A Farm Waits. . .

...for the rain to stop. Endless days of rain; hay needs to be cut, wood needs to be split but there is a beauty to all this water that surrounds us. Here's some scenes from our rain soaked farm.

Water pours from the downspouts.

Rain floods our driveways.

Rain fills the construction site for our barn.



Shadow waits, anxious for dryer days.



Tire tracks are now waterways and filled with frogs.

In between storms, fog encases Red Pine Mountain


But, oh, the green that all this rain has brought.

The Final Chapter

The past two days have been sunny and warm in a summer of never ending rainy days. I've been out trail riding, enjoying the scenery and thinking about this blog.

I recently read a statement that the best blogs were those that provided interaction (which I read as connection) between the writer and the reader. When I shared my story "More of Me," I was overwhelmed by your responses and deeply touched as well. I never imagined when I posted the story how much I would receive in return.

I decided before I move on to other, more current (and happier) events in my life to close the chapter on the death of my husband with this blog post. I wrote the following for a writing workshop class I took this winter. Some of this will be redundant to those who read my other post and for that I apologize in advance. This writing, however, was my attempt to capture some of the feelings I went through on that horrific day and the long days after.

Life moves us on and nothing is ever static so enjoy all that is good in your life with each moment you have on earth.

Thank you again, my readers, for all your treasured comments.

Here's my essay.

Sunday morning. It’s grey outside but it’s always grey in January. The room is warm. He’s turned on the heat. He knows I can’t stand to be cold. I can smell coffee brewing. My favorite flavor, Vanilla Nut. It’s not his favorite but he’s made it for me, to please me. He is always so good to me, Allan, my husband of almost thirty years. I go to the kitchen and he hands me my favorite mug. We sit down at the table with the Sunday paper and begin a ritual we have shared for many years. It’s an unspoken dance we both enjoy.

I look up from the headlines and see the snow begin to swirl. We have lived in South Carolina for many years and I haven’t seen snow in such a long time. It’s beautiful.

“I’m going to take the dogs out.”

Allan, his eyes barely leaving the paper, mumbles his assent. More like a grunt really. His attention is focused on the Sports section.

The world is turning white. I admire the snow angels made by my tumbling dogs.

It’s getting cold and we go back into the house.

Allan is in the shower getting ready for work.

“Do you have to go in today?’ I ask. Another ritual really because I already know the answer.

“Yes, I have to see my patients.” “I’ll just make sure they’re ‘tucked in’ and then I’ll be back. We’ll do something later today.”

Allan is an old fashioned doctor. The kind that visits his patients at home, that’s never too busy to take a call and who always, without fail, goes in to the hospital to monitor their care. "If he is their doctor and they are sick enough to be in the hospital then they deserve to see him each day not some stranger." he always tells me. His reassuring presence helps them to recover. His patients adore him.

I take a backseat to this career but I don‘t mind. I share his belief in providing excellent care to those in need. I know his love for me sustains him through his long days as my love for him sustains me.

I don’t mind my time alone. I have many interests to occupy me while he is elsewhere.

We engage in more conversation as he gets ready.

Nothing major is said. We discuss dinner plans and grocery shopping. I update him on the progress of the vow renewal ceremony I am busy planning for our thirty year anniversary. Chit chat mostly.

He is ready to leave. He gives me a hug and a kiss and tells me he’ll be home by 3:00 p.m.

I watch his car head down the driveway. The asphalt is hidden by the falling snow.

I turn on the radio while I do my chores. NPR. The voices of the commentators serve as background noise while I do dishes, make the bed and tidy the house.

I’m finished and I luxuriate in my time alone. The peace and quiet nourishes me and I pick up a novel I’ve been reading. I sit in my favorite chair and read while the snow swirls outside.

Time passes. The phone rings. I glance hastily at the clock. It’s almost noon and I know it’s Allan calling me. He calls me off and on throughout the day to let me know he loves me and is thinking of me. It’s our way of connecting when we are apart.

I quickly check caller ID. Yes, it’s the hospital. I answer the phone and start to say “I love you.”

A voice interrupts me. Not Allan’s. This voice belongs to a woman with a thick southern accent. I can barely understand her. I assume she is calling for Allan. I start to tell her to try his pager but she interrupts me. “Is this Mrs. K?” she keeps repeating.

“Yes.”

“You need to come to the hospital now.”

“Why?” I ask

“There’s been an accident.” Her words penetrate my brain. I start to become alarmed.

“An accident? Is it my husband? He’s okay isn’t he?” The words tumble quickly out of my mouth.

She repeats over and over again. “You need to get to the hospital.”

I’m becoming annoyed with her. Angry that she won’t answer my questions. I press her harder. “My husband’s okay isn’t he?”

Then, I hear words I had never expected to hear.

“I’m sorry to tell you Dr. K is dead.”

I start to scream. My screams aren’t part of me. I can’t hear myself. I just hear screaming.

From far away a voice on the phone is saying,” Mrs. K, you have to get hold of yourself and calm down.”

What is that person saying? What has she told me? Calm down? What does she mean calm down? My wailing continues.

I set the phone down. I can’t understand. I don’t understand. This can’t be true. She has called the wrong person. Allan is alive.

I pick up the phone again and dial his pager. Surely he’ll answer. This is a cruel joke.

No answer. My hysteria starts to rise.

I call my brother. There’s no one home. I leave a frantic message on his machine.

I call my mother. “Allan’s dead.” I scream. “Allan who?” My 80 year old mother asks. “My Allan.” I keep on screaming. She is shocked. She thinks I am playing a horrible prank on her.

My screams continue, “Allan’s dead, Allan’s dead.” Over and over the words tumble out of me in a voice not my own. She tells me she’ll be right there. Right there involves a four hour plane ride.

My son, what am I going to tell my son? He is leaving for a term abroad. A term he’s earned through hard work. He’s been visiting a friend in New York who is to take him to the airport today. I can’t reach him. I leave a message to call me right away. What am I going to say to my child?

I phone my best friend. I relay the news to her. “I’ll be right over.“ she says.

I am quiet now. I can’t breathe. It hurts. My heart hurts. The wind has been knocked out of me. It is a physical pain beyond description. Am I alive?

I return to the living room and see the snow falling. I sit down again and pick up my book. I begin where I left off. If I keep reading, if I never put the book down, then none of this can have happened.

I don’t see the words. My mind keeps echoing in an unrelenting refrain “Dr. K is dead.”

I hear a knock on the door.

Where am I? The sound seems so far away. I move towards it. It’s the police. They have been called by my mother who worries for my safety. I can’t understand. Why are they there? I act as a polite hostess and send them on their way. They seem perplexed at my demeanor.

My friend arrives. She enfolds me in her arms.

“Is it really true? It can’t be true? “ I beseech her over and over.

She has called the hospital. It is true.

The phone rings again. It’s donor services. “I’m sorry to bother you at a time like this Mrs. K but we have to act quickly if we are going to harvest Dr. K’s organs for donation. “

Are they kidding me? I try to listen. He’s dead.

It has always been his intention to donate organs so I let them continue. The list of questions is endless. It involves all body parts and whether or not I will allow these parts to be received by someone outside the country. How can I think about Allan as parts to be shipped around the world? I can’t. I have to concentrate. What are they saying?

Now, questions about sexual preferences, prostitutes, drugs and needles. I start screaming again. “I’m sorry, we have to ask these questions.”

I am about to throw up but I continue answering their endless questions.

I put the phone down. I’m finished. I have done what he would have wanted done.

But it’s not true. He’s not dead.

I want Allan home. I don’t want him in a cold, sterile hospital. Lying on a table being opened up by instruments to carve him into pieces. This vital, brilliant man who is my life.

I want him home.

No one takes me to the hospital. No point they say. He’s dead. There’s nothing you can do there. It would be too painful for you. We’ll see him at the funeral home. I am numb. I want Allan home.

Family starts to arrive.

My son, my beloved child arrives. I learn he was pulled off his plane just before it took off for Scotland.

I see the pain and confusion in his eyes. I embrace him. Try to comfort him but there is nothing left of me to give.

The phone rings incessantly but others answer it. Food starts to arrive. Great platters of food. As if I can eat anything. I can’t breathe. I see my house. I look at the objects in the house. Objects we picked out together combing antique shops, searching for bargains. These objects now seem so unfamiliar and unreal. Nothing is real.

I hear details. The details make me despair more. He had stopped to help at an accident. Yes, that sounds like Allan.

He was helping the injured and a gawker drove by. She was looking at the accident not paying attention to the road. She skidded on the snow and struck him. The snow I thought so beautiful this morning. He was killed instantly.

I fixate upon this girl. I hate this girl. She is the focus of my thoughts.

I’m too tired to think about her. It’s not real.

Bedtime, I crawl into our big bed. I’m so alone. I haven’t slept alone since I was eighteen. I don’t know what to do in that big lonely bed. I grab his pillows. I can smell him. The linens are alive with his scent.

My Mother crawls in beside me. “Try to sleep” she says. “Take some of that medicine” she says.

Where am I?

I must have slept because I feel a blow in my solar plexus. It wakes me instantly. I’m in pain. I realize I am alone and I start to wail again. I want Allan. My Mother embraces me, rocks me as if I were an infant. I am unable to stop sobbing. I fall into a fitful sleep.

I have gotten through the first day.

There were many other days. The trip to the funeral home where I refused to believe Allan was dead. I lost all hope there. I went to a very far away place that day. Maybe some would call it madness. It was hard to bring my conscious self back. I was outside myself looking down on a room full of sobbing people.

“I want Allan back. How could he leave me?” I hear myself say over and over. The funeral director is crying now. We are awash in tears in that home of the dead. I hear my Mother urging me to think of my son. I look at my child wrapped up in pain. I can imagine him thinking he is going to lose his Mother as well. The sight of my son brings me back to the living.

There were many more painful days ahead. I contemplated suicide. I was in the bathroom one night and I knew I was going to die. I didn’t have the strength to continue. I beseeched God to help me. I returned to my bed and fell asleep instantly. That night, in the form of a dream, I received a visit from Allan. I spoke to him. He appeared to me in a shroud. “They told me you were dead.” I said. “Yes, he said, “but I’m okay.” “I want to be with you.” I said. “You can’t, not right now, you can’t come with me. Your work is not done.” I woke that morning and I was at peace for the first time in many days. I thanked God for answering my prayer.

Faith brought me through Allan’s death. Not the faith that delivers platitudes. Not the faith that says he is in a better place. Oh, how I tired of hearing those meaningless words spoken to me so often. They are only trying to help and at a loss for what to say I realized.

I drew on a deep faith that convinced me all the love Allan and I shared still exists on some other plane. Our love is alive. It’s only in a different form. I have a tangible symbol of our love in the child we both adore. He has his father’s mind. He has my love of words. He is our enduring creation.

I have awakened again. Slowly, I have been reborn.

I have a new life so different from my old life.

Death is not an ending. It’s a passage.

Doors shut, doors open. Love endures.

Brilliant Weblog Award

My blogging friend and mentor, Chris of the Dog/Cat Log, passed on the Brilliant Weblog award to me. I thank her so much for doing so. The rules of the award are as follows:

1) Add the logo of the award to your blog
2) Add a link to the person who awarded it to you
3) Nominate at least 7 other blogs
4) Add links to those blogs on your blog
5) Leave a message for your nominees on their blogs

I enjoy reading everyone's blogs and I would like to pass this award on to anyone who has been kind enough to take the time to read and comment on my blog.

In addition, here are links to seven blogs I've discovered that have inspired me with their stories:

Alan Bamboo
The Fearless Blog
My Funny Dad Harry
From a Yellow House in England
Afflicted with RSD
Surviving the Circus of Life
Life on a Southern Farm

Thanks again Chris.

More of Me

This is not a post about Red Pine Mountain but instead is more of my story.

Perhaps you want to know more about the person behind this blog. If you do, then this story of part of my life will help you to know me better. Perhaps this story is not for everyone but it is my story and I will tell it as it happened.

Grief is a strange and powerful emotion. I’m sure it affects each of us differently and there are as many ways to grieve as there are people on the planet. I was initially in a state of shock when my husband was killed. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, and each breath I took was so painful, I could not manage to speak.

Those early days of numbness were almost preferable to the days that followed. I would go grocery shopping and break down in tears because I had no husband to cook for any more. I would look at couples and feel my loss. Every sunset and sunrise only reminded me of the days of emptiness stretching ahead of me. Yes, I had wonderful friends and family and a job that kept me busy. I was physically present but my mind, my heart were with the dead. I wanted to die too. One night, I decided I could no longer endure any more of this suffering. I sat crying in the bathroom and asked God for help. I have always believed in the power of prayer and God, that night, answered mine.

As I lay down in bed, I immediately fell asleep. In my dream (yet it was not really a dream), my husband came to me. He told me I had to go on and be strong and everything would be fine. I then dreamed of my life as it would be in the future. The next morning I awoke with a deep sense of peace and although it was not as simplistic as saying everything was okay, I knew I had once again found my will to live.

I made an assessment of my life. I was 48 years old, overweight and out of shape. I knew I had to start taking better care of myself so I joined a gym. Every day, after work, I forced myself to go. I started by swimming. Long laps in the pool helped clear my mind. After a while, the weight started to drop off and my energy level soared. I began adding the treadmill to my routine. After a number of months, I was swimming three miles a day and running 5 miles three times a week. I had gone from a size 18 to a size 0 and I was in great shape. I was proud of myself too.

In the summer of 2006, I decided to catch a flight to visit my Mother. I threw on some sandals despite the small blister I had on my foot and I went through airport security barefoot without a second thought.
The next morning, I woke with a swollen red foot. I thought perhaps it was a bug bite and didn’t really pay too much attention to it. By lunchtime, however, the redness was spreading and my foot and lower leg were warm to the touch. I called my Mother’s doctor and got an appointment for the same day. I went in apologizing about wasting the doctor’s time but my foot was giving me problems. My doctor took one look at it and immediately admitted me to the hospital. I had contracted a MRSA infection, a fast spreading staph infection that in the past was found only in hospitals. I was given antibiotics and told to prepare for the worst, the possible loss of my foot or perhaps my leg.

Thankfully, I didn’t lose any limbs but my life changed forever. I was put on bed rest for a month and after that month, I could no longer walk. My foot and leg which should have been improving were not. I no longer had the MRSA infection but something had seriously gone wrong. After many invasive tests and trips to a neurosurgeon, I discovered my MRSA infection had turned into Reflex Sympathetic Dystrophy Syndrome. I was told I might never have the use of my leg again and not to expect a lot of improvement. Here I had been running on the treadmill, swimming like a fish and now I could do nothing. I was also in unremitting pain.

I was prescribed the usual course of treatment, pain killers, physical therapy, rest and moderate exercise but I was a reluctant patient. I absolutely refused to believe I would never have the use of my leg again nor would I accept a life filled with pain killers and bed rest. I threw away the drugs and took my life into my own hands.

Daily, I’d drag myself on a mile long walk. I’d have my Logan, my german shepherd, with me and if I had to use him for balance I would but I pushed myself on and made myself walk. I’d arrive back home and collapse gasping for breath from the pain but I didn’t give up.

Today, almost two years later, I have the use of my foot again. I walk, I run, I ride horses and I have a blessedly active life. No, it’s not the same. My foot remains numb after prolonged exercise but it is such a minor inconvenience compared to what could have been.

I have learned so much from my experiences. I never take life for granted and I cherish each moment I have on earth. My Mother will often tell me I must have been born under a dark cloud because so many bad things happen to me and I look at her uncomprehending. I consider myself incredibly blessed.

For many years now, my morning routine has been to grab a cup of coffee and head out with the dogs, rain or shine, snow or wind. And as I watch the dogs, I say my prayer of thanks as follows: “God, thank you for all you have given me, for allowing me to have such love and joy and beauty in my life. Thank you for blessing me.”

There is no life lived without suffering or pain. We each have our own stories but it is the beauty of humanity that keeps us striving to make our lives richer.

When Clouds Collide

It's been a summer of storms on Red Pine Mountain. Today's storm was particularly severe with high winds, blinding rain and hail. But tonight the sun tried to conquer the clouds and produced one of the most incredible sunsets over our mountain I've ever seen. Here's my attempt to capture nature at one of its finest moments.

Hay Burners

When Mountain Man talked about horses, that's what he called them, hay burners, or pasture ornaments, that's another favorite expression of his.
There were horses on Red Pine Mountain about fifteen years ago and they left when his ex did and he vowed never again. Horses to him were just a plain nuisance. He explained to me people buy them, don’t ride them and then they just sit in the stall and eat and poop and cost money.
His ex wanted him to ride so he tried it once, even had a horse here for him but all it did was run off with him and try to kill him. He vowed never to sit in a saddle again and he thought anybody who wanted to have horses was just plain crazy.
“No thanks, no horses, no way. You want to go for a ride in the woods, then get a tractor,” he repeatedly told me.
Only problem was I love horses. My first word was horse, I started riding when I was three and as a young only child, I even pretended I had an imaginary horse. (I bet all of you have some embarrassing stories your mothers just love to tell strangers.) But even though I rode a lot during my childhood years, I never had my own horse. Then I got married, we were always on the move with the military, I had a family to think about and there was no extra money to indulge my desire to ride.
But when I saw Red Pine Mountain all I could think about was horses. Never mind it has been 35 years since I did any real riding. Red Pine Mountain cries out for horses. There are miles of logging trails throughout our woods which join to public trails which cover hundreds of miles. I was drooling over the thought of all those trails. And, there was a barn here where his ex’s hay burners had lived so we had ready made living quarters. I WANTED A HORSE!
We were at a standstill over this issue for quite some time. Our neighbors would ride by our house and I would wish I could be out there with them. I tried to explain to Mountain Man if I had a horse at home I would be riding all the time, I wouldn't let it sit in the pasture and I would take care of it myself.
“Sure,” he said,”I know you think you will but that has not been my experience.”
“ I’m not your ex.” I tried to explain.
As our relationship deepened, so did Mountain Man’s understanding of my passion. But, I had to wait some more. I never understood the old saying "patience is a virtue" but it must be true because Mountain Man finally (hurray!) told me I could have my horse.
I wanted to go out that day and find a horse but he explained to me the old barn wasn't suitable for horses any more due to drainage issues and he wanted to build a new barn.
That sounded reasonable, I wanted a healthy place for my horse to live but he couldn't start the barn right away because he was busy with other projects trying to earn a living. Once again, I had to practice being virtuously patient but at long last he was able to begin work on the new barn.
I now have half of a barn with three beautiful stalls and in those stalls are two horses. Yes, two of them. Wow, I have to pinch myself every day to believe they aren't my childhood imaginary pals.
And Mountain Man, he has learned that not all people are the same. The first day I brought home Moose, I started to cry. I couldn't believe I was so lucky to actually be living my dream and there was a real live horse in the barn. I ran out there every five minutes to make sure I wasn't dreaming, to make sure Moose was real. Mountain Man even told me if he had known earlier just how important horses were to me, he would have built the barn a whole lot sooner. Heck, he doesn't even call them hay burners any more.
Yes, I had to wait but I’m not complaining.
All I know is dreams do come true and there are horses once again on Red Pine Mountain.

A Modern Love Story, Chapter 1

It’s Saturday morning, Red Pine Mountain is shrouded in fog so I decided to grab a mug of my favorite coffee and start sharing the story of how a woman from a small town near Charleston, South Carolina ended up in the forests of the Northeast. Here goes.
A decade ago, I was married to a career Navy man. The military moved us around and most of the places we were sent were urban areas. Don’t get me wrong. I loved being part of my larger military family. I had a fantastic life and I adored my husband. Our son had just gone off to college and we were getting ready to retire and start the second half of our lives together. We had so many plans and we were still very much in love. But fate stepped in 2003 and my husband of almost thirty years was killed in a horrific accident. I won’t dwell on my grief here or my struggle to make it through each painful day without him. That’s a story for another time.
I finally got to the point where I missed having a man in my life. I was lonely plain and simple. But I was middle aged and living in a place where it seemed everyone was married or young enough to be my son.
Then one day, I picked up the paper and saw an article about an online dating service that matched people with a computer program that determined their compatibility. There were success stories from people who had found each other and were now leading happy lives as couples. Some of them were middle aged like me.
I've always been comfortable with modern technology so I figured I had nothing to lose by giving online dating a chance. I took the personality assessment, paid a fee and waited for them to find me a mate. I sure had a lot to learn.
When it comes to dating and relationships, I am kind of clueless. I had been married at the age of 18 to the only man I ever dated. I assumed people looking for a mate would tell the truth. Well, I’m here to tell you I learned my lesson the hard way.
My first online relationship was with a man who was charming and best of all who made me laugh. We decided to progress from emails to phone calls. Oh, he was so wonderful. I was absolutely positive I had found my mate. To make a long, scary story short, he turned out to have a criminal record, didn't have a job and wanted to “borrow” lots of money. When I finally got out of that mess, I kissed the ground and thanked God and I vowed I would never be so stupid again. It could have been so much worse and I escaped before any real damage had been done.
But I was still lonely. I thought about trying other dating sites but I liked the computer compatibility matching system. It wasn't their fault that my last match had been less than honest. My next relationship was with a great guy who was going through a traumatic split from his wife. He too had not been totally truthful when filling out the questionnaire because he had just become separated a week before joining. He had way too much baggage in his life for me so we parted ways as friends.
Either the third time’s a charm or I’m a really slow learner because I decided to give it one last try. One morning, there in my inbox was a picture of a ruggedly handsome man with his arms wrapped around the biggest Mastiff I had ever seen. In his profile, he talked not about himself but about his dog. Well, I’m a sucker for anything canine and a guy who loves his dog sounded perfect for me. And, did I mention he was very handsome? I decided to give this online dating thing one last try. And this time I meant it too, one last final try.
Well, my fingers are tired from typing, my Mountain Man is in the kitchen cooking breakfast surrounded by our dogs who are patiently waiting for their share. The fog is starting to lift and I can hear the horses nickering in the pasture telling me to hurry up with their grain.
Even though the ending of my modern love story is pretty obvious, if you want to find out more details, come visit Red Pine Mountain next week.