seen.  

In the next three years I figured out a lot about myself.  First and foremost, that I was horrible at physics--but that part of the journey is for another blog.

I got into PT school.  And more importantly, I was able to look at the woman on Friday and tell her what I was able to tell my friend’s grandmother before she died: “Your suffering was not in vane...it led me to my dream job, deepened my faith, and it taught me to fight.”

After I finished “my story,” I told my patient, “Maybe your life since your stroke has had a profound impact on someone too...and even if you don’t know for sure that it has, I would bet you will know one day.”  

It’s hard to see the silver lining in our hardship in that way, but I think it is important to recognize that the way we go through our troubles can have a profoundly positive impact on those around us.  I thank God everyday that my job forces me to keep a realistic perspective on what is important in life. Watching my patients struggle and overcome the basic hurdles of being able to walk and toilet for themselves without assistance makes it easier to not complain about a flat tire, or the fatigue of a short nights sleep, or an expensive grocery bill.  

People tell me all the time during work--“you must have to be so patient to be a therapist.”  Haha!  Anyone that knows me knows darn well I am not patient at all.  What I DO have is good perspective.  

There is a scene from the 1980 classic “Oh God!” (and I think it was “Oh God: Book 2”) where George Burns plays the character of God.  In it, God responds to a little girl named Tracy’s questions.  She asks God, ‘Why do bad things happen?”  His response was so simple it baffles me: “I kept trying to make a world with just the good but it wouldn’t work.  I couldn’t have the light without the dark, the heat without the cold, or the bad with out the good,” God says.  

And as a therapist I have learned you can’t have strength without struggle.

I will conclude with the thought on loss (the Tolstoy Quote).  My patient will soon get her wish, I have no doubt.  She will die...she is ready...and that is okay.  The two hardest fights we ever face in this world are likely birth and death.  If we could remember our birth, I’m sure we would recall being squeezed through an opening that small, being hit with a 30 degree temperature drop with no clothes on, and breathing air for the first time as a traumatic experience.  

So why should it surprise us that exiting this world is any harder than entering it?  

As for my patient, I hope she leaves behind a legacy to those that have loved her here on earth. They have watched her “fight the good fight” and that is where their strength will come from when is is their time to do the same thing.  Just like my grandparents showed me (and others I have loved and lost)--there is a way to fight with grace and honor.  And when that battle is won, it leaves behind a legacy where the sorrow that follows the loss is healed by the same love that causes us to grieve losing them in the first place. 

Saturday was a dear friend’s Birthday.  She would have been 36 years old if she was here to celebrate it.  I know that my grief for her is healed by the same love that respects how bravely she fought--very much in the same way my patients do.

I think Tolstoy was right.  Sorrow isn’t fun.  But love, though it causes the sorrow, can heal us.  And healing is good thing.

The Sheep behind my parking space...

...have good perspective. Much like...

...my happy cows.

If you are enjoying this Blog, you may enjoy my friend Will’s too.  

Check it out at: http://www.lifeartistwill.blogspot.com 

MY HAPPY COWS-- "Life Simplified"

I never saw a wild thing 

sorry for itself.

A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough 

without ever having felt sorry for itself.

--D.H. Lawrence

Lots of people have asked how I like Winchester, VA.  It is a great town.  In general, I have tried to explore and take advantage of some of the arts and history here. I went to the awesome little downtown area of Winchester last weekend to listen to Bill Emerson play the banjo on the Old Court House steps.  It was bluegrass music at its best.  Relaxing with a beer and good company made for a perfect evening.

Bill Emerson at the Old Court House in downtown Winchester

For someone who skipped American History (a glitch in curriculum by changing schools in high school), I know so little about the Civil War.  My grandfather, Arthur (who was a huge Civil War historian) would be very disappointed in this.  However, I am making good strides to “catch up” here in Virginia.  Mostly because there is a battlefield about every half mile where I can stop and read a little page right out of American history.  I have tried to stop and read the plaques as much as possible during the day.  

Civil War battlefield near White Post, VA

When I’m staring out over these beautiful Virginia fields, it’s hard to imagine the gruesome sights and sounds that must have occurred as men fought and died in these places.  The fields are so “at rest” now.   Most are full of wildflowers and butterflies dancing together.  Almost like the flowers and butterflies are the souls from the past shaking hands in acknowledgement of their wrongs.  One of the main reasons we are supposed to study (and appreciate) our History is so we can learn from our mistakes.  We are charged to do the same in our own lives no doubt--not just as a nation.

Beautiful barn just to left of a Virginia battlefield site

With that difficult thought in mind,  I present a most unsuspecting guide for doing so.  My “happy cows.”  

Note the little calf nursing underneath her...

Cows are some of the happiest creatures I have ever seen.  In general, doing Home Health over the past three and half years from the countryside of Camden to where I am now, I have passed LOTS of cows.  I also pass deer, horses, groundhogs, rabbits, birds and I have even seen one Black bear since getting to Virginia (he was too fast for a picture!).  

Mr. Groundhog

Buck in full velvet

Little Bambi

But all in all, it's the cows that really baffle me with their apparent level of contentment.  Most of the ones in Virginia are not dairy cows.  So that leaves...well...steak.  These cows however, are as content as any creature in the world with just a few conditions.  Their needs include: the safety of their pasture, grass to graze on (occasionally supplemented by hay), and a cool place to stand when the sun gets hot (the cows below even get two choices...shade or pond).  Every time I drive by the ones standing in the pond, their little faces all stretched out as they stand there soaking up life, I think about how content they look.  It’s in their eyes, in their walk, in the way they nuzzle each other, in the way they care for their young...even in the way they don’t look annoyed by twitching their little ears every three seconds to keep the flies away.  

They are totally happy and the negativity that may eventually be their fate does not influence their “today.”  As my quote for the day says, a wild thing never feels sorry for itself.  Today is just good to a cow.  A little grass, a little breeze, a shady spot on the Virginia country side--“life simplified.”  There is no need to worry about what may come.  And certainly no need to feel sorry for oneself.

Happy Cows soaking

I guess the lesson from my Happy Cows is this: Even though the cows bliss may (in part) be due to the lack of knowledge regarding their future--a luxury that does not come with being human--“life simplified” is possible for us too.  Though it’s easier said than done, worrying about what may come is not going to change our future one bit.  Self-pity, self-loathing, and low self-esteem over our woes in life won't help us surmount them. 

LET. IT. GO.

“If you want something you’ve never had, you must be willing to do something you’ve never done.” ― Thomas Jefferson

One of the most common things I’ve heard so far from friends inquiring about my travels is how lucky I am to be able to have a chance to do what I am doing. 

It is true--I am. 

However, while I was on the phone with one of my dear friends today, I was quick to point out that there is a WHOLE lot I have given up to do this. For instance, I am missing my Father’s 70th birthday and a family vacation at Pawley’s Island this week. I hate that.

I have no stability in my life at all.  I won't know where I am going next until about 4 weeks before I go.  As soon as I get settled in one place, it will be off to the next place.  I miss those that I love "back home" quite a lot--and often...and pretty soon here, I will be a plane ride away from all of them.  I have to empty my own sewage, take my own trash, I have no permanent mailing address, I can only keep about 3 days of fresh food on hand, and it cost me almost $10.00 dollars every time I do laundry cause the darn dryers won't dry my clothes fully if I don't spread my clothes out into very small groups.

I think it comes down to this: I am sacrificing time with those I love for memories and experiences that will help me love them, myself, and life even more. I know I will “win some” and “lose some” in choosing to do this.  There is no doubt in my mind that, right now, I am where I am supposed to be.

Smallmouth in Roanoke

In the last two weeks, I have enjoyed an incredible weekend down in Roanoke (last weekend) fishing for smallmouth bass. I took a day hike to Natural Bridge while I was in Roanoke. This past Saturday night, good company and good food were on the menu as I ate a steak cooked to pure perfection off the open fire here at the camp ground and followed it with an old fashion s’more. Sunday, I got out to Polo for my third lesson.

Working on the "off side" approach

So I can’t feel all that deprived right now...no matter what I think I’ve given up to do this. 

One point discussed with my friend was how lucky I am NOT to have to give up my job as I travel!  I am still a therapist.  I love that part of me.  It’s the “take something that’s broken and rebuild it” part of me. The “fix it” part of me.  

All too often the “fix it” part of me spills over into the “can’t let it go” part of me. 

The little "picker"

When I was little (and to some degree now), I was a picker.  If my flesh was wounded, something about that scab seemed to get in the way of the healing process.  It was dry, dead skin and it needed to be replaced with good tissue.  So it just felt right to pull it off.  

Ironically enough, what I learned later as I became certified in Wound Care as a PT was that--though my instincts were right (a dry scab does prevent healing to some degree)--nine times out of ten the answer was not to meddle with it and pull it off.  The answer was to soften the scab so the wound bed could rise up from underneath.  

I think I’m learning that the answer for healing in our lives is often just the same.  We don’t need to meddle--it’s simply that we have to change our environment to allow for healing. We must allow our hard, dry situations to soften.  And more often than not, this simply takes time.  Letting the sun go up and go down one more day...and then another...and then another...well, this is not always easy.

My Mother has a friend that she says is very good at “floating” when life requires it.  Floating is not my style (nor my Mother’s).  We are paddlers. We like to direct our own path and hurry up and get there.  

However, the river of life can sometimes take you to a much better place if you float (not paddle). And if you fall out of your boat always follow river rule #1: Keep your toes up and your feet pointed down stream.  NEVER break the most dangerous river rule of trying to stand up when it comes to the river of life.  You have to keep moving or you will surely drown.  

And so... “if you want something you’ve never had, you must be willing to do something you’ve never done.”  

Well, there is a lot I’ve never done. But for today: Here’s to learning how to float.

Floating...

Technical Difficulties and Such

The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes.
—Marcel Proust

First of all, I appreciate those of you who are following this adventure and all your comments.  A lot has happened since the last post that I haven't been able to write about because of "technical difficulties" with the old site.  I still have no idea what happened, but I can't post or edit from dashboard to the old site.  So this will have to be the new link.  

I'll do a big catch up blog tonight!  Thanks for following me over to the NEW Eat. Pray. Love. Work. (take two) site!

Lucy

OLD POST FROM OTHER SITE

Here are the previous ones (minus the pictures...I will try to put them back in later).

Courage

“Courage is being scared to death, but saddling up anyway.” John Wayne.

In all honesty...I am scared to death of all that is before me.

My Virginia PT license was in slight jeopardy of not being pushed through on Thursday afternoon and the heat, coupled with pushing too hard to get ready to go (not enough sleep), had me in bed for a lot of the day on Thursday.  So getting packed up and leaving by 9:30 am Saturday seemed impossible when faced with the final word from Deltaflex on Friday that my license had cleared through.   I was to be there Monday, or start week after next.  

Well, I had no choice...I couldn’t wait 11 days to start work.  So I called in for reinforcements.  There were only a few people I could call that could clean to my standards, stay up all night, and work tirelessly until I was ready to leave.  Luckily, the first one I tried, in this very uncharacteristic call for help, came to my rescue.   That would be Margaret Ellen.

Through some miracle of fate all of my important belongs got packed up and loaded onto Fran.  There was only a brief three hour nap taken by the crew, and, somehow, we managed to launch Fran as scheduled by 9:30 Saturday am.  

There was just one stop on the way up because I was scared I was going to miss getting to Candy Hill Camp ground by the 7 pm deadline (when the office would close).  I knew I would need help getting set-up and didn’t want to do it for the first time in the dark without assistance!

Pit Stop

Fran and I drove through our first thunderstorm and came out on the other side with a wonderful gift.  A full rainbow was clear across the sky out my right window and I could not help but marvel at the symbolism of such an event.

I made it to Candy Hill before 7 pm (with 15 minutes to spare...) and a wonderful man name Starr helped hook me up.  He showed me the ropes of electric hook-up and as we moved on to the water hookup he said, “Where is your water hose?”  

“Oh my...,”  I said...oops!  Yes I forgot to get that before I left.  

No worries...there was a Walmart 0.10 miles from the entrance to Candy Hill.  

“Ok, what else do I need.”  

After reviewing toilet function, gray and black water (if you don’t know the difference, you don’t want to know), I ran to Wally World to get a drinking hose.  I returned about 9:30 pm with the hose and toilet treatment system chemical. Then I began the daunting task of unpacking.  I unpacked and stowed and rearranged until about 2 am.  I had figured out that for some reason A) my auto leveling system would not work where I was parked and B) that my hot water heater was not working.  

So after a COLD shower the first night I fell into bed exhausted.  Other than the cold shower, I smiled as I drifted off to sleep that first night and I thought, “I’m doing great considering I have no idea what I am doing.”

Home Sweet Home

The next day I organized and unpacked all day.  I read the manual about a 100 times regarding hot water function and the leveling system but to no avail.  I could not figure it out.  Starr came back by to check on me around 4 pm and between the “two of us” figured out that my hot water gas had not been turned on at the source yet (since Fran was so new).  I felt as blonde as I have ever felt.

Off to work Monday and hoping my problem solving skills will improve with some rest.

The Site

07-18-12

A New Start.

The richest man is not he who has the most, but he who needs the least.

--unknown

Well, I do believe I have whittled things down to an interesting version of the bare necessities.  I have gas for cooking.  I have power for air conditioning.  No cable (and even the antenna TV doesn’t work that well from my new site--so essentially no TV...except for some weird, obscure Dutch cooking show channel).  No ability to store more than this  weeks provisions.  No mailbox. No garbage pick up.  No home address.  Just me, Duke, Murphy, and Domino.  

I have two bowls. Two plates. One coffee mug. 4 spoons, forks, and knives.

I have DO have a lot of clothes still...though (and this is not a slight to Columbia) after the realization that attending Columbia weddings was not a condition of my wardrobe anymore I was able to knock my total load way down.  

I feel like the verse “give us this day our daily bread” is very applicable.  I cannot store up more than what will feed my immediate needs.  Fran has forced me to realize what I can live without because I cannot carry more than what is absolutely necessary.  Okay, maybe my saddle, fishing rods, surf boards, 11 different hats and 2 shotguns weren’t “absolutely necessary,” but I did leave a few things at home...and one must match her hats to her outfit!

So yes, I’m technically “roughing it.”  But in some ways I’m actually in a more civilized setting than I was before.  I have to clean up after Duke--who seems to have forgotten that I once did this with him in Charleston and is mortified by the process.  I am only 0.15 miles from a Walmart. And I have access to a killer gym here.  I forgot what it was nice to workout in a state-of-the-art facility like the one I have access to now.  

"Is this necessary?"

I have successfully organized a “get to know your neighbors” gathering for Friday evening...just drinks and I plan to do some light appetizers.  

This involves the following of my direct neighbors.  First of all (enjoy the humor here), my direct neighbors to the left are Tom and Bruce.  I met Bruce out walking Duke. He was walking two chocolate labs (one of which looks like a bear and reminds me of my Aunt and Uncle's old Lab named Lucy).  When I moved to the new space and realized we would be direct neighbors we started talking about the dogs getting to know each other even better which progressed to, “What do you do for a living?”  

“I’m a traveling physical therapist.”

“I’m an occupational therapist!!!” Bruce says.  “That's my partner, Tom, coming back now”  

“Your partner....really?  That’s funny...”  It just got funnier and funnier from there.

Later, as I am talking with them both, the male chocolate lab starts barking from inside the Motorhome and Bruce bangs on the outside wall and says, “Duke--be quiet!” 

“Really!?!?  Your dog’s name is Duke?”  This is weird now.  

Shenandoah River

To my direct right are Doug and Sharon.  I haven’t talked to them as much but they are very sweet and nice.  Both in their early 60’s.

One camper down from them is Robert.  He builds the really big towers that hold power lines way up in the air and almost look like cell phone towers.  His wife and two kids are only 4 hours away.  The long hours with specific projects make it necessary for him to be able to “go to the work,” so he is used to this kind of life (being away from his family a lot).  We are the only two “long-term” campers here under 50 years old and I was thankful to be able to just chill and have a beer with him today after work and workout.

Otherwise, work is great.  My job will be almost identical to what I was doing in Camden.  My preceptor, Bryan (field trainer), is funny and easy going.  I shadowed him this afternoon and will again tomorrow all day.  This area of Virginia is just beautiful.  I will be riding around the Shenandoah River area for work and it really is beautiful and amazing scenery.  I can’t wait to see it in the fall.  

Hooked. Period. The End.

“Playing polo is like trying to play golf during an earthquake.” --Sylvester Stallone

I came to Virginia largely because of one connection and to do primarily two things with my “free time.”  One, fish for smallmouth bass.  Two, to learn how to play polo.

Matt Lattanze is an old friend from the Heathwood Hall days, and I hadn’t seen him in about 20 years until today.  Matt and I reconnected on Facebook (of course) and upon perusing his pictures I realized we were both riding.  Eventually, as I started to formulate my plans as a traveler, the notion to go spend some time playing polo up where he lived was discussed.  I promised Matt not to be too much trouble (if Dr Phil was reading this he would interject to Matt, “How’s that workin’ for ya?”), and I hope I will hold true to that promise!  

Long and short of it was--this  is why I came here.  I asked my wonderful recruiter at DeltaFlex (Will) to put me as close to Middleberg/Upperville, VA as he could.  Will probably did better than he realized.  I am only 35 minutes away from Virginia International Polo Park in Upperville.

So this is how the day went:

First, Matt touches base with me the night before and tells me I need to be on time.  “Oh Lord!” I think to myself... “Does Matt realize this is not possible with me?”

He has no idea how brilliant he sounds when he says, “Just to be safe, why don’t we meet at 9:30.”  (The lesson started at 10:00).  I was only 10 minutes late.  Voila! Someone has figured out how to get me to show up on-time! 

Part of the reason I was 10 minutes late was because the drive out to the barn was one of the most magnificent and beautiful drives I have ever taken. I kept slowing down to look at the scenery.  Everything is so green right now because of all the rain we’ve had. And the mountains, capped this morning with puffy fog clouds, looked like it must look from the inside of a pill bottle before the cotton has been removed. Mile after mile of stone walls unfolded as the hills rolled on.  I wanted so bad to stop and snap a picture of one straight down its line.  The closer I got to Upperville, the more “horsey” it got.  

How do you hold this thing?

I found Virginia International Polo Park (or VIP for short) with ease thanks to good directions from Matt the night before.  I had seen pictures on the website, but there are just some things that picture’s can’t capture or do justice.  Mountain scenery is certainly one of them.  It doesn’t matter how good your brand new Camera is.  I did buy one this weekend...a nice Nikon D-series.  More on that later...

So VIP is “full service” barn.  Which means when it was time to start Polo School my horse was handed to me all tack up and ready to go.  I was on a sweet bay mare named 7up.  Trusting she knew more than me, I let her lead the way out the practice field.  First things first...”how do you hold this thing?”

“That would be the mallet.”  Like every sport involving a ball, the object that you use to hit it is designed to hit that specific ball.  The mallet had an angle to it that allowed it to pass over the grass more easily--but only if you were holding it correctly.  Another important bit of information that was passed on in that early conversation was how to hold the mallet when it was not in use.  Like clowns in the circus balance a bunch of hammers on all their fingers, the weight of the mallet had a balance point where it felt almost weightless in your hand (held on the vertical).   

Matt was kind and patient the entire time we were out there.  He followed me around after the initial instruction was given by Juan, who was from Chile, and gave me additional pointers on weight-shift’s in the saddle and how to take a few more swings than the initial one that Juan instructed us on. We discussed some of the “rules of play” as well. It sounded complicated.  Stuff about not crossing the lines of other peoples shots.  Matt demonstrated what a severe foul  looked like (in slow motion)--basically saying you couldn’t use your horse to “T-bone” another horse/rider. He tried his best to make me take it slowly--bless his heart.  But some very nice compliments on me being a fast learner and my love of going fast on a horse coupled to have me taking shots at the trot in no time at all.

I’m thinking to myself, “My grandfather has the biggest smile on his face in heaven right now...”  And, “I was born to play this game.”  

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It was like the day I figured out being a physical therapist was the perfect combination of coaching and teaching (which was what I thought I wanted to do up until then--teach and coach in high school).  Playing polo today took one love, riding, and combined it with another, my love of team sports.  

Thank you Matt...I have successfully been injected with the “crack” of horseback riding--Polo.  

I can’t say he didn’t warn me.  He did.

About then, Juan blows the whistle to signify we are going to have a little scrimmage.  I think it took less than 2 minutes for me to get called for a foul for cutting someone off (was a lesser version of the T-boning thing Matt had told me not to do).  Oops!  I apologized for my infraction, happy that I could fall back on ignorance for a second. But when I did I heard my Father’s voice in my head, “Ignorance is no defense for breaking the law,” and I made it a point to really get the rule explained before moving on with further play.  

We played for what seemed like a good little while (45 minutes or so).  I was tired and sweating by the end but thirsty for more.  My pony had been a love.  She did everything I asked of her (and a few things I did not ask of her).  I was amazed at how much the ponies where “aware” of the game and the ball during play.  I would start her on our way one direction (like on a long shot) and she clearly would see the ball and pick up to gallop without my asking for that much speed knowing she (and therefore “we”) would be well-served to beat everyone else to the ball.  She was fast and agile, surefooted and well-behaved.  

I hugged Matt after the lesson and couldn’t contained my enthusiasm after dismounting.  He smiled with the pride that any teacher would when they see a flame of passion lit inside someone for the first time.  He was gracious in his compliments of my first effort and landed the “quote of the day” when he said, “You blew my mind but we gotta work on the rules a little bit.”  My family howled in laughter as I shared that one with them.

(to be continued...)