Coasting

When the link is available I'll connect this to my latest column on the subject of "Coasting."

Coasting is what we do in these hot summer months I think.  I know it is what I am doing.  Peter always said that he "estivated" in the summer.  Look it up - it is the same thing as hibernate except in the hot season.  I especially love the definition because it uses the word "torpor."  What a great word!

es·ti·vate

ˈestəˌvāt/

verb

ZOOLOGY

1. (of an animal, particularly an insect, fish, or amphibian) spend a hot or dry period in a prolonged state of torpor or dormancy.

Jessie, Amanda and I met in May with Jay and Ebeth of the Shared Visions Foundation to get the ball rolling for the Down Yonder Fund for the Arts to which so many of you have contributed.  Events are happening already and the buildings are in use even though the official structure isn't in place.  That is coming and we will keep you posted.  However, July and August are looking rather busy!

If you're on the email list you'll be hearing from us.  If you're not and want to be, send an email to downyonderfarm@gmail.com and say "subscribe to email list."

In the mean time, the week after PeterFest was a busy one, with a house concert out here (a full house!) and a photography session the Saturday after PeterFest.  The photographer, Courtney Potter, generously shared the link to her blog with a lot of great pictures taken here on the farm (click on the link).

PHOTOS FROM THE FARM

Right now I am trying to plow through and discard lots of old files and finding that difficult most days.  For one thing, I am firmly planted with one foot in each of two worlds.  One is the world of paper files, and the other is, of course, the digital world.  I am a big fan of Google Documents.  I tend to misplace (seldom lose) papers but so far have not lost my computer and, with online files, someone else is in charge.  Still, I am attached to those papers.

However, the real difficulty is nostalgia.  Right now the file open on my desk is from Peter's construction of what we call "The Farmstead Building."  In there are all the receipts from Peter's raising of this building I am standing in...a roughly 22x24" wood-paneled, scissor-trussed building that has housed my various farm endeavors including a wool processing plant and now Farmstead Health Supply.  Our long-term handspinners group meets here once a month.

Most of the papers are receipts that can go, but they remind me of how hard Peter worked to erect this space and how much he loved doing it.  He loved to say that he had an "Edifice Complex" (say that quickly three times). He said he'd name his construction company "Don't Look Too Close Construction."  There are visible mistakes and Peter always said that he wouldn't live in anything he built, but everything is still standing after 24 years and though a storm is raging outside, I feel safe in here.  Thank you, Peter.

I love hearing your stories about Peter and will share those here (I need to ask permission from a few of you).  Peter has visited a few of you in your dreams and I love to hear those, so please keep sharing.  Meanwhile, Peter's sister Karen shared this yesterday, so I'll end with these good tales.

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I was thinking today about Peter and music.  As an older sister it certainly had its challenges.  When he was 8 or 9 someone had the bright idea of getting Peter a drum set.  For months there was not a moment of peace in the house as Peter banged on his drums as loudly as he could.

Several years later when he was about 13 or so he took a deeper interest in music and fell in love with rock n roll which he blasted on the radio.  Again, this reverberated through the house.  When I would ask him to turn it down because I had to do homework, he replied that of course he would adjust the volume.  Pesky younger brother....by "adjusting" he meant he would turn it up even louder.

Fast forward many years.  I was working on the Village film and found that I couldn't use a Bob Dylan song without paying tons of royalty.  I told Peter what I needed as a replacement.  It was harmonica music that would sound enough like Dylan that the audience would associate it with Dylan, but not too much like him that I would be sued.  Peter knew exactly what it should be and within 24 hours a disc arrived at my door.  The harmonica sound is in the film.

Just thoughts of the day

June 14th Chapel Hill Herald Column

Keeping Peter's Pond Weed-Free

Six Long-Short Months

At 1:54 this afternoon (Sunday, June 7th) the six-month anniversary of Peter's death rolled over the farm and through me as I sat on the dock of his beloved pond.  As an anniversary gift of sorts, I spent much of Saturday and Sunday clearing the pond of a noxious weed that threatens to invade the waters and choke off the swimming lane that Peter so faithfully traversed during each year's warm-enough months (and some that weren't).  

If you were at the memorial service you heard Taylor Ellerbee read the words of Peter's email about the pond:

My other favorite hang-out space is the pond. When I was looking for country property in 1978, the highest priority was a place where a pond could built. This came true after Susan came out here (and never left!) in 1981. The feeling of jumping in on a hot day and finding the cool below, or going in on an early spring or later fall day and drying out in a bright sun, is indescribable. Throw in a few dogs and it gets even better.

Scroll back through this blog and you'll see Jessie's stunning photographs of Peter's last "dunk" in the pond, on December 1st, 2014.  I thought about that day long and hard while I toiled at the pond's edge today.  At other times I could almost hear the familar splash of his  right arm against the water as he swam, and I thought about all the times I looked out from the house to see the ripples of his wake and know he was ok...especially after he got sick.

Our weed-eater has been broken and while waiting on a part to come in, the weeds have taken over both on the shore edge of the pond that I can't reach with the mower and in the water, where long red tendrils bearing bright green leaves reach urgently towards the center of the pond.  I know that the tall weeds and invading vines would worry Peter, so I tackled them this weekend.

In lieu of mechanization, I supposed that I could cut the weeds the old-fashioned way, with a swing blade.  But even with a new tool sporting sharp tempered cutting edges, I only lasted through about 40'  of thick grass before my arms gave out.  "But it's not an aerobic workout," Peter used to love to say about any exercise I did (to taunt me).  At one point I stopped and said out loud, "Peter, THIS is aerobic."

WEEDS, BEFORE

CLEAN SHORELINE - AFTER

SHORELINE GROWTH

 I relied on our dog, Shady, to be a scout as she traversed the water's edge ahead of me.  Hopefully she flushed out anything that might put me in harm's way (snakes and snapping turtles were on my mind).  I met quite a few water spiders, but always heading the opposite direction.  Fish and frogs plopped around me and once something large bumped my leg.  I will simply assume it was piscean.

SHADY ON PATROL

SHADY ON THE NEW SHORELINE

The red water-vines could be as thick as a finger and some reached 8 to 10 feet out into the water.  I used the fork to pull them towards me, then gathered them into a ball, much like you might gather the moving the legs of a small octopus.  Once contained into a mass both larger and heaver than a bowling all, I tossed it up onto the shore where, tomorrow, once it has dried a bit, I'll gather it all into the front-end loader and dump it where it can't find its way back into the pond.

Peter used to describe himself as a "swamp thang" when he did this job - working from a more prone position, belly down on the surface of the water.  I tried to maintain my footing, which was quite difficult bare-footed on sharp rocks.  Several times I let myself fall backwards into the pond when I lost my balance.

I realized as I worked that the plants and the vines at the water's edge have the intention to fill in the pond.  I could see where the vegetative life had, indeed, extended the shoreline inward, just as new growth at the edge of a field will gradually fill the field and turn it back into forest.  Peter complained about the shrinking lanes around the edges of our pastures.  I spent much time this winter cutting back that growth.  It occurred to me that this isn't any different--just wetter.

The work was easier today with proper footwear, but both afternoons I slogged back to the house feeling much like I did the first time I ran 10 miles all-at-once.  I decided that these 5-6 hours were worth logging on MapMyRun, because it was a workout, and it WAS cardio.  

Scrolling through the list of workout options, I chose "rowing" for the hours I spent pulling the weeds from their deep rooted homes along the shore, and I chose "kettle ball" for the remainder of the time that I hurled each gathered biomass up onto the dam above me.  My CrossFit friends would be proud.

In the future I'll probably schedule work-days to get help from the friends who use the farm and the pond.  Doing this work with a group of friends could be fast and fun, and I imagine a cook-out afterwards.  This weekend, though, the work alone was meditative and thoughtful.  It was at times sad and somber...missing Peter...and at other times joyful--recalling the building of the pond (dynamite was required) and all the times we'd spent there with family, friends, and dogs.

An old song came to mind...one that Peter and I both loved.  Written and sung by Laurie Lewis, it was on our "Sunday Morning" playlist.  The words seem especially poignant now, and as I slithered along the edge of the pond, feeling rather reptilian in my toil, I knew I was attempting to fill Peter's empty place.  I wonder who will fill mine when that day comes.

Have a listen:  Who Will Watch the Home Place - Laurie Lewis

Who will watch the home place
Who will tend my hearts dear space
Who will fill my empty place
When I am gone from here

The pond was many things for Peter, but primarily it was where he swam his daily laps faithfully, week after week, month into month, until the falling temperatures sent him, finally, to the SportsPlex in Hillsborough.  Near the end of his life a shoulder injury unrelated to his disease curtailed his swimming.  I honestly believe he'd have lived a little longer if he just could have kept logging those laps.

The last part of what Peter wrote to Taylor was this:

I tell friends that if they want to make me feel better, tell me that you're taking care of yourself through good nutrition but especially with exercise. 

Wherever Peter is these days, I hope that my work on the pond made him feel better.  When I finished the long northwest shore today I packed up the tools and headed to the house, opting not to swim laps because the weeding had been so much work.  I could almost hear his voice and see the twinkle in his eye as he told me, "That's not cardio!"   I squared my sore shoulders and smiled back, "Oh yes it is!"

Thanks for reading,
Susan