The Story House, Chapter 3 - Found Treasure

The view opens from the moment you pull into the drive and is
now visible from almost every vantage point of future homesite
and garden shed

On some days, I can’t decide if moving onto this property was the craziest, dumbest idea I ever had or the most joyous and perfect. There are moments when I’m just overwhelmed by all the challenges, along with the potential that seems to exceed the limit of imagination, and I wonder what ledge I’ve stepped off, whether there will be an end to the learning curve. But the moments of delight that are liberally sprinkled throughout the shadows of uncertainty, of pure frustration, are irresistible, and I’m pulled by them. Like finding the old barbed wire speared dead center through the cluster of live oaks that stands between my garden shed and what will be the front porch of my house. We think as long as 50 years ago, or more likely longer, someone put up a fence alongside the oaks, close enough to the trees that over time they grew around it, absorbing the wire, healing the wounds it must have caused. We unearthed a few of the cedar posts, too, and found them to be only somewhat rotted, which shows just how impervious cedar (or more accurately Ashe juniper) is to weather and time.

I knew I wanted to find a way to use the wire, to preserve it. It’s like the horseshoe I found and set on my front step, and the chair we found abandoned underneath one of the oldest oaks on the property that some hunter left behind. I pulled it up to sit beside my front porch for the time being. I’m amazed at how sturdy it still is. The things I’ve discovered here, from the clumps of pink-blooming wild flowers in full bloom for weeks now without a single ounce of my effort, to the fox burrow, to the shimmering tail feather a chaparral shed near the birdbath, is a link in the chain of this land’s history. Such finds set me to dreaming; they tell me a story. Even the gorgeous view that has widened with every cedar tree we cut down sets my mind off, wondering who might have stood here in this very spot a hundred, two hundred, a thousand years ago. Did they see what I see? Did their hearts rise? Were they overcome by a fierce wish to protect this land as I am? A few things they wouldn’t have seen a thousand years ago are the thick overgrowth of Ashe juniper and the barbed wire. Neither is native. But for better or worse, each has had their chapter in this land’s history. They’ve left a mark on its soul.

As for the use of the wire, what to do with it came to me the way a story does, in a sudden image. But instead of a character or a situation, I saw a wreath, studded with flowers. Weeks before, without knowing what I might do with them, I’d bought some vintage looking, painted metal flowers, and on the day I conceived the idea, David and Chris happened to be welding the roof structure onto the shipping containers David is remodeling into a house. So I took my length of wire down to them, and after David formed the hoops, Chris welded them in place, then I brought my found treasure home, wired on the flowers, and twined a garland made from finer wire through the hoop. The entire project took an afternoon and now on the door of my garden shed hangs a reminder of that old fence.

I look at it and wonder about the man who built it, his purpose for doing so, whether his plan came to fruition ... what happened to him and his family. Sometimes, when I sit on my porch steps, staring off into the blue distance, I can hear the voices of the ones who were here before me, whispering, telling their stories, weaving them from the lively, determined wind, and I lose myself in the sound.   

The Story House, Chapter 1

The plan!
Woefully, or serendipitously, inadequate, depending on your view!

There is a small house in place now that was only a dream even a few short months ago on land my son

David and his partner Christy own in the Texas Hill Country. It’s rather incredible when you see what the house came from, this plan that I drew, using a clunky Windows provided computer program. I’ve always wanted a garden shed. I’ve looked at thousands of pictures and envisioned a cottage look, something rustic, with a vintage door, big windows, preferably casement, furnished with antiques, a mix of elegant French country and other more primitive things, including chandeliers dripping crystals. I love the juxtaposition of disparate elements. A lot of people think I’m crazy. Sometimes I think so, too! I mean, I’m on my own and women of a certain age … well, you know. Part of me agrees there’s a time when you should maybe not be foolish, but then another part of me dares me to thumb my nose at what’s accepted, conventional wisdom, especially when it comes to getting older. It’s the part that never asks me how far I can push it or how much risk can I tolerate. Anyway, my idea was and is to live in this tiny house, what will eventually become the garden shed and the garage, until I can build an actual house. Initially, I thought I would make it the size of a standard two-car garage, but then, sitting over dinner with Mike, the framer (and a true and wonderful character all on his own), I decided to increase it to 540 square feet. At the time I was living in a 1,570 square foot condo, and when I wondered aloud to David where I would put all my stuff, he said I should get a shipping container, approximate square feet, 305, giving me a total of 845 square feet. Okaaayyy, I said.

He and Christy are living in a container. He has four, and he’s already begun reconfiguring them into a functional and beautiful living space, but that’s a whole ‘nother story. So, on his advice, I bought a one. Before it was delivered the slab for the little garden shed/garage was poured, where last summer we had staked the yellow tape. And then it sat. I needed to sell my house in order to have the cash to build the new one. Part of what I wanted to accomplish with this project was to be completely debt free. I put my condo on the market in December and closed on its sale in January. The new owner leased the place back to me for 60 days, the amount of time we guesstimated it would take to get the little house built. Hah! I can nearly hear all of you out there laughing now.

This is in January - Day 2 of construction

First the frame went up, and it was completed very quickly from Day 1 through Day 6 or so. I was encouraged, or fooled, depending on how you look at it. (My brother who has been building one thing and another his whole life said, “Congratulations, now comes the slow part.”) But I thought what could go wrong? I packed like mad and chewed my nails. Where would all this stuff, a lifetime’s accumulation, go? I had come into this condo from a 3,000 square feet house, and at that time, I had pared down as hard and far as I knew how. Still, I had a lot, antiques, many of them family heirlooms, books, and art, and it was harder to part with things this time around. Using graph paper, I measured the necessary pieces of furniture and put the pieces in place. The plan worked on the page, and I let myself be comforted. I can do this were the four words that became my mantra. I labeled boxes “Home” or “Store” according to the items inside. But I often paused, holding something, a pie plate, say. Would I have room for it? Would I be able to even bake a pie? Would I use a beautiful old Limoge bowl? A cut glass vase? Should I keep out two plates or four? And clothes … they were something else. Because, you see, my plan, such as it was, included no closets, nor does it have one cabinet. By design. My thought was to use my furniture, much of it that is beautiful and old, to hold everything, or that portion of everything I thought I couldn’t be without for however long it is until I’m in my real home. 

 First bluebonnets.
There are patches and fields of them ribboning
  the roadside all the windy way home.

But I’m learning that building a house, never mind altering your entire life, is like writing a story. It is so seldom that anything goes according to plan. Not even the feelings you imagined having are the same, and while any kind of change can be arduous and painful, for me it’s the very element of the unknown that lures me, that gives all the upheaval its beauty and joy even as it scares me.

I think of the friends I left behind and my critique partners with whom I wrote for so many years. I think of the routine I built that so suited me. I think of the convenience of having a mall (although I seldom went there), a grocery store, and the library all within a ten-minute drive, albeit one that was crammed with ever increasing traffic and constant construction.

I’m going to write about my new life experience here, on my blog, from time to time, and chronicle events here, including pictures, as they unfold, while living in what I have named the Story House. I intend the posts to be an exploration of what so many are doing nowadays, scaling back, living with less. Less space, less debt, less noise and distraction, more contemplation. And in my case, living where driving to the nearest town, some eleven miles away is like driving the winding view of a scenic postcard. and where the night sky is dark and vast and studded with the  brilliant light of countless stars I had almost forgotten. 

Organic Farms: What's a goddess got to do with it?

 

First: The farm and the magical trip that made up the best Thanksgiving Day ever.... 

On Thanksgiving Day I rode with my son, David, and his girlfriend, Christy, to the Hill Country. It was the most special occasion because it was my first visit to land they purchased near Smithwick where in a few short months they will open an aquaponics farm. In case you don’t know, Aquaponics is the cultivation of fish and plants that are linked via a re-circulating ecosystem utilizing natural bacterial processes to convert fish wastes to plant nutrients. It is an environmentally-friendly, organic method of growing food (you harvest both fish and produce) that harnesses the best attributes of aquaculture and hydroponics without the need to discard any water or filtrate or add chemical fertilizers. And unlike crops raised by hydroponics alone, the fruits and veggies grown this way taste wonderful!

[caption id="attachment_500" align="alignright" width="2554" caption="The view from my front yard"][/caption]

I’m excited about this venture and thrilled to be part of it. One of the reasons we went there was so that I could choose a home site. I’m thinking a Texas Tiny Houses type home. I took my camera (my home site picture here doesn’t do it justice) and a small iron bird, a garden ornament, to leave there as a promise, and I brought back a soil sample and rocks with actual crystals in them from what will one day be the garden outside my front door. It was a beautiful day to be outside, to walk the land that had lived in our hearts for so many years like a dream. The air in the hill country has an effervescence, like champagne, and it’s permeated with the fresh scent of cedar. There were butterflies everywhere, the music of birds (the property backs up to a section of the Balcones Canyonlands National Wildlife Reservation) and the hush of the wind through the trees. Not silence, and yet it was silence at some level so deep, a level that waits in each of us, I think, to be recognized, to be nourished. We had lunch. Christy and David had packed my favorite Thanksgiving feast: turkey sandwiches on homemade bread with homemade cranberry sauce and butter. Evening came and we sat in the grass watching the last of the day’s light glaze the hills across the highway. “It’s hard to leave,” I whispered, and it was.

Now for the goddess part....

But on the way home, we had an interesting conversation. Christy is training to run in the MetroPCS Dallas White Rock 26.2 mile marathon going off this weekend. She’s been training for weeks and it’s amazing to me; her persistence has been dogged in the extreme. Grueling. I’d never do it and I'm so proud of her because she is! She has said all along, though, that she isn’t doing it to win and I understand her completely. The very fact that she set the goal, that she adhered to a training schedule, that she hasn’t once given up on her commitment has given her a sense of accomplishment. It has raised her level of self-confidence. And that’s enough. She’ll be happy, she says, if she can finish. But David said if he had put in all the sweat equity she has, he’d be set on winning. In fact, he said he wouldn’t take on the challenge of a marathon or anything like that unless he believed to his core he could win. Their discussion seemed to represent one of the classic male/female divides and led me to remember a remarkable book I read quite some time ago, The Alphabet Versus the Goddess, The Conflict Between Word and Image by Leonard Shlain. I mentioned the book to them, and reflecting on it, said I thought the difference in their approach to a challenge was rooted in ancient history when men were the hunters in charge of bringing food back to their tribe and women were the gatherers, the nurturers, charged with the safety and wellbeing of the children, the progeny that ensured the continuance of the race. That is a less well-defined goal, one that spans a much longer time of execution than the one of rustling up the family’s next meal. A guy had to be focused; he had to win and more than that, he had to be passionate about winning. He had to be in a kind of “take no prisoner’s” mode, because it wasn’t as if he could purchase dinner at the local grocery store if he failed! His need to succeed was immediate, the consequences if he didn’t were just as immediate … starvation and death. And while the woman’s role was as crucial to the tribe’s survival, there wasn’t the daily pressure of the hunt with its clearly defined objective. The hunter had to win, every day provide a physical trophy; the goddess didn’t. She provided things, but they were less tangible, nothing to dance in the end zone over! At least that’s my take on it for what it’s worth. Y’all weigh in, if you want to.

And for readers who might be interested

From the Amazon Review: "Literacy has promoted the subjugation of women by men throughout all but the very recent history of the West," writes Leonard Shlain. "Misogyny and patriarchy rise and fall with the fortunes of the alphabetic written word." That's a pretty audacious claim, one that The Alphabet Versus the Goddess provides extensive historical and cultural correlations to support. Shlain's thesis takes readers from the evolutionary steps that distinguish the human brain from that of the primates to the development of the Internet. The very act of learning written language, he argues, exercises the human brain's left hemisphere--the half that handles linear, abstract thought--and enforces its dominance over the right hemisphere, which thinks holistically and visually. If you accept the idea that linear abstraction is a masculine trait, and that holistic visualization is feminine, the rest of the theory falls into place. The flip side is that as visual orientation returns to prominence within society through film, television, and cyberspace, the status of women increases, soon to return to the equilibrium of the earliest human cultures. Shlain wisely presents this view of history as plausible rather than definite, but whether you agree with his wide-ranging speculations or not, he provides readers eager to "understand it all" with much to consider. --Ron Hogan

It took me awhile to get through it, but it was well worth the read, for what I carried away from it was a clearer understanding of human nature and a greater hope for our future.