I said I would write and write I have!  In two weeks of farm living, I have created over 20,000 words towards my next project.  To put that number in prospective, my entire first novel was just shy of 60,000 words.  There is a lot to say for being determined, creating the time, but then relaxing into a process and letting it come.  And the farm is a perfect place to do that. 

After almost six years of snow-free living, I thought I’d given winter up.  While enjoying Charlotte’s moderate temps, I’d remember Chicago’s biting cold, mounds of dirty slush that didn’t melt for months, the tedious routine of extra socks, boots, hats, gloves, scarves and thick, bulky parkas just to step out the door.  But from inside my fire-toasted family room, looking out a wide bay window at acres of uninterrupted white, the thick, fluffy, undisturbed snow-covered landscape takes on a new beauty.  One morning I awoke to a crystallized world, every branch or stalk was adorned with a drapery of thin, patterned ice.  The sun decided to peak out and make a living kaleidoscope of the whole scene and it was breathtaking.  Without trains to catch, or busses to try to hop on over ice mounds piled by plows, this Northern winter thing isn’t bad, well, for the short term anyway!

My other bay window looks out onto a giant, natural aviary.  So many birds.  Chickadees, Finches (Gold and House), Sparrows (Tree and Song), Woodpeckers (Red Belly and Downy), Juncos, and Cardinals.  They seem little troubled by the thermometer’s red dropping below 32, as long as we keep the seed and suet coming.  We’ve gone through 30 pounds of sunflower seeds and 10 pounds of cracked corn in two weeks.  It’s been a daily game, watching them, snapping pictures of new ones, emailing my Dad for proper identification.  They are fascinating, and I could end up watching them all day…but, okay, back to writing.

In lieu of more words, I’ve posted some pictures of my winterscape on flicker, as well as some highlights from the Key West family get together. Enjoy.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/42679370@N06/sets/

P.S.  You may notice that I finally got around to installing a spam filter and cleaning out any junk commnets.  Thank you so much for all of your thoughtful comments, and now you can keep them coming without competing with auto-spam!

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Another huge transition.  From basking in the 80 degree sunshine of the Florida Keys, to the frigid farm in Central Ohio.  When I took off from Charlotte, last steamy June, the last place I thought I'd be spending a chunk of time was winter!  But, true to the "go with the flow" spirit of UnTourism, here I am.  Travelling and visiting has been wonderful, but hasn't yielded the serious writing time I needed to finish my next project.  Before trekking off to Central America, I'm taking an opportunity that arose: an empty farmhouse, a killer wood-burning fireplace, back roads so snowed in I'll have nothing to do but write, write, write.  Which is what I've been doing this week and Michael B. suggested I share some.  Here is a somber essay I began writing while in Hawaii.    

Papa B. 

Kilauea bleeds, birthing earth younger than men who will die upon it.  As will my father-in-law, weakening each minute while 130,000 gallons of molten rock pours from the volcano like thickly-beaten batter.  He is beaten.  By cancer, by its remedy, by societies’ value of life at any cost so that doctors who say there is no cure prescribe harsh treatments anyway.  And by memories, unseen by MRIs and blood screens, but as erosive as the rapidly metastasizing cells.

In a state between wake and sleep, he reaches out for ghost objects and speaks to people I can’t see.  He relives foxhole deaths and night patrols, calling into an imaginary radio for back-up, for air support, for salvation.   

One evening, I wake to a tremor, metal roofing rattling against wall like an intruder forcing entry.  I imagine a release of soul, his shedding of suffering the cause of the 4.8 magnitude earthquake instead of the Lo’ihi Seamount, 13,000 feet below sea level.  The next morning, his breath still comes in shallow shakes. 

How can we comprehend the human will to survive?  Floyd James Thompson, the longest held American POW of the Vietnam War, endured nine years of torture and starvation after the plane crash that left him burned, bullet-wounded, and back broken.  How much easier giving up would have been.  Yet, when asked if he feels fortunate or forsaken, he can’t help thinking of those who didn’t come home at all, or the fact that he did.  Like my father-in-law, who in his last living weeks, says repeatedly, “I would gladly trade my life for any one of theirs.”  His regrets are real: time he didn’t spend, gifts he didn’t buy, words he didn’t speak.  But, also real, is his peace, “I’m ready.”  

70 million years ago, The Big Island of Hawaii began to evolve in nearly complete isolation.  Over 90% of the native terrestrial flora and fauna are unique to the island.  This level of endemism surpasses all other places on earth.  And this is how it felt when I first started visiting my father-in-law there: secluded, exotic, idyllic.     

When he dies, it becomes something else, a mass of rock on which I am trapped, confined to.  For five weeks I’ve spoken in soft tones, signaled nurses, fetched blankets, scrubbed mold, listened, cried.  There is nothing left to do but leave, shake off the tropical damp, anticipate a deep breath of dry, Southwestern air, look back through plane window at the ever-changing island, forever changed.