One man’s junk is another man’s treasure…

…HOWEVER, not all the time. A big advantage to living on acreage is space, simply space. There is space for keeping large animals, space for growing crops (should one be so inclined), and space for privacy. It’s a great way to buffer oneself from neighbors, obnoxious or otherwise. It’s one’s special domain. Now, some would consider it isolation, but to me, it’s solitude. To get back to my subject, junk, there is also space for accumulating precisely that, junk.

Years ago, my husband and I purchased a couple of cushioned chairs that fold out to comfy beds. These two pieces were very attractive, designed and made in Germany. It was a handsome addition to an extra room, which we used for a den/guest. When we moved to a larger home, we placed these two pieces in the TV room. Much to the chagrin of house guests, our pets (one which was 120 lbs and really hairy) enjoyed sleeping on it. What was even more alarming was when these two pieces were unfolded for our guests’ sleeping arrangements. Well, that was then. This furniture has since been removed from the TV room. One chair adorns the living room and awaiting its removal to the outside (once we can convince our dog that it’ll no longer be her bed). The other is a lawn decoration, not next to the house, mind you; it’s way out in the yard, next to the horses’ field. The torn and stained chair, which still remains in the house, will be joining its mate, hopefully, in the near future. Even though there is space to retire the two old and worn pieces, they cannot stay here, because I fear what could take up residence in them. Therefore, since these old furnishings will never be another man’s treasure, they need to go to the junk yard, not our yard.

Unblest is he…

…who thinks himself unblest. -Seneca

How true is that! These words hit me like a lead balloon this morning. These words humbled me. The past couple of weeks my thoughts have been undulating between feeling good and feeling sorry. My emotions have been strong. I grieve. There, I said it. I still grieve. The dose of medicine that I give myself is a deep inhale and exhale. This dose is more effective while standing at the fence line and watching my horses graze, unaware of any emotional turmoil. The above quote brought me back to this past Monday, while I was leaning against the fence, listening to singing birds, meadowlarks or warblers? I don’t know. At that moment in time, I felt overwhelmingly blessed. I’m alive. I have good health, maybe too many wrinkles; however, wrinkles are not going to require a call to 911. I was standing there, because I didn’t feel like walking out to the far side of the field to bring the guys back to the barn. I had the option, walk or wait. It’s great to have options. (There’s another positive.) All I know is that I wanted to savor that moment, the fragrance of the meadow grasses, the sights and sounds of a spring afternoon, the warmth of the sun along with a cool breeze. I had an absolute high. This morning I was down, in a funk. When I saw the quote, I figured if I’m feeling sorry for myself, it’s like saying I’m not blessed. Like I said, those words humbled me. I have vowed to myself that whenever I feel “unblest”, I’ll take a huge, deep breath and let it all out, just like that Monday afternoon.

All American

Today was a good day for driving to another town to shop for a new ladder. It’s not as if my husband and I were overly eager to go look for one, but the weather was too nice to not. We were pleasantly surprised what the local DIY offered and had a delightful and informative conversation with the sales person. There were lightweight aluminum A-frames that could be adjusted up to 10 ft. high, meaning from the third rung from the top. There were metal platforms that could be placed across two separate ladders. My only concern was that it had to be stable, high enough for me to reach and easy enough to move around. And, of course, while there, we had to inspect the adjustable legs for uneven terrain, which is for outdoor painting. The specifications of each were spelled out and blah, blah, blah. We left without purchasing, because it was decided we really needed to measure the height of our walls. Well, that was fun. All the while, I’m thinking that the local yarn shop was having a sale. I suggested to my husband that we drive down the street just to find the address, since the shop had moved to another location. It didn’t take us long to find the place, and, while there, I might as well run in and see what was left in their sales stash. Need I say more?

On the drive back to our area, we stopped for lunch in another town. The long-standing restaurant is very popular among the locals, as well as out-of-towners. I’m not talking about a little corner bistro, where the coterie, wearing neatly pressed RL polo shirts and khakis, sip lattes or Chai teas and nibble on spinach quiche. I’m talking about the BIKER BAR, baby, where the following are donned in leather jackets and chaps. Colorful bandanas are wrapped around their wind blown long tresses, male and female alike. Tattoos are proudly sported on bare arms, and the name of biker clubs boldly spelled across their shirts. The cuisine is good, old American hamburgers and fries. The aroma in the air was not brewing coffee but rather a mix of beer, fried food, and cigarette smoke that wafted from wherever. There were Harleys of all colors parked in neat rows outside, along with sport cars and cowgirl Cadillacs (the American pickup truck). The barmaid wore a T-shirt that read, Jack, Jim, and Johnny – The Three Wise Men. (referring to the Daniels, Beam, and Walker families). This place is where one cannot judge a book by its cover. They’re bona fide bikers and the weekend warriors from all walks of life. I told my husband that it feels so…so…American. I might not be ready to trade in my mare for a machine, but, at least, I can occasionally enjoy a greasy hamburger and fries amongst the road hogs (Harley people) and feel all American.

The Breakfast Club

Mother Nature is so fickle in the month of March. We can have springlike days, then it’s wintry again. Whenever I can, I let the horses eat their breakfast around the ” table” in the field. It gives them a chance to share a meal together, stretch their legs, and just socialize. So, I invite you to join the Breakfast Club.