DAYLE FERGUSSON'S CORNER

When Heaven Weeps...

2012-02-02T22:43:00.000-08:00

When the blackness of night covers us in its mantle, hiding the myriad details that fill our waking world, only then is our soul bared.
What pains and unexpressed sorrows drift to the surface uninvited?
What demons haunt, laughing at our feeble efforts, deriding our small victories and leaving us accused and found wanting?
Do we ever really know ourselves? Have we plumbed the depths of our characters, followed the twists and turns into the labyrinth of our own soul?

A few short weeks ago my friend took her own life, and I am struggling to make sense of it. It was so completely out of character. None of the usual warning signs. A sweet and beautiful girl, with a gentle-hearted husband, and two adorable children. Her seven-year-old daughter is a dancing sunbeam, full of light and effervescence. Her three-year-old son a grinning cherub of mischief. I hear her cheery voice and see her smiling face before me. I’ve watched her grow into womanhood, strong, resilient, warm, vibrant, beautiful. Life often takes us over rough roads, and for some the rocky patches lead through dark valleys. As she stood there that night, did the demon of abandonment return in a sudden chill swish of black wings, the sharp spear of her own mother’s rejection thrust again into her heart, killing reason? Or did an emotional threat go horribly wrong?

Oh, God, how did Satan seduce her away from your love, and so convince her of her worthlessness that your soft voice wooing her heart was blotted out by darkness for one terrible moment? When heaven weeps, my heart weeps too, Lord. And how it breaks for the torment her husband must live with daily, and the loss those two sweet children will feel every day of their lives.

I received a message from God the morning after the tragedy, when reading My Utmost for His Highest, by Oswald Chambers. “God is making us spell out our own souls. It is slow work, so slow that it takes God all time and eternity to make a man and woman after His own purpose...It is astounding how ignorant we are about ourselves...We have to get rid of the idea that we know ourselves...The only One Who understands us is God.”

What depths there are to each of us that we cannot plumb or even fathom. We don't really know our extremities or our possibilities. We barely know ourselves. Just as He did with His disciples, when Jesus takes us alone He begins to reveal the truths about ourselves, and we discover our desperate need for understanding and redemption.

Perhaps one of the most amazing passages in the Bible is Psalm 139, where God reveals that He has loved us even before the foundation of the earth, and laid His hand upon us.

“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
If I settle on the far side of the sea,
Even there your hand will guide me,
Your right hand will hold me fast.”

A misty rain began falling the morning after the tragedy, as heaven’s tears washed away all traces of the night’s tragedy from the blood-stained earth.

By nightfall, the ground was covered in a white mantle of snow.

On the Edge of Time

2012-01-01T00:20:00.000-08:00

New Year’s Eve holds our lives on tiptoe, breath sucked in, waiting…expectantly. Just what is coming next? We look up into the starry heavens. Perhaps we can read our future in the stars flashing like diamonds, secrets tucked in folds of black velvet vanishing into the depths of space and eternity.

Reflecting back we study the imprint of our personal history, clues to the meaning of our very existence. Lives intersected, experiences remembered, lessons learned, hearts broken and recreated by love. If we take the time to slip off alone, meditate on years past, ponder on where we are, and the journey to this moment, we may hear God’s voice whisper to us in the stillness. He is calling us to step forward bravely into the unknown, willing to leave our safety zone. How else will we experience the adventure of life?

But let’s hesitate a moment, and savor the tapestry of New Year’s Eves past, rolling the flavor on our tongue, dancing around the memories like shadowy nymphs circling a bonfire. Take your own journey back through time, and enjoy revisiting each treasure hidden in the recesses of your heart.

In my late teens, I remember the Christmas Beach Mission Coffee Shops in Australia. A week at Torquay, one of Victoria’s ocean beach resorts. During the day we played on the beaches, connecting with summer holidaymakers. In the evenings the coffee shop became a favorite hang out for young people. Music, free coffee and refreshments, friendly people offering a listening ear, and a message of hope and acceptance with spiritual significance. And then there was the drummer… I have to admit to a personal distraction! My girlfriends and I became instant groupies!

Despite the years of New Year’s Eve parties, I liked best the times we saw the New Year in quietly, giving time to look back over the year just past, souls bared, precious moments spent talking with God about the year ahead. One year several of us sat on the sandy cliffs at Black Rock beach, slightly apart as midnight approached. Personal time gazing up at the starry Southern sky. Reflecting on our path taken, lessons staked in the sand, relationships, dreams still waiting. Then resolutions made, asking God to hold us accountable.

The wedding of my best friend, Liz, was another NYE memory. Although I was a camp leader at Bairnsdale, 300 miles away on the Gippsland Lakes, I obtained dispensation to be gone for 24 hours. She and Dick pledged their vows as the sun set on Liz’s family farm, sheep quietly grazing on the hillsides. We were all college friends, destined to share many significant moments in our future. Champagne corks shot into the sky at midnight to celebrate the start of their life together.

Many years later, on one of my trips back to Australia, life’s pendulum had swung almost 360 degrees. Bill had sent me back to visit family, staying behind in Tennessee to take care of our responsibilities. Liz, Dick and I spent New Year’s Eve together, camping at Beechworth, one of Victoria’s old gold mining towns. We hiked into town to see the New Year in, and joined the Main Street throng. I bought a bottle of champagne, and we all signed the cork after drinking our toast “To Whatever Comes Next,” desperately missing Bill’s presence; once more separated by oceans and continents. Little did I know, that it would be the last time I would see Dick. He was killed in a helicopter crash the following December.

Bill and I collected our corks in a barrel in our Wine Room at Ghost Gums in Tennessee. Years later, at a party when Liz was staying with us, a curious young friend emptied out the barrel of corks and began reading them. I couldn’t believe it when Nick pulled out the very cork that Liz, Dick and I had signed on Dick’s final New Year’s Eve. I quietly handed it to Liz, the words unspoken as tears pricked her eyes.

I could speak of other New Year’s Eves, but the most memorable of all was New Year’s Eve at the Gliding Club in Benalla, when the dial clicked over to 1981. We had spent a week flying the Christmas Competition, sharing turns in our single seat glider on triangular cross-country tasks. Just before midnight Bill took me out of the dancing merriment in the theatre of the old World War II barracks for a breath of fresh air. I sat on the curb in the moonlight, Bill at my side, when he totally surprised me and asked me to marry him. I hesitated, just briefly enough to tease him. The strains of Old Lang Syne called us back inside to our friends, and we returned, most not realizing that our future had irrevocably changed in that moment. One of our pilot friends looked at us quizzically when we rejoined the party. "Is there something you should tell me?" he asked. How on earth did he know!

These are different days now. My soulmate has gone on ahead, and I am left to find my way alone. So how do I see New Year’s Eve now? The stars still rotate across the sky, the seasons still change, and life continues. Deep loss demands that we find the meaning of our individual imprint. A half moon hangs suspended in the winter sky. Its beauty now lies in the curve of its half crescent. Not full, yet perfect in its altered form. I know instinctively that God is telling me I am complete, because I am created in His image. It’s hard when all my friends have their partners to share all those treasured moments of life with, while I stand alone. But my memories remind me that I have been loved to the depths of my being, and I can be content because of that treasure I hold in my heart forever. Bill gave me a glimpse into the very heart of God.

God calls,

Starlight beckons.

Stretch beyond your limits.

Mysteries await those willing

To fly

*Leave a post of your own New Year's Eve memories

Pilots and Pioneers of Dreams

2011-11-06T22:10:00.000-08:00

I came across a fascinating admission today in a favorite poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…”

My thoughts are right now with my dear and close friend, Lia, who tragically lost her husband David just four weeks ago to a massive and sudden heart attack. We are kindred spirits in many ways, and I grieve with her, not only in her loss, but for all the moments and experiences that lie ahead for her, shadows that surprise with their sharp stabs, unwitting wounds, and raw encounters with the deepest emotions, tears that never seem to stop, a loss that never fully goes away.

But life is filled with serendipities, and the toast Bill and I celebrated with every breath, “Here’s to whatever comes next!” was our open-hearted embrace of the true adventure of life.

As I read the words of the poem, I realized for perhaps the first time, that I am more in love with Bill now, even than when he was alive on this earth. Crazy? Imagination? Not at all. Elizabeth Barrett sums up her soliloquy on love with this conclusion

“…and, if God choose, I shall but love thee

better after death.”

How can that be? It’s simpler than you might imagine. Now the freedom in loving is limitless. No longer distracted with human frailties and failings, or the notches etched on those superficial goalposts of worldly achievement, we are free to love our man as he truly is. The intrinsic Bill, glowing and alive with all the qualities I loved and admired so much. Dancing and fully alive in the presence of God, exploring the universes with Jesus as his guide. Courageous, sensitive, creative, spontaneous, exuberant, warm, and loving. Freed from the restraints of this earth life.

I can’t answer for those with different eyes of faith, but Lia and I both know where our guys are. Blazing new trails in the spirit life, beckoning us onward and upward. Will we be reunited in marriage? Not at all. That is but a shadow of the life to come, a glimpse of the sacred romance that God is calling us to. But the communion of soulmates and like-minded spirits may well continue in God’s eternal kingdom. What we experience here is a mere foreshadowing of what’s to come.

So I think more these days of the lessons Bill patiently tried to teach me. I was often a stubborn student. Inclined to be rebellious to instruction and discipline. I’m beginning to appreciate the finer points of his gentle coaching, his living example, quietly fulfilling his God-assigned mission to train me up to fly solo and launch off into the wild blue with confidence and the ability to make wise decisions.

The October copy of Sport Aviation magazine has an article on the 'Pilot Personality.'

Bill was the advanced version of all their descriptions. His internal clock could tell you the time, night or day, to within a few minutes. Reading the weather was second nature, and he could explain weather systems and clouds and ground fog better than most meteorologists. While filled with dreams and a continual quest for adventure, he always faced the reality of life, with a contingency plan for every “What If” situation.

‘Pilots scan people as if they were instruments; they draw conclusions at a glance, rather than relying on long and emotion-laden conversations.’ Yes, he was astute at summing people up, giving more attention to those who were genuine, regardless of their station in life.

People who talked about themselves a lot were his pet peeve, and he was never impressed with those who self-promoted. He could relate equally to a housekeeper as to a President of a foreign country. Perhaps because he treated each of them as a person of value. Where else do we read about that example?? No wonder God figured he was ready to move on to the next level.

And so I think about Lia’s husband, David. Humble, self-effacing, modest. He was a quiet doer of the Word with a heart of gold, willing to help anyone without ever asking for anything in return, and never counting the cost. I don’t know anyone who worked as hard as David, sacrificing all for his family and the dreams of his two sons.

He quietly believed in them, never demanding the moon, but always encouraging them to strive for excellence with patience and diligence. And their individual accomplishments to date have been nothing short of astonishing.

Mentoring others is a quiet calling. God whispers His wisdom in the secret places, choosing those who love to watch others grow and take flight. “Trust the wings you have been given,” Bill’s words echo in my heart. “You do know how to fly.”

The Stolen Regatta

2011-10-26T19:52:00.000-07:00

I glance at the scary Halloween face in the mirror. Who invited you? – and you’re way too early, too. Puffy balloon eye, looking out through a mere slit. Frankenstein would be proud.

Let’s back up to a prettier scene. Early morning fog hovering over a glassy lake. Canadian geese drift past boats rocking gently at anchor. Trees illuminated with fall colors glow with an inner light, hinting of stories to be told around evening firesides.

The crisp air is moist and sensuous. The Wanderin’ Star strains at her mooring, eager to slip away and cut a quiet wake through the dark water on a new voyage of discovery.

Charlie and I swab the decks, easy teamwork. The white fiberglass gleams as duck poop is washed off, splashing overboard. Charlie pulls on the motor start cord, and we find the first challenge of the day. No compression on the first half of the pull. The cord still seems to be attached, but we can’t get it to start. Fortunately we’re early, way ahead of our crew. We hike to the yacht club for some advice. Rick Smith, Vice Commodore, has seen this before, and tells us what to try next. We register, grab a cup of coffee and a donut, and return to the boat. We are blessed. Rick’s advice works like a charm, and the Wanderin’ Star is soon sliding across the foggy water and ties up at the yacht club, in a good position to start the regatta. Just one of the many reasons I am so glad to have joined the yacht club. They are a great bunch of people, and offer a wonderful support network.

The new JaM fleet at the Harbor Island Yacht Club – for novices to racing and those looking for more laid back fun – has an enthusiastic turnout of 10 boats. The two other fleets of seasoned racers are asked to treat us kindly!

Dayle, with crew Cam, Diedrick, and Charlie on the Wanderin' Star

Not much wind today, but we’re all eager to get out on the lake. My first regatta in eons, a new adventure in my role as captain without Bill. Many years ago, son James had flown out from California regularly to help us race our Hobie 16 on Percy Priest Lake, but in those days I was just crew, not strategist. I had corralled a keen crew of three young guys in their twenties – Cam Cook, Charlie Huling, and Diedrick Woodard. All willing to learn and have fun together.

I put Charlie, the most experienced, at the helm so I could train Cam and Diedrick to run the sails, and we cast off. Still cold, the sleepy motor took a notion to quit as we slid past boats at anchor. Instinctively, Charlie pulled hard on the cord, and in one of those moments of bad timing, I found myself too close as his long arm extended backwards. Pop! His elbow cracked me fair and square in the left eye.

Never one to wimp out, I wasn’t about to cancel our day’s sailing for a black eye.

I iced it to stop any swelling, but a short time later, when I blew my nose, the picture changed. My eye felt sudden pressure, moved in the socket and instantly swelled shut. Not so good! Hmm, sorry guys. I think I should get this checked out. From many years as a Vet Tech, I knew that eye problems should be addressed quickly to avoid permanent damage. I needed perfect vision for all the adventures that lay ahead in life. How could I fly with only one eye?

Charlie turned the boat around, and the guys were wonderful, willing to do whatever I needed. Maybe I could go to a walk-in clinic, and be back on the lake in time to start our race. About that time the boat slid to a halt. “Oh!” Charlie said. “I think we’ve run aground.” While I hadn’t been paying attention, on entering the harbor he had missed going between the red and green markers. Certain death on this harbor entrance. I knew that only too well.

I called Gene Lovelace, our JaM Fleet Captain, on my cell phone.

“Gene. I have two problems. I’ve injured my eye and need to get it looked at. And we just ran aground and need a tow!”

This was turning into quite a day! Novice indeed. How many years had I been sailing??

Frazier soon showed up in the Committee Boat and towed us all the way back to our own dock. God bless this club! Bill and I never had this luxury in all the years we sailed the Wanderin’ Star and ran our boat charters. Frazier took one look at my eye, and declared I should go to the emergency room at Summit immediately.

My crew has a sense of humor!

So here I am at the hospital, chaperoned by Cam and Diedrick, while Charlie stayed behind to pack up the sails and the boat. I tell you, these guys are keepers. The best crew and the best friends you could find anywhere. I just hate it that they had to miss sailing in the regatta on this picture perfect fall day. Sadly, this would be no quick fix and a return to the lake. Perforated sinus, slight abrasion to the cornea, and an eye now puffed up with air like a blow fish.

The best news (in a twisted sort of way!), when we returned to the Wanderin’ Star three hours later, was that a complete lack of wind had caused the Race Committee to cancel the regatta. No-one got to race that day. We hadn’t missed a thing. A disappointment for all – but it did absolve my guilt for my keen crew. Fellow JaM fleeter, and New Member Liaison Judy Netherton, in her brand new Catalina 22, complete with her hot shot race crew and a boat load of champagne, was reportedly still out on the lake, catching the light airs regardless. Can’t say as I would do any different!

So…to another day…and to whatever comes next – if you dare!

Italian Culture Meets the County Fair

2011-09-25T19:46:00.000-07:00

A Southern Belle dressed for the fair

An email announcing the arrival of my friend, Laura, from Milan, Italy, recently sent me scurrying for some varied activities for the weekend. The Wilson County Fair was a long way removed from the sophisticated life of this friend who married countries rather than men. First France, then Italy. But I knew she began life as a GRIT – a Girl Raised In The South. Maybe her early years in Charleston, South Carolina would reveal an appreciation for the simpler life

…so straight from the airport to the fair we went.

Laura steps back in time

Dayle's agricultural college training kicks in

It was a steamy, hot August night, the kind etched in our memories by Neil Diamond's serenades.

Julie & Laura both true patriots

Meeting up with two friends, we found a childlike enjoyment in such simple things as climbing aboard an old antique tractor, cheering pigs and ducks racing around a track,
watching sheep dog trials.

Mesmerized, we watched hands shaping wet clay on a potter's wheel. A Percheron horse plodded obediently on a wooden ramp, hitched to an ice cream churn, and our wait was rewarded when we stood outside the old barn dipping spoons into a shared cup of creamy homemade ice cream. Nothing ever tasted so good!

When did we lose touch with the quiet, steady beat of the earth, or take time to watch the stars rotate across the sky marking the seasons? That night we met folk whose hands were rough from repairing farm ploughs, eyes crinkled from years in the sun, boots muddy with manure, hats oiled with the sweat of honest work. Friendly welcomes with sweet Southern charm, stories of families and home remedies, samplings of moonshine jelly, and the humid night dancing to the rhythm of Bluegrass fiddles and banjos.

The crowds jostled amongst all the food vendors. Fresh squeezed oranges,

Julie & Laura dip into the decadent funnel cake

butter dripping off ears of corn, powdered sugar mixed with the sweet, irresistible dough of hot funnel cakes.

Winning quilts each tell a story

Rides, sideshows, exhibit halls, arts and crafts. The fair was filled with prize-winning talent.

The fun of the fair is infectious for Julie B., Julie D. and Laura

It took us all back to our roots, days when the agricultural fair was the biggest deal of the year. Laura admitted in surprise “This reminds me of my childhood. It’s wonderful!”

The aristocratic Jacobin pigeon

We often hear Barred owls (Hoot owls) calling to each other on still nights

Before the birds went to roost for the night, we admired their feathered finery. My best friend Julie has her own bevy of colorful chickens, and we wandered through the parade of roosters, hens, ducks, geese, and pigeons, all dressed as though going to a ball.

It was a return for all of us to the earthy aroma of life, and we wandered the dusty roads in wide-eyed wonder, carefree kids on the loose.

We voted this corn Best of the Wilson County Fair

Thai Cooking With Penny

2011-08-31T20:38:00.000-07:00

Penny's Thai dinners are legendary!

When a friend from long ago came back into town and offered to cook a Thai meal for her friends, we were only too willing to participate!

Penny has history with us all. For Bill and myself, it included an adventure down in the Florida Keys swimming with dolphins, followed by the most incredible dinner on the beach at a waterfront restaurant. Penny lives life in the fast lane, so it’s always fun to catch up with her again. And Thai food is her specialty.

Julie had complied with Penny's very detailed shopping list, and then the party began with various cooking assignments. Come along now and join in the fun! Your mouth will soon be watering!

I grew up with a mother who knew how to cook anything – her dishes were nothing short of miraculous. But the most intriguing thing about her recipe book, which I inherited when she passed away in 2007, was the scant detail on each page. As though all one needed to know were the basic ingredients. The directions might read “Make sauce, add chopped vegetables, cook very slightly, then add meat.” I’d learnt how to fill in the gaps and do a little improvising, which made cooking a lot of fun.

I pass on to you the same challenge. Experiment with taste, and add extra things if you have them in the fridge. Pretty soon you’ll find you’re the next Pioneer Woman blazing your own culinary trails. Don’t be afraid to experiment!

Scott, the master chef, grills the sirloin steak to perfection.

Sirloin Steak Splash with fish oil, lime juice and crushed red peppers. Jab holes in the steak with a fork so all the good flavors soak in, then grill and slice into thin strips.

Ann chops the scallions for the chicken curry

Green & Red Curry

Dice chicken breasts, slice and dice onion and garlic, and cut snow peas into bite size segments. Heat oil in a pan (coconut, Asian or olive oil are the best choices).

Saute chicken and vegies. Add coconut milk, sliced bamboo shoots, a teaspoon of green and red curry paste, green beans, zucchini, Asian eggplant, long skinny Thai peppers, and red peppers. Add more curry to taste (that’s the fun part!).

Vegies cook in a wonderful curry broth

Taste testing is the best job, as Dayle discovers

Penny and Julie prepare the sirloin steak.

At this time I need to explain that all these assignments are going on simultaneously. How you organize your own grand master plan is up to you. Invite a bunch of good friends over, and it’s easy!

Thai Salad
Grated carrot, thin sliced onion, cucumber, cilantro leaves, scallions, and lots of lime juice. Add strips of the grilled sirloin steak and thinly sliced hot pepper, and wow! Do you have a great accompaniment to the chicken curry.

Serve the curry on a bed of rice, add the Thai salad, and now it's time to relax and enjoy.

The Thai dish is ready to eat!

To this I would add a bottle of crisp, white wine, and you have an awesome meal!

Penny has many more incredible recipes, but we'll just have to wait till she's back in town…

In fact, after reading this abbreviated version of her delicious masterpieces, she will probably fly in on the next whirlwind and chastise me for not giving you all the intricate and specific details of her cooking class. Not just any fish oil will do. And curry paste...there are different degrees of quality and heat. Did you get the right kind of Thai peppers? You get the idea. Maybe next time I will be put on shopping duty. Ah, perfection is in the details.

Apologies, folks. This is the relaxed Australian version.
Can I pour you a glass of wine?

Sky King Goes to Oshkosh

2011-08-11T07:26:00.000-07:00

My husband, Bill Fergusson, was an Accidental Stunt Pilot – as I found out from his sister, Kay, over dinner one evening at the old family homeplace in Hendersonville, Tennessee.

Bill W. Fergusson II - Sky King Songbird pilot

It was back in the late Fifties, and Bill was working for Cessna Aircraft Company in Wichita, Kansas. As National Sales Manager for their new twin, the Cessna 310, Bill was constantly traveling, demonstrating their new airplane to potential customers all over the country. Nabisco, the sponsor of the popular TV series Sky King, approached Cessna about providing a new airplane for the series. The T-50 (the Bamboo Bomber) had been retired due to serious wear and tear in the main spar of the wing, and moves were afoot to begin filming a new series of episodes. Cessna jumped at the idea as a great way to promote their new twin, and agreed to provide the airplane at no cost for several weeks of filming.

Bill delivered a sparkling new Cessna 310B demonstrator to the filming site at Apple Valley, California. The stunt pilot next on the assignment list for the job was only a single engine pilot, so Bill was instructed to stay long enough to check the guy out for a twin engine rating, and then return to Wichita.
“He’s doing great,” Bill reported back to his boss, Frank Martin, “but I can’t sign him off. The insurance company would never approve it.”

“What do you mean?” his boss exploded.

“The flying involves landing on roads and dry lake beds, flying under bridges, and landing with both engines shut down. He’s just not up to that sort of flying yet. Maybe they can provide another pilot.”

The McGowan Brothers were already breathing down Martin’s neck, anxious to begin filming. Everyone’s blood pressure was rising.

“Well you stay and do the flying yourself,” Martin snapped, and slammed down the phone.

Bill soon discovered it was some of the most fun flying he had ever done since his military days. For two weeks his job was to be Kirby Grant, aka Sky King, wearing a big cowboy hat for close up shots behind the wheel of the airplane, and doing an intensive program of adventurous flying while the production company made up a film library of every imaginable sequence they needed for the upcoming series.

Fast forward to July 2011. The Fergusson clan is planning a trip to Oshkosh Airshow in Wisconsin – the first time for several members in the party of 8 (both friends & family). It was time for the world at large to learn more about the man who really did the flying for Sky King. So we made up special t-shirts featuring a picture of Bill with the Songbird, the Cessna 310 that became world famous, and what fun we had wearing them at the airshow and telling Bill’s story.

Son Dave Fergusson (L), widow Dayle Fergusson,
brother Don Fergusson (R)

What a stroke of good fortune to find a Cessna 310D at Oshkosh, beautifully restored and actually claiming to be the third Songbird in the TV series Sky King. We had the natural backdrop for our photographic memento!

The "Real Sky King" crew with Songbird III
(L to R - rear) Bari & Jamie Deaver, Stan & Callita Eason, Don Fergusson,
(L to R - front) Dave Fergusson, Dayle Fergusson, Barbara Fergusson.

Oshkosh AirVenture 2011 was an amazing affair. Picture the world’s largest airshow, where almost 14,000 airplanes had flown in, ranging from tiny ultralights to the Blue Angels’ F/A-18 fighter jets.

A sea of airplanes cover acres and acres of grass at Wittman Field, many with tents pitched under their wings. Whole sections of homebuilts, Warbirds, antique airplanes, ultralights & rotocraft, aerobatic planes, and even a special seaplane base, stretch in every direction.

B-25J Lady Luck

If one only had enough time, you could explore thousands of exhibitors, large exhibition halls, a Theatre in the Woods, the permanent AirVenture Museum, workshops, forums, kids’ activities, and author’s corners.

North American T-6 Advanced WWII Trainer

I was keen to buy the book The Barnstormer and the Lady – the story of Beechcraft founders Walter and Olive Ann Beech.

Dayle with Walter and Olive Ann's daughter, Mary Lynn Oliver,
and grandaughter Jennifer

In the early days of aviation in America, Wichita, Kansas was the home of several big aircraft manufacturers, including Cessna and Beechcraft. Bill had told me stories about the infamous Olive Ann, reknowned for her imperious demeanor and the colored flag displayed on her office door which gave fair warning whether it was safe to approach. If black, enter at one’s own risk! It was a thrill to personally meet Walter and Olive Ann’s daughter, Mary Lynn, and their grandaughter Jennifer, when Dave & I were strolling past the exhibits.

It seems I am constantly walking in Bill’s footsteps, shadowing the intriguing life he lived all over the globe, meeting people and connections from his illustrious past. He mentioned their names so casually, modest about his experiences, simply enjoying telling the stories. So many reasons I loved him so much.

Warbirds open the daily airshow at Oshkosh AirVenture 2011

The Aeroshell Aerobatic Team

Our first two days at Oshkosh were blessed with perfect temperatures in the mid-eighties. During the spectacular airshows each day, aerobatic planes trailed white plumes across midnight blue skies. Flights of Warbirds thundered overhead, the deep throated roar of their radial engines reverberating across our conscious memories.

Flying the knife edge down the runway

The Liberty Parachute Team dropped in to the strains of patriotic music

The camaraderie among pilots is like nothing experienced elsewhere. An inherent politeness and courtesy not found at other public gatherings. At every turn, someone was willing to share a story about a past flying connection or experience.

Saucy Burt Rutan design Long-EZs bask in the sun

Every stranger became a friend. The passion of thousands who had made the trek from all corners of the world had merged, and become the heartbeat of Oshkosh.

Gene Soucy with Wingwalker partner Teresa Stokes

Prototype Gweduck Amphibian

One afternoon, while looking for a shady spot to view the airshow, I was even offered fresh, ripe cherries and a chair under the wing of a prototype amphibious flying boat. This gracious group of guys from Seattle were displaying their prototype Gweduck, now being offered for sale in kit form. Its development had taken 19 years, and began with the ambition to build a flying boat without the problems of the Grumman Widgeon. It will be interesting to track their success.

Our house in Oshkosh

Rather than camping at the airfield, we rented a beautiful home in the town of Oshkosh, a more comfortable option in spite of the vicious little virus that ran its course through 7 out of 8 of us with violent vomiting and diarrhea like one of Pharoah’s plagues. Not quite the bonding experience we had anticipated!

Dave with the 1956 Aerocar - it still flies today!

Son Dave was thrilled when we found the strangest of flying contraptions that was surprisingly familiar to him.
The 1956 Aerocar N102D on display, one of only five ever built, and the only airworthy Aerocar in existence today, was once owned by TV personality Bob Cummings. When Dave was working for Gunnell Aviation at Santa Monica in the early Sixties, Bob flew in from Palm Springs one day, and wanted his car delivered to his home in the Hollywood Hills. After the wings were removed and stowed in a hangar, Dave was given the job of driving the wingless Aerocar to Bob Cummings’ home. Not many people could chalk up that experience!

Sam Johnson (Johnson Wax Co.) owned this Nomad N-22B
on Wipline floats

At Wipaire’s display tent I hopefully stopped to see if Bob Wiplinger was there. I first met Wippy in Australia – my first “date” with Bill, back in 1978, when he invited me to interview Bob as they prepared to announce the breaking news of the Australian Government Aircraft Factories (GAF) Nomad twin turboprop receiving North American certification on floats. The N-22B was being equipped with Wipline floats, and I had first shot at the breaking story for Australia’s premier aviation magazine. It was a marker moment in my career. Regretfully, at Oshkosh 2011 I would miss Wippy by a day.

1929 Waco Taperwing

We couldn’t resist a walk through the antique aircraft on our last day, wishing we could stay longer. The line up of gleaming metal and taut skin on the restored airplanes from yesteryear almost brought tears to our eyes. The early history of aviation kept alive by passionate aviators. Dave and I both relived recollections from Bill’s early days. “Paw loved the Waco. It was one of his favorite airplanes.” The Stearman – the early WWII trainer, that Bill flew when based at Selma, Alabama, was beautiful in its original colors of blue and yellow.

Tents pitched under the wings, the simplicity of life, the essence of freedom.

Pilot camping beside 1953 Tripacer

It’s hard to describe the pulse that throbs in every lover of flight when surrounded by these amazing flying machines. Antoine de Saint-Exupery expressed the flight of the soul of a man thus…

…The wind of the Spirit, blown from the stars, enters the sand of the physical body and life begins anew. In our very essence we are all Wind, Sand, and Stars.

A Brush With Hollywood Fame

2011-08-11T04:51:00.000-07:00

When Bill Fergusson, National Sales Manager for the Cessna 310, was called into Bob Chatley's office to discuss a new marketing opportunity to help promote Cessna's new twin, little did he realize he was about to have a brush with Hollywood fame as Sky King's "accidental" stunt pilot.

Bill W. Fergusson II, the real Sky King...Songbird pilot

See "Sky King Goes to Oshkosh"
and http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sky_King

Sky King t-shirts are available for $15 cash/check (includes USA domestic postage)
daylefergusson@gmail.com

The best adventures in life often take us by surprise. The secret is to always be ready!

The Wanderin' Star Sails Again!

2011-08-01T18:06:00.000-07:00

Sailing, flying, living life…we’d better get the stories out there before time wipes the slate clean with ever-increasing adventures that overlay one after another.

The Wanderin’ Star now sits impatiently at the dock – she’s like me in that regard, the preparation is all done, the effort put in… let’s go! Tiamo, my little Siamese girl, is perhaps regrettably also like her (human) mother. Fast moving, wild, impatient, impetuous. It’s actually a bit terrible to have any kind of offspring, be it natural born or adopted, reflect who you are. It’s a betrayal of our innermost secrets. We can no longer hide from the truth. All our foibles, our tendencies, our weaknesses…out there, for all to see. So let’s just admit the obvious now.

I am flawed. I run too fast, sleep too little, take life in a single bound, and expect to be there NOW! The reality...and if only Bill, my light, my compass, my steadying influence, were here to keep this wild brumby in check, were here now. Ahhh…how different the world would be. How different would I be??

At this point I will defer to the Wanderin’ Star. She has taken all my energy for these past few months. Perhaps I will find some clues to my deeper self in all that. Who knows? That crazy human instinct we have, to always be looking for meaning in what we do. If we slow down long enough to hear the music in the stillness, I suspect we will find the rhythm of our soul. I’m hoping God will pick up where Bill left off, and gently reign me in, to pause on this merry-go-round to the pace of my own heart beating.

Pressure washing the hull

It has been a long spring/summer to finally get the Wanderin’ Star ready for launching (first there was the trailer…sandblasting, painting, new electrics, new tires, etc, etc.). How often do we embark on a project only to find it way bigger than we ever expected! I’ve learnt some valuable lessons along the way – mainly about perseverance and staying committed to a project, discovering I can work hard for a prolonged period if the goal is strong enough!

Well, it’s pretty motivating to have a big 25ft sailboat parked in your driveway, sitting over 10 feet tall with its fixed keel on the trailer. For a good period it was fun to work on her every chance I got, a true labor of love, but the further I went, the more work evolved! Pressure washing the bottom, buffing, polishing, cleaning, sanding and staining the teak, replacing hardware, ropes, electrics, painting, gluing, overhauling the motor, repairing the sail cover, washing sails, rebuilding the rudder, rewiring the radio. The project took another turn when the crack in the side of her hull became an insurance job, and led to both fiberglass repair and a repaint of the whole hull.

Ray (left) kept the boat several weeks

Dayle the martian sanding off the toxic
bottom paint

Thank God for Ray – the guy I hired to do this job. He also pointed out all kinds of other things we needed to take care of! Like grinding the blisters off the steel keel & covering with an epoxy barrier paint, sanding the bottom to a super smooth finish before applying two coats of bottom paint, putting in a bilge pump, re-doing the electrics on the mast, resealing the leaking windows, and on and on! The projects he took on had awesome results. I wish all of mine had been as perfect!

There comes a time when you have to put a date on all these activities and simply launch the boat. Nephew Mike and his wife Melissa coming over from Australia to spend 4th July on the lake to see the fireworks put the cap on this.

Dave discovered the blisters
were filled with water

Awesome sister Mally was willing
to do anything

After Dave’s help grinding blisters, trying to reseal windows, and Mally’s help painting the keel, there followed a seeming lifetime of hours of lonely work. But the day Mike & Melissa arrived I declared it done! Thank God!!!!

They flew in on from both London and Australia, a nice bit of combined jetlag, but were good naturedly ready to help launch the boat the very next day.

Jeff towed the boat and helped launch the Wanderin' Star

Dave shows Mike the prize

Friends from the Harbor Island Yacht Club generously shared their expertise to accomplish a smooth launch – with just one little hiccup. It was a chilly, overcast day, and while Commodore Dave Desforges was attaching the wind vane to the top of the mast before we stepped it (raised it) …plop! The wind vane slipped from the mount and sank to the bottom of Old Hickory Lake right at the dock. We all stared in dismay. “We didn’t come this far to lose it,” I declared, ready to take off my jacket and dive in. Last summer a storm blew the last wind vane off the mast, and I’d sorely missed it when sailing. I wasn’t about to start a new season without one.

Stepping the mast takes a strong crew

Mike, my gallant Aussie nephew, wouldn’t hear of me jumping in. “I’ve got my boardies on,” he said. “I’ll go in!” He stripped down and jumped into the cold water. “Bit chilly!” he gasped, before duck diving, and coming up with a 10 ft long bar in his hand. No, not the wind vane. Try again! Several more attempts, and suddenly we noticed Dave Desforges peeling off his wet weather gear. “I know what it looks like,” he explained, secretly remembering the yacht club creed to be responsible for whatever you lose or else pay up. He dived into the murky water, and came up with the wind vane held exultantly in his hand. First time! Mike grinned sportingly. “Make a fellow feel really good!” he admitted with chagrin.

Mike catches supper

Two days later the Wanderin’ Star embarked on her shake-down cruise. Sun sparkling on the water, a light breeze, and, in answer to Mike’s prayer, the fish were biting!

A catfish and striped bass found their way into the pan for supper that night. Delicious! The new mainsail, custom made by Australian sailmaker (of course!) Rolly Tasker, performed superbly, and the champagne cork was retrieved from the lake to be added to the collection in the wine barrel at home to mark this momentous occasion.

Mike retrieves the champagne cork

The Wanderin’ Star is sailing again!

Young love

Mike learns about
climbing the mast

Fourth of July she cruised the lake with her crew of nine. Memorable sunset, fireworks, laughter, friendship, and a stolen kiss (watch those Aussies!).

Here’s To Whatever Comes Next!

I Left My Heart in San Francisco

2011-03-06T21:33:00.000-08:00

We paint our memories in vivid colors across the canvas of life. As the refrains of the song echo in my mind, I can remember so clearly the evening Bill and I walked into our San Francisco hotel, my first time on American soil. A young man at the grand piano in the lobby was playing “I Left My Heart in San Francisco,” and from that moment I fell under its spell. It became one of our two most favorite cities in the world, filled with magic and romance.

What a treat when nephew James invited me to spend the long weekend out there. I don’t think I have ever been spoilt quite like that before. He went over the top, leaving me open mouthed, a big “Wow!” hanging on my lips as each new moment unfolded.

The first pleasure was being met by James and his delightful girlfriend, Dana, at the airport, temperatures cold, a blustery heavy rain falling. But the warmth of the welcome was like a big umbrella. We dodged the showers, laughing in the fun of new discoveries. A noisy, friendly, English-style pub jammed with a wildly eclectic mix shoulder-to-shoulder on a rainy Saturday afternoon. Sharing the umbrella as the rain spattered on the water and boats at anchor at the deserted marina. The hilly streets around Berkeley, intriguing shops lining hip neighborhoods.

Claremont Hotel

The gracious Claremont perched on a tree-covered hillside, presiding in the elegant glory of her colorful history. Exchanging stories of our lives over drinks in P.F. Changs, and then a wondrous meal in the best company, oblivious to the steady rain falling glistening on the lamplit streets.

Next morning James and I visited a local Uniting Methodist Church – his choice for our spiritual nourishment. Discovering the call of God on your life was the theme. God couldn’t have been speaking more plainly. When tears prick my eyes, and escape their retraints to slip down my cheek, I always know the Spirit of God is there. And so He was. In power and tenderness, reaching in to the core.

Anything goes in San Fran!

James’ next treat was an incredible Sunday Jazz Brunch at Scott’s in Walnut Creek. One delicious dish after another. Imagine four different types of Eggs Benedict! Elegant, tasteful, friendly, and mimosas that were mysteriously always full. Then we hopped a ride on BART – the Bay Area Rapid Transit – into San Francisco, and wandered the hilly streets of this fair city.

“Wait here while I talk to someone,” instructed James, glancing at his watch. He chatted to the concierge outside the Hilton Hotel, then led me round the corner and down the hill, stopping beside a red and white mini bus. He pointed to the sign on the back of the bus, grinning broadly. “San Francisco Helicopters” it proclaimed. Oh my gosh! I was speechless. A dream come true to fly over San Francisco Bay.

Our Bell 206 Jet Ranger rose above the airport and flew northward along the western perimeter of the city. Paragliders glinted silver in the afternoon sun, hovering over the cliffs south of Ocean Beach. Flying between 500 and 1000 feet, we admired the neat grids of whitewashed houses, almost able to determine the make and model of cars driving down the road. We flew low over the Presidio on a straight line to the sharp red pylons of the Golden Gate Bridge spanning San Francisco Bay. She was beautiful in the clear California sunshine. And then…what a surprise…we flew under the Golden Gate Bridge, almost skimming the tops of sailboats heeling in the brisk breeze below! Too cool! “Can we do that again?” I begged the pilot, but he shook his head ‘No.’

Then on past Alcatraz, once a formidable prison where all but a few of the handful of inmates who escaped were either shot or drowned in the treacherous, cold waters of San Francisco Bay. We circled low over landmarks in the hilly city by the Bay, Fisherman’s Wharf bustling with tourists, the marina filled with boats from around the world packed in like sardines, A T & T Park - home stadium for the San Francisco Giants, and over the pylons of the Oakland Bay Bridge that links San Francisco with Oakland and Berkeley.

That evening, after the mandatory chilly stroll through Fisherman’s Wharf, we joined the patrons of the Buena Vista, reknowned for its Irish coffees. Would you believe everyone at the bar was drinking Irish coffees? It’s true! And they were the best!

Monday we followed Highway 1 down the California coast, savoring the stunning scenery, quaint coastal towns, steep cliffs, lighthouses, fertile fields of artichokes and bright yellow oilseed rape. As the sun dipped low on the horizon we clambered over rocks along the beach at Pacific Grove, until daylight faded into dusk and the brisk ocean breeze encouraged us to turn for home. A brief stop at Cannery Row in Monterey reminded us of the history of this area, vividly portrayed in John Steinbeck’s novel of the same name.

The weekend was over all too soon. Closeness renewed with nephew James, who had spent a year with us in Tennessee during his teens, and become more like a son. Now a mature young man making his way in the world. Bill would have felt as proud as I did. More memories to add to this city that has always captured my heart.

And the Snow Keeps Coming...

2011-02-07T18:20:00.000-08:00

The seventh snow this winter arrived today, blowing horizontally, and moving in so quickly that some school buses up in Robertson County got stranded on some of the hilly back roads. It meant Kathy and I got to leave work early, and by the time I reached the top of the ridge it had already been transformed into a snowy wonderland. Tree limbs covered in white frosting, a dusting beginning to stick to the roads. Kathy’s husband, Joel, had called to tell her there was 3 inches in Springfield and she’d better head home.

The wonderful side benefits of these quite frequent snows this winter has been a little more leisure time. I’m very grateful! Arriving home at 3:30pm, with plenty of daylight remaining, it completely energizes me.

So the bird feeders are soon all filled. Tiamo is going crazy inside watching the birds in the snow, simply dying for the day I will let her outside. She will be a killer hunter, and I’m not excited about it for the birds’ sake. She’s fast as lightning. It’s so pretty I even take a walk down into the woods – not done nearly so often since Schooner departed. Have I gotten lazy? Wrapped in scarf and jacket to keep the biting wind and blowing snow at bay, I am once again in awe at the pristine beauty snow brings to the landscape. Frosted pinecones on a heavily laden bough, cold crunching beneath my feet, Cardinals a red flash darting between the trees.

Back into the welcome warmth of our home, there is soon a fire crackling in the hearth, and it’s early enough that I decide the Pioneer Woman shouldn’t have all the fun.

Time to get busy in the kitchen. I’m trying really hard to develop some healthy habits, changing my diet and exercising more often. I’ve found a great recipe for mini quiches, so cook up a batch that will be healthy breakfasts for the next week. Yes, I know, diets come and go, but the present attitude is to cut out dairy and grains and processed foods. Get back to the perfect weight and work on the physical conditioning.

These quiches are so simple. Eggs and vegetables. That’s it. Add some herbs and seasoning. Take a look at these pictures – perfect for those quick breakfasts on the run.

Next, I prepare the crockpot for a chicken curry that will simmer tomorrow and produce one of my most delectable creations. Bill and I loved making curries. He may not be physically present in the kitchen any more, but he sure is in spirit. Always. We had such fun doing this together.

Then it’s a batch of blueberry muffins for Home Group tomorrow night – using almond milk instead of cow’s milk. They look pretty good!

For dinner a stir-fry fits right into the program. Chicken strips and vegetables, with a glass of Australian red. Can’t do much better than that. I think I like this healthy regime!

Now, excuse me while I settle back by the fire to do some writing. The book awaits, and Tux and Tiamo have both settled in for a long winter’s nap. Cats! They know how to do it!

When is it going to snow again?

Christmas on Amelia Island

2010-12-30T19:33:00.000-08:00

Tiamo selects Christmas lights

It's quite amazing how time slips by. My excuses for not writing more are not even worthy of mention.

Instead, I will take this opportunity to share this Christmas before the New Year rolls in.

A long winter's nap

Don and Barbara invited me to spend Christmas with them on Amelia Island, Florida. Tiamo stayed at the clinic with Ann - spending her first Christmas in a cage, but it was good to know she was safe and warm. She did enjoy all the early stages of Christmas, such as putting up Christmas lights and

wrapping gifts.

Wrapping gifts is fun

Tux was thrilled to have the house to himself, able to come and go at will, with no pesky little sister bothering him.

Ghost Gums on the Ridge

I missed Tennessee's white Christmas - but we'd already enjoyed our first snow on December 14, so I was fine with a walk on a sparkling beach instead!

Amelia Island - Christmas Eve

Black Skimmers

Christmas in Florida - invigorating walks on the beach under a cold, blue sky criss-crossed with contrails. The beach where I always feel so close to Bill. The sea was the reward - sparkling silver in the sun. Migratory birds wheeling and soaring in the brisk wind. Black Skimmers sporting orange bands on their long beaks sharing the same spot of sand with resident flocks of gulls, brief transients on their journey southward.

St. Peter's Episcopal Church

Barb, Kendall and I attended a Candlelight Service on Christmas Eve at the beautiful little Episcopal Church (built 1881) in Fernandina Beach, enjoying the procession and ritual and singing as the clock ticked over to midnight.

Rick teaches Debi how to play the drums

The most memorable Christmas gift was the drum set nephew Dennis gave to his brother Rick

Dennis eyes Don's helicopter

- and the remote controlled helicopters that kept the "boys" entertained for hours!

My thrill was a ride in Rick's 427 Ford Cobra, followed by a fast drag run down Rick's airplane runway in Dennis' Corvette. These guys are the experts on fast cars!

Don carves the turkey in Debi's kitchen

We had two Christmas dinners, with great company of family and friends. Don and Barb hosted the first dinner on Friday, and Rick and Debi the second one on Sunday. Linda's Bread Pudding is the recipe we all want - maybe I will have it to share next posting!

Debi and Kendall

Lots of great food and wine, cozy fires, comfortable hours spent reading and chatting. I am blessed to have family to share this time.

Christmas is best shared with family and friends

Lessons From a Seagull

2010-10-30T21:47:00.000-07:00

God seems to know when we hit the wall. Stress mounting so high it feels like my head will fly off my neck, pressure mounting outside my control. Not managing it very well at all. And then God says “Let’s go,” and I fly away with him, leaving it all behind.

Amelia Island has been our getaway since Don moved to his home in a little piece of heaven. The view from my bedroom is early morning mist, dappled shadows, a faint breeze stirring palm fronds, the ocean’s deep-throated echo.

First footprints in the shallows, covered in swirling foam. If you stand in one spot in the wet sand for very long, you sink in deeper and deeper, pretty soon off balance and teetering. You have to move forward or step back, but you can’t stay in the same place. It’s a strange sensation, the sand disappearing beneath your feet, tide rushing back, leaving you stranded. Just like life.

A dog walks its owner along the beach, a broad stretch of shimmering wet sand, a mirage lapped by rippling waves, their energy almost spent. Two dogs – one the mirror image of the other, wet and glistening. Crab holes fill and gurgle as the sea washes them clean, little speedboat wakes as the water recedes. The sky is criss-crossed with contrails, dreams scattering in every direction in pursuit of adventure.

A feather floats on the tide and I reach for it. Held between my fingers, it hangs soggy and straight. I have stolen its life. Instantly regretful, I release it to float free again, and it quivers in delight, fluffing out its quills, off again.

Pedaling hard, a bare-chested cyclist rides along the beach, playing the drums on his handlebars with two drumsticks, to the accompanying symphony of the sea. A group of women walk a muscular greyhound, one sipping wine from a glass on their Sunday afternoon stroll.

The cheeky sandpiper digs for crabs, running from the rippling eddies of foam flecked water that wash in on the rhythm of the sea, a game that goes on for hours.

A dozen seagulls face into the wind on their private stretch of shallows.

A lone gull stands apart, two broken wings hanging like heavy grey suitcases on either side of his white body. It breaks my heart. On this horizon of freedom and beauty, he is damaged and earthbound. He gazes over his beloved ocean, wanting only to feel the breeze ruffle his feathers and the salt air fill his nostrils. He nestles into a spot on the damp sand, resting, kissed by the sun and caressed by the wind. But not for long.

Another gull approaches, menacing, chases him with evil intent. My broken bird scurries on, bravely carrying his heavy burden. I remember scenes from Jonathon Livingston Seagull, the ruthlessness of the flock, unforgiving when one of their brothers falls from perfection. I wish I could give him new wings. That would show them! He’d be the bird that would suddenly appear on that distant shore, advanced lessons already learned.

* * *

My last day at the beach. No camera, no notebook, no backpack, no people. Just me walking along the seashore. Sun on my face. Sun on my shoulders. Footprints in the sand erased by the incoming tide.

Tiamo Steals the Show

2010-08-30T23:13:00.000-07:00

Tiamo's First Day

Last night was like one of those wonderful September nights I remember so well. Warm, but no longer the baking heat of summer that has been so oppressive. The window open and a misty rain falling, tires of a passing car squelch on the wet road. Tux and I are no longer just survivors. With the arrival two nights ago of Tiamo – our sweet little Siamese girl – we are a family again. Life has returned to our home.

Her name, Tiamo, means “I love you” in Italian. And she really is a lover.

Looking for mischief

Tux glares at the Interloper

Now I delight to sit on the sofa in the original part of our home, notebook on my lap making notes for the book, while Tiamo scampers around chasing toys, climbing the scratching post, and playing tag with the blinds cord. Tux is reluctant to admit this little interloper into his domain, but I tricked him earlier.

Tiamo was asleep on the sofa, nestled under my arm, when he suspiciously crept in, sniffing for any signs of her. Up till now, as soon as he sighted her he’d bare his sharp white teeth with a vicious hiss, and skulk out of the room, furious with me, enraged with jealousy. Then I would go and pet him, reassure him he was still my #1 boy, and he’d purr happily, all forgotten.

Tiamo has settled right in!

This time he was oblivious to her presence, and finally perched contentedly on the scratching post, watching out the window as daylight faded, convinced she must have left. What a surprise when she finally stretched and mewed! He hissed with a toothy snarl, while I snapped pictures and the flash disarmed them both. I think we’re making progress! He stayed quite a while before miaowing to be let out the front door. While young mischief pranced around the room, Tux reclined on the front porch listening to the night noises, still king of his domain.

Hard at work at the Chamber

Today Tiamo had her first day at work – accompanying me to the Chamber of Commerce, where she was cuddled and spoilt royally by Kathy.

Her life of adventure is just beginning!

Time for a catnap

The Art of Enjoyment

2010-08-30T21:49:00.000-07:00

Funny how too much pleasure can be seen as an indulgence. We work at such a crazy pace, fill our lives with responsibilities – but slowing down to enjoy life, to savor the moments…we’ve almost forgotten how. Even my chiropractor says I need to learn how to relax. I can hardly remember the last time I sat in front of the TV for a couple of hours watching a movie. If I’m not being industrious in some way, I almost feel guilty.

But last weekend (a week ago), circumstances contrived to pack in the most fun weekend I’ve had in the longest time. I played all weekend, it’s true. And since you’re all probably so disciplined that you wouldn’t take a whole weekend off, here are some pictures to remind you that life is to be lived, and even though I don’t have my soulmate to share the moments with anymore – God fills them with the joy of His presence that draws me onwards.

The weekend begins…

EAA (Experimental Aircraft Association) Fly-In Breakfast at Gallatin airport Saturday morning. I belong to the Gallatin chapter, and it was our turn to host the fly-in, so I arrived at the airport around 7:30am to help Carolyn. She had cooked up the most incredible breakfast, that everyone declared was like a fantastic Sunday brunch! I helped collect the money, then prowled around some of the beautiful airplanes that had flown in from the surrounding region, most of them from Lebanon, TN.

1958 model Cessna 310

This immaculate Cessna 310 was a ’58 model, similar to the one Bill would have flown in his days doing the stunt flying for Sky King. It was always his favorite airplane.

I’ve always had a soft spot for the simple, basic airplanes, like this sweet little Piper Cub. Glad that all my early flying was basic stick and rudder in a glider. The pilot has promised to take me flying in this one sometime, so need to get myself back current to take full advantage of such an opportunity.

This beautiful aerobatic biplane is available for lease for anyone wanting to go through the paces of experiencing the real art of flying.

For those of us who didn’t get to fly that day, I came across this delightful video of those magnificent men enjoying a Sunday afternoon flying at Bucks County airport, Pennsylvania. Enjoy!

I was due at Gail’s place around 9:00am, where several of us saddled up the horses for a three hour ride through fields and woods adjoining her property.

The Magnificent Five

Emma & Dayle

No day’s ride is ever short of an adventure, and as we blazed a trail through thick woods and scrub up a steep slope, Julie was knocked clear off her huge Belgian horse, Caylee, by a tree limb stretched right across the rocky path. Always the brave horsewoman, she climbed right back on for the ride home. I was riding Red, an old gaited gentleman horse that used to pull a wagon for the Amish. Gail had been feeding him alfalfa, so he actually had more zip to expend than all the other horses that day, and we had a few nice gallops.

Time to go home and clean up, and then I met up with 6 friends for a Girl’s Night Out at the movies. Chef’s Market was doing a three-week menu special to coincide with the movie Eat, Pray, Love –serving Italian dishes the first week, Indian the second, and Indonesian the third.

We enjoyed some Italian specialities, then went to the movie based on the book, which is a woman’s journey to explore pleasure, spirituality and balance in Italy, India and Bali.

Sunday I explored my own spiritual growth in church, then later that afternoon took friends sailing on the Wanderin’ Star – including a really special family to whom sailing was brand new. That is always fun!

Kesia - first time sailor

It was a perfect afternoon, the wind filling our sails, water sparkling in sun-dappled irridescence. Laughter, exhilaration, and once again that incredible sense of inner peace I so often shared with Bill on our boat, when I could quite happily forget time and sail carefree and happy into the velvet softness of night.

"I fly, I sail, I throw caution to the wind"

The Furnace of Life

2010-08-15T22:39:00.000-07:00

This morning while I was praying I asked God to help me see things through His eyes. The sun rose through the pine trees and poured its heat and light onto my closed eyes, and in that moment I saw the glass in the furnace, fire blazing, burning hot. I was that molten glass on the long rod of the Venetian glass blower.

He expertly turned it this way and that, dipped it in cold water, then began fashioning it to a form only visible in his mind’s eye. Returned it again to the fire.

Flames, heat, molten glass, colors melting, flowing, screaming in the agony of change. Always, at the perfect moment recognized by the master, he pulled it again from the furnace to sizzle in relief in cooling waters. Then more molding, fashioning, drawing out the beauty and artistry of this one unique piece. His perfect creation. No two the same. We watched in wonder, mesmerized by the flames, the burning heat, the sizzle of steam rising, the emerging beauty.

Thank you, Lord, I whispered. This is how you transform our lives. You hold us in the furnace of life, turning us this way and that while the fires sear us and consume our arrogance. We are overcome with the trials of life, the pain and the agony, the heartache, the loss, the broken dreams, the grief, the failure. Yet you keep turning this molten glob of glass, knowing just how much heat to allow before cooling us in the waters of your love, molding us expertly with your fingers, unafraid of being burnt as you tenderly shape us into a creature of beauty only you could envisage.

The colors of our life bleed in misshapen swirls, our mistakes dark streaks, our personal agonies drops of blood in pools of blue and indigo and violet.

The glassblower finally removes the glass from his rod and caresses it into its final form. Searing heat, sizzling cold, stretching, molding. We watch in wonder as a work of art unfolds in all its beauty. All the pain forgotten.

This is how I see each one of you, the Lord spoke to my spirit. You live the pain and the struggle, the loss and heartache. I see beauty emerging through the furnace of life. Allow me to transform you through these trials into a creation of exquisite beauty.

The Last Magic Carpet Ride

2010-08-14T21:39:00.000-07:00

Schooner in his Magic Carpet

It could only be to one place. Our usual haunt at Books-a-Million, where Schooner hung out happily in his truck while we – or, as it’s been reduced to in this new life – I would indulge in a good book and a latte. Extra hot, extra cup of foam on the side. This was our ritual.

Bill sharing the spoils of a Magic Carpet ride

For years it was the three of us. Our little escape. Schooner and I kept it going these past two years. He always eager to be boosted up into his magic carpet.

Fun on the Wanderin' Star

Oh, the places it had taken him! Sailing, camping, swimming, visiting dog friends, feeding the horses, church, collecting firewood, shopping, cappuccinos, every trip a new adventure.

Camping at Big South Fork

As the truck rumbled down the road, King Schooner always barked excitedly, standing legs apart, perfectly balanced, flag tail blowing in the breeze, golden furry pantaloons flying.

Neighborhood dogs emerged from every house, insanely jealous and driven to frenzy. Occasionally Schooner would snap at overhanging branches. It was a fine game.

This last magic carpet ride was a touch subdued. Schooner stood for a while, but soon subsided in a heap, breathing in all the great night scents from a reclining position that was easier on his arthritic hips. I handed him the usual dog treats while I went into the book store for my latte. It was late, nearly closing time. In fact, they had already cleaned up the cappuccino machine for the night. But in deference to a regular customer, they obliged with my favorite caffeine fix.

Funny how those memorable occasions just don’t work out in the perfect way we think they should. I tipped generously for their trouble, and, feeling guilty for leaving Schooner out in the truck alone, I decided to share our last night together. Took my coffee and sat in the bed of the truck with my companion for a seeming lifetime. Schooner was a bit puzzled at the attention. If I returned to the truck, it must mean we were ready to leave! What was I doing sitting up there with him?? And then, wouldn’t you know it, while reaching for something out of my purse, I knocked the coffee over, and now sat in a warm, wet puddle, while my barely tasted latte soaked my shorts and dribbled out of the truck bed onto the ground. So much for those final memories. I gave up, and we drove home for the last time.

Now it’s just over a week later. They gave me Schooner's ashes at the clinic a few days ago. They still sit on the kitchen table in the black gift bag, the wooden box wrapped in paw-printed tissue paper buried inside. Is that supposed to be Schooner? It's all rather odd, and my mind hasn't quite accepted that dramatic transformation. I'm sure I'll walk outside soon and find him lying contentedly on the back deck.

My gentle spirit, so full of love, those adoring brown eyes and soft golden fur. The sweetest companion, ready for anything, or content to simply lie close by. My last special connection with Bill. He was always a Daddy’s boy, and I regret I have not been as attentive as Bill always was.

A thousand memories scroll by. I remember the day we brought him home. Schooner was a rescue dog, and had spent the first year and a half of his life tied to a post. I can still see him running the hills in our woods, exhilarated in his new-found freedom. Boat days were his absolute favorite. While we cleaned the Wanderin’ Star, he would leap off the dock retrieving sticks, sometimes swimming way out into the middle of the lake, startling the Canadian geese. Then he would blow dry on the way home, always stopping for a cappuccino, where shoppers would stop to pet him in the back of the truck.

Snow dog

Often I would find him sleeping on the floor beside Bill napping on the sofa. Funny moments – vacuuming up sawdust from the kitchen floor while Bill constructed my desk; licking up champagne that had overflowed on to the carpet. Happiest when his truck was being used for some important job. Schooner lived life to the full - every moment of his 16 years. He was a true Fergusson. Youthful, exuberant, loving, with an insatiable zest for life.

The hands of time advance imperceptibly, and the chimes that mark the moments often catch us by surprise. Just too many goodbyes in recent days.

Sprinkling Bill's ashes

Tonight a romantic crescent moon slips below the horizon in another hot August night. From the perfect family of two people, two dogs and two cats, we are now down to one person and one cat. Hanging on by a thread. The champagne cork shoots high into the darkness, and lands with a thud on the deck, bouncing twice. Bill and I declared we would always celebrate life, no matter what. Even in the loss and sadness, the life of those we have loved continues on.

So here’s to you, Schoon, and To Whatever Comes Next. For all the memories, for all the love and joy and adventures we shared. For all those magic carpet rides. I will miss you, my friend.

Cooking with Peggy at Madison Creek Farms

2010-07-31T08:20:00.000-07:00

Peggy Lynn Marchetti

Saturday morning cooking workshops at Madison Creek Farms are so much fun. Peggy Marchetti (Loretta Lynn’s daughter) and her husband Mark run this wonderful organic farm right here in Goodlettsville. Beds of brilliant dahlias, cosmos, sunflowers and zinnias add splashes of color to the dozens of raised beds filled with herbs and vegetables. The little outdoor Pavilion Market showcases Peggy’s fresh homemade blueberry and blackberry pies, home baked bread and a variety of preserves.

Blueberry & Plum Pie

During the summer Madison Creek Farms offers a series of cooking workshops in the Farmhouse Kitchen, and last weekend it was Cooking with Herbs. To an eager audience of around 20, Peggy held court in her delightfully spacious kitchen.

She began with making pesto, and into the blender went bundles of fresh cut basil, several cloves of garlic, toasted walnuts (pine nuts are a more expensive alternative), olive oil, parmesan cheese, and a generous squeeze of lemon. Folk soon lined up at her large wooden kitchen table to spoon the pesto on crackers and sample.

Several eggplants were sliced and placed on a baking tray to roast in the oven – destined for panini. While spaghetti boiled on the stove, Peggy sautéed several cloves of garlic and a small diced onion in a big skillet for the beginnings of a very flavorful tomato jam.

Heirloom Tomato Jam

She then added plump Brandywine heirloom tomatoes, jalapeno pepper, brown sugar, balsamic vinegar, olive oil, water, and fresh chopped basil, letting the mixture gradually reduce down to about half.

Love that apron!

Once the spaghetti was cooked and drained, Peggy added a generous spoonful of pesto, a drizzle of olive oil and a handful of halved cherry tomatoes – and voila! An absolutely delicious pasta dish.

Joel Arnold, Sous Chef for the Day

By this stage everyone’s mouths were watering, and the atmosphere had mellowed to that of friends visiting in a farmhouse kitchen. Exactly how Peggy liked it! This is the true ambiance of Madison Creek Farms. While we were in the kitchen learning how to cook up delectable dishes using their farm produce, Mark was taking care of customers to the farm market who had come to buy preserves, fresh baked bread and pies, organic vegetables and herbs, and pick their own cut flowers from beds flamboyant with color.

Panini ready to eat

Peggy is quite remarkable in her ability to multi-task and has the energy of a 20-year-old. Her vibrancy rubs off on everyone, and we are all keen to be rubbed in this same genie-juice. She whisks the roasted eggplant out of the oven and spreads the slices on crusty bread brushed with pesto. Adds shredded Italian cheese, a heaped spoonful of tomato jam straight from the skillet, and a handful of fresh arugula. We quickly lined up to sample the spoils of the morning’s gourmet cooking class. We shall definitely return!

Time to sample the spoils!

Peggy’s recipes are listed below. Visit her website at www.madisoncreekfarms.com for more details of this wonderful organic farm, and become a follower of her blog at www.thefemalefarmer.com

Heirloom Tomato Jam

2 tbs olive oil
1 diced small onion
¼ cup balsamic vinegar
3 tsp brown sugar
4 cups chopped tomatoes
2 minced garlic cloves
1 chopped jalapeno pepper
chopped fresh basil
¼ cup water

Pesto

1 bunch of fresh basil
½ cup toasted walnuts or pine nuts
3 cloves garlic
½ cup olive oil (approx)
¼ cup parmesan cheese

First Wedding at Ghost Gums!

2010-07-24T22:25:00.000-07:00

Photo:DonWrightDesigns.com

What a thrill to have our very first wedding at Ghost Gums on the Ridge on July 3rd! Skylar - the son of my very special friends Julie & Scott – and his fiancée Suzy, had chosen Ghost Gums as their place of choice for both wedding and reception. It was a busy time getting the place ready before I left for two weeks in Italy, but Skylar and Suzy house-sat while I was gone, completing many of the preparations.

And then what an eventful week! I returned home from Italy after midnight Sunday, June 27th. On Tuesday night Skylar was admitted to Hendersonville Hospital for an emergency appendectomy! Would the wedding have to be delayed, we wondered? Well, don’t ever underestimate the power of love. This young man was motivated! Nothing was going to stop him from marrying his bride that coming Saturday! He bounced back from that surgery like nothing had happened.

Very early Wednesday morning a huge 50ft limb broke off a hackberry tree and fell across the driveway at Ghost Gums. The driveway was passable – but it would definitely be in the way for the wedding! An email for help went out, and Thursday evening friends David and son Davey Sandgren came by after a long hard day installing awnings in 100 deg heat – and in no time at all, that tree was cut up, the brush hauled off to the burn pile, and logs piled on the wood heap (that’s an Australian term, for the uninitiated). Wow, those guys were awesome!

Friday afternoon Ghost Gums was a hive of activity, folk cutting grass, weedeating, pressure washing, setting out tables and chairs and dance floor and lights. Then it was the wedding rehearsal under the spreading walnut tree out in the field. The wedding party and family – in which I was graciously included – in their transformed mode after all the work, gathered at Chef’s Market Café and Take Away in Goodlettsville for a wonderful rehearsal dinner. If you have never eaten at Chef’s you are missing an incredible experience. The Mediterranean atmosphere and fresh food is second to none (www.chefsmarket.com). The restaurant is owned by friends Jim and Cheryl Hagy, and their personal touch, passion, and dedication has set them apart.

Photo:DonWrightDesigns.com

Saturday July 3rd was the wedding day. Early afternoon Ghost Gums was overflowing with the wedding party, dressed and ready for photographs. Bride, groom, five lovely ladies, five handsome men, the parents and grandparents of the bride and groom. Blue sky and sunshine gave way to some innocent sprinkles that developed rapidly into a tropical downpour. Friends called. It wasn’t raining anywhere else! From 2:30-4:30pm the skies opened up and the rain fell in torrents. No-one panicked. The bride and groom took it in stride. Tennessee is notorious for pop-up thunderstorms. We knew it would pass.

And God was good - as He always is. The rain stopped, and an ethereal mist hovered down the treeline in the back field, adding atmosphere to the wedding photos. We all dried off the tables and chairs, set everything out, and at 7:00pm Skylar and Suzy shared their vows and pledged their troth.

They would have danced all night if they could -see Skylar and Suzy in stunning action below!

Let the photos tell the rest of the story.

Photo credits to Rick Banning, Dayle Fergusson & Don Wright (www.donwrightdesigns.com)

Photo: DonWrightDesigns.com

Photo:DonWrightDesigns.com

The poem Skylar and Suzy printed on their wedding order of service captures the love they share.

Photo:DonWrightDesigns.com

You and I

Have so much love,

That it

Burns like a fire,

In which we bake a lump of clay

Molded into a figure of you

And a figure of me.

Then we take both of them,

And break them into pieces,

And mix the pieces with water,

And mold again a figure of you,

And a figure of me.

I am in your clay.

You are in my clay.

In life we share a single quilt.

In death we will share one coffin.

- Kuan Tao-sheng

Photo:DonWrightDesigns.com

Blessings on the newly married couple as they begin a new life in Colorado. We raise our glass in Bill’s inimitable toast -To Whatever Comes Next! And indeed it will be good.

Mystery of Life

2010-07-23T22:47:00.000-07:00

Approaching a full moon, and once again there is magic to be found in these evenings. The frustrations are forgotten and in their place a curious peace wrapped me in its embrace last night as I sat in the gazebo enjoying the night chorus of tree frogs. A quiet peacefulness inside my head, as though I was floating on a breeze, weightless, so totally relaxed. No earthly idea where such a peace had mysteriously come from. But it was delicious, and I savored it, for the first time in my life appreciating such a state of calm. Perhaps someone had offered up a prayer for me.

And then the discovery. Something soft as I brushed past the post holding one of the deck lamps. I retrieved a flashlight to see what I had touched, and beheld the wonder of a cicada emerging from its crispy brown shell. Suspended in half life. Was it alive? A slight movement of a tiny, fragile leg. I watched, mesmerized. Another quiver. I held my breath, caught in the mystery of life unfolding, transforming.

Gradually, an invisible life force silently pulsed energy into this new creation. Minutes stretched unhurried. A slight breeze rustled the leaves overhead. Almost imperceptibly the creature pushed its soft body out of the shell, soft wrinkled wings unfolding tentatively, hanging limp. Claws clasped the neck of the dry shell, while it straddled its former home, pausing to allow the warm night air to harden its vulnerable new body.

Instinctively the cicada turned its wings in slow motion, strengthened from the struggle, now air drying and growing rigid, delicate filigreed lacewings.

I wondered at the bravery I was witnessing. Pushing onward into an unknown world, leaving the security of its protective shell that had kept it hidden safe underground for several years. Tux lay sprawled on a nearby chair. Didn’t the innocent creature hanging on the post know this cat had crunched cicadas in his feline jaws for many a summer evening’s snack? Did it know that soon it would enter a dimension unimaginable in its freedom? That after years of solitary silence it would sing joyously in a loud chorus of hundreds? It had been given wings. It could fly!

Entranced, I marveled at God’s intricate design of all His creation. The night had come bearing gifts.

Silver Linings

2010-07-19T20:30:00.000-07:00

There are days when you kick against the obstacles and frustrations. It's hot and steamy, after a long day's work; the hose keeps jumping out of the bucket, as you water your parched dry garden; the dog insists on lying right in front of the back door, and the mosquitoes are biting your bare arms. The replacement pump you just bought for the tiny fountain is too powerful - another trip to Lowes! The weedeater that's taken several days to try and fix still doesn't work, and then you snap the fine plastic tubing for the fuel line and you're screwed for one more day (or two). My cool has gone, and I kick the weedeater with a few choice words, now suddenly angry that Bill dared to leave me to manage all this chaos on my own. It's a good thing no-one is here to witness this tantrum. And then, in one brief turn of my head, God captures my gaze heavenward, and the frustration snap freezes and slides off like melting ice.

Wow! Wispy cirrus clouds paint the sky in feathered brush strokes, and jets blaze silver trails, straight as an arrow, wings glinting in the sun. I stand in awe at this spectacular sky, feet planted in the open field, reminded instantly of all the reasons I wanted to fly. Silently thanking Bill for opening up this world to me, where we chased the clouds and soared with eagles, and watched the earth and sky turn as we played in unrestrained abandon in our sleek fiberglass sailplanes. I am no longer earthbound. One glance, and I'm up there, free as a bird.

An Italian Affair...Food for the Writer's Soul

2010-06-28T00:55:00.000-07:00

The story begins two weeks ago...

We are enjoying the rare experience of a writer’s workshop in the hill country 90 miles east of Rome - aptly titled Italy in Other Words. Liz and I have joined a group of six other writers, led by two wonderful educators and published authors from San Francisco and Washington D.C.. Kathryn leads the daily workshop. Helen has family roots in Abruzzo, and a passion to share the richness of this colorful region of Italy.

The medieval fortified hill town of Santo Stefano di Sessanio is an intriguing maze of stone archways, tiny balconies overlooking secluded courtyards, steep cobblestone pathways, and terracotta planters overflowing with a tumble of red and pink geraniums.

Ancient doors stand closed at every turn, daring me to open them and explore inside. Every house in this charming village is a cave of mystery, lit with candlelight flickering against walls stained with age and smoke.

Books filled with yellowing pages of indecipherable Italian script lean against each other for support, their bindings aged and cracked. Pigeons roost on weathered terracotta tile roofs, while swallows dart for tiny gnats in the deep blue summer sky. Old men sit in the piazza, sharing observations of life in their lilting Italian tongue.

I sip on a late afternoon cappuccino, relaxing after several hours of writing. The poppy I picked yesterday from the field down in the valley is pressed blood-red between the pages of my journal, full of the passion of these villages perched on hillsides throughout this beautiful Abruzzo region.

Santo Stefano dates back to the 13th century, a time when feudal barons ruled a dozen villages and shepherds grazed sheep on the rocky slopes of these Apennine Mountains. At night they would corral them within the security of stone-walled sheepfolds.

The crumbling remains of Rocca di Calascio, the medieval, 12th century fortress, presides from its lofty peak 4500 ft above broad, fertile valleys and surrounding hill towns. Wildflowers grow among the ruins of its ancient walls and Rapunzel towers.

Sextantia Albergo Diffuso is our hotel and the rooms are actually houses scattered throughout the village of Santo Stefano. It is akin to sleeping in a cave, except for the luxuries that have subtly been incorporated into the medieval simplicity of each restored room. Yesterday I soaked in my big white tub fragrant with lavender oil, enjoying the tallow candles casting a soft glow on rough stone walls and ceiling. The bed is covered in blankets woven from the wool of local sheep, and on the dresser sits a bottle of locally-made cherry liqueur.

Each morning we wander into the Cantinone for breakfast – a delicious spread of fresh-baked pastries and pies, bowl of fresh fruit, yoghurt, cereal, and three choices of pureed fruit a long wooden table. The room is mellow and inviting, and we sit at rough hewn tables on long wooden benches. One of the two ladies offers to cook us eggs or frittata.

Our daily workshop runs from 9am – 12 noon, with the mandatory break for cappuccinos at a nearby store in the little piazza.

Our group has bonded quickly, and we have surprised ourselves with the vulnerabilities we’ve shared. The focus has been on a combination of travel writing, food writing and memoir writing, critiquing well-written pieces and studying what makes them work so well and why.

The writing activities have been interspersed with tours to local sites (and some further away than anticipated!), including an olive oil factory, a hike to the remains of Rocca di Calascio in the Gran Sasso National Park, and learning about cheese making near the town of Castel del Monte. We saw the sheep being milked, then watched while the milk was churned into mozzarella cheese. After visiting their cheese shop in the nearby village and relaxing with a cappuccino (of course!), we returned to the cheese factory for some tasting of the final product – fresh from the vat.

To support local businesses in the village, we ate at different restaurants each day.

Lunch one day was at a little restaurant up in the mountains of Campo Imperiale (Little Tibet) in the Gran Sasso National Park. The drive wound up into the high pasture land where we encountered a herd of longhorn cattle, all wearing jangling cow bells that echoed across the hills. Unconcerned at our intrusion to their peaceful existence, they wandered across the road in front of the car, staring at us curiously.

The hotel’s own restaurant – Locanda Sotto gli Archi - was a five star affair, where Massimo, the maitre d’, treated us like royalty in his charming Italian style.

Five or six courses are the norm in Italy, and each one brought new surprises. Liqueurs made locally were the finishing touch to our evenings of good conversation and laughter. Two of our writers had birthdays this very week, and we celebrated in style at Sextantio’s Locanda Sotto gli Archi for Gina, and gave Kathleen a surprise at the delightful Agriturismo Al Borgo by the lake.

The village was a perfect retreat for writers, stimulating the imagination with the mystery of the past, settling the mind and spirit with its peacefulness and beauty. Several of us stayed back from some of the excursions to write, or sat up late into the night in our cave-like rooms, and those times of seclusion helped us tap into the wells of our deeper self.

Kathryn gave each of us a 1:1 consultation and critique, and I shared for the first time the opening chapter to my book in process. She encouraged me to change from 3rd person novelist’s view to a 1st person memoir. In the rewrite I discovered the sharp pain of reliving the experience and making it my personal memoir –but when I read it to the group next day, their warmly encouraging comments let me know the story is both emotive and compelling. So stay tuned – the author is inspired to continue with Whatever Comes Next!

Organic Gardening for Health & Happiness

2010-06-02T22:16:00.000-07:00

The pace of life is increasing, so if I’m ever going to share about our gardening adventure for this year, I’d better do it now.

Two years ago it was a disastrous vegetable garden. Nothing did much of anything. But then, I didn’t do too well either. Bill passed away in the spring and I was running crazy, trying to be superwoman, doing the work of two people, absolutely driven. Heart broken, the days and nights had slipped into another dimension. Once midnight passed, time ceased to matter, and memories and torchlight flickering gathered me in their comforting arms. All the shrubs and trees planted in Bill’s memory survived – a million buckets of water that summer. But the vegetable garden gave up the ghost, so last year I declared it a sabbatical year of rest to recover. Perhaps for us both. (Do I really know what rest is? Still working on that.)

Time does heal, I suppose. So this year I was ready to try again – but ready for something new. Square Foot Gardening – several friends had been reading up on it – so we decided to give it a whirl. Totally organic. Raised beds. Forget renting a tiller and ploughing and weeding. Forget the long row crops more suited to a farm. Think small, compact, individual squares with a different crop in each square foot. Grow only what you can eat. Intersperse the vegetables with flowers and herbs – both for pest control and beauty. Sounded like fun.

Julie got the jump on the whole process. Bought the book and determined to follow it precisely. We all need a little structure in our lives, so three of us launched in with both feet – literally!

While Scott scrounged scraps of wood and began cutting them to make our 4 ft x 4ft boxes out of 2 x 6s, we girls headed to the horse barn for a truck load of horse manure.

Great exercise! Was this really part of the plan? I’d already driven to Springfield to load by hand a pile of leaf litter that had been composting in a friend’s back yard for two years. This was getting to be a lot of hard work!

The recipe called for equal parts vermiculite, peat moss, and a mixture of 5 types of compost. Technically, we had 3 types and figured that would work. Back at the DeVos ranch, we spread a tarpaulin in the back of my truck, and began mixing. This was a lot easier than shoveling horse manure, and before long we each had our load to fill three boxes. Then came the grids, using thin strips of wood to divide each box into one foot squares.

It turned into a two-day process to finish it. Before you put the soil mix in the box, you have to spread out thick layers of newspapers or cardboard on the ground to kill the weeds and grass, then wet it down. Finally fill the 4ft x 4ft box with the soil mix. And voila! You are ready to plant!

The idea is to put a different crop or individual plant in each square foot, determined by the recommended planting spaces. For example, in a square foot you could put one pepper plant, or 4 lettuce, or 9 beets, or 16 spring onions. The fun was interspersing herbs and flowers for color and variety. It’s optional, but I also stopped by a bait shop and bought several little tubs of worms to add to each planting box.

I got a little creative, and made a long 2ft x 8ft box for tomatoes and zucchinis, and 3 diamond shaped boxes for rhubarb and cucumbers. Peas, beans, and tomatoes are all encouraged to grow up trellises. My peas are a mixture of sugar snaps and Sweet Peas. Metal conduit is used to make the trellis, and mounted over the top of 18 inch lengths of re-bar hammered into the ground for stability. Plastic netting can be strung across the framework to complete the trellis. I had to cut the 2 inch x 2 inch squares to make the grid big enough to train beans and tomatoes. The biggest challenge is to recycle whatever you can, and only buy what you absolutely have to.

The good thing about this soil mix is that it’s inherently loaded with nutrients, and drains perfectly. Even in a flood! Grass clippings make great mulch to keep the moisture in for the summer and reduce the need for watering somewhat. They recommend you place a bucket of water beside each bed for daily watering. It will be sun-warmed and the chlorine will dissipate. Here in Tennessee we get so many thunderstorms, God really helps with the watering. He’s so considerate!

Julie’s garden got a real setback with Nashville’s devastating floods– their whole property went more than 4ft under (including the house & barn). When the flood waters receded, two of her garden frames had floated away, but, to our astonishment, the soil mix was still firmly in its original shape! Still waiting on some soil testing to determine whether she can replant, or if the whole thing has to be torn out because of toxic residue from the flood. While I think of it, the latest report on the flood aftermath on tonight’s local TV news says no new flood insurance is being issued at present to any properties in the Nashville area because Congress has been in recess and thus has jammed any provisions for new federal flood insurance policies. This also means mortgages that mandate flood insurance as part of their requirements are also on hold. Unbelievable!

However, better keep my cool, and focus on the matter at hand. Gardening is a perfect tonic for that. Let me share the words on the garden plaque we inherited from Bill’s Mom, that has graced our garden here for many years.

“The kiss of the sun for pardon,

The song of the birds for mirth,
One is nearer God’s heart in a garden

Than anywhere else on earth.”

You can see by the pictures what fun this has been! Weeding is very minimal. Once a crop has finished, you are ready to plant something else in the square foot space. And the easy part in the beginning is simply planting one square at a time. The perfect way to plan spring, summer and fall crops. Bite-sized pieces to deal with. Each square almost becomes a mini garden. You find yourself developing an intimate relationship with each little planting.

We have a wedding here at Ghost Gums on the Ridge on July 3rd, and the square foot garden is already an attractive feature with a charm of its own, demanding a lot less maintenance than the standard vegetable garden. Totally organic, and healthy too! I leave for Italy in one week’s time, leaving everything in the capable hands of the groom-to-be (Skylar, who is also my housesitter). Confident that it will be more of a pleasure than a chore to nurture our new style of vegetable garden. Feel free to post your personal gardening stories here to share with us all!

The Great Flood of 2010

2010-05-08T21:49:00.000-07:00

It’s six days after the historic flooding disaster hit Nashville and the surrounding region, but while the floodwaters have subsided considerably in most places, the real trauma has just begun. Three nights ago I flew over the area in a Cessna 182 to view the devastation from the air, and at first it’s hard to comprehend the full extent of the impact on so many individual lives.

The countryside is lush and green, a picturesque mix of farmland edged with trees and forested rolling hills. Quite breathtakingly beautiful in the late afternoon sunlight. The flood-swollen Cumberland River snakes across the broad valley to Nashville’s city skyline, a distant silhouette.

(photo: Cameron Stokes)

In one weekend we received 28% of the year’s annual average rainfall, and it wasn’t long before the Cumberland and Harpeth Rivers, plus all the smaller creeks and tributaries, had reached flood level and burst their banks. Up to 18 inches of rain in many areas. People were taken by surprise across 30 counties as flood waters rose rapidly and surged through basements, houses and buildings, turning the landscape into a wetland and cutting off roads and major interstates. Cars and trucks were swamped and even submerged sitting in traffic on the highways, some washed away in the swift current.

(photo: Cameron Stokes)

Heroic rescues and neighbor helping neighbor filled the news stories, as more than 1000 flood victims sought accommodation in shelters around the state. People lost their homes, their treasured possessions, their livelihood. There were over 900 water rescues!

(Photo: Rick Banning)
My best friends Scott and Julie fled their property (above) as over 4ft water flooded their home, rescuing their animals stranded in the loft while their life possessions swirled in the toxic mix below. The water kept rising in downtown Nashville, turning street after street into a waterway, and it grew worse as buildings began pumping the water from basements and underground parking lots. The Pinnacle Building’s basement was 35 ft under, the Schermerhorn Symphony Center battled 18 ft water in their basement, losing Steinway grand pianos and the famed organ console. Irreplaceable archives were threatened in the Country Music Hall of Fame, and Soundcheck – where around a thousand musicians stored their musical equipment in storage containers – was underwater. Trucking depots with dozens of trucks and trailers full of freight were afloat. Thousands were without power and phone service.

Opryland Hotel, Oprymills, and the Grand Ole Opry (above) evacuated everyone before the entire ground level (over 10ft) was underwater as the flooded Cumberland bled across the landscape.

Cornelia Fort Airport would be better suited to floatplane operations, as planes disappeared in the rising water.

At its peak, the Cumberland rose 20 ft above flood level, threatening to overflow Old Hickory Dam and render the powerful waterway beyond control.

Monday morning I received a phone call that the Wanderin’ Star and the boat dock had been lifted off the mooring poles and both moved out into the lake. In fact the flood moved them along the shore, and as the water began to recede, the boat would soon be left laying on its side immobile. It took our team of Meadows, two friends, a boat and canoe, many hours to rescue both sailboat and dock, but she is now swinging at anchor in the cove, awaiting some repair work on the dock that we miraculously restored to its original mooring.

The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers declared the disaster a 1000 year flood of historic proportions. Probably at least 80% of the victims did not have flood insurance – living in areas not even considered a flood plain. Scott and Julie did not have flood insurance, so like many others, the loss is huge. They had just moved into their new place 3 months ago. Many businesses will go under, the financial loss too great. Opryland alone, which will takes months to recover, will leave several thousand without a job.

Pennington Bend

Flooding is an insidious disaster. You can now drive down streets that just a few days ago were flooded, only the rooftops of houses showing. Today everything looks normal, except for the huge piles of sodden mattresses, furniture, personal belongings, broken drywall and insulation lining the streets. The houses on the outside appear fine. But on the inside they are trashed, destroyed by contaminated water that covered everything. Some things can be saved, but most cannot.

Imagine walking through your own house, and marking a line. Everything below 4 ft will be destroyed or contaminated. It helps you focus on what’s really important in life. It sharpens my own perspective. If I could have Bill back, I would gladly give up everything, cheerfully stand there with nothing by my side but him – an easy, instantaneous choice. How about you? How important are those material possessions? Could you give up everything below the 4 ft line – could you give up your whole house?

My friends and I have walked this past week with Scott and Julie, using every spare moment away from work helping them tear out drywall and insulation, sort through belongings, disinfect and clean what could be salvaged, take truckloads to the dump, and reclaim what we could. They run this endurance race like long distance runners, battling exhaustion, but maintaining good spirits. “Today we throw away our lives,” Julie shared, hiding the depth of loss as they faced the task of going through the sodden piles of truly personal papers, memories and treasured items of a lifetime, much beyond redemption. “We’ll be like honeymooners, starting over. But we have been so blessed. I will always thank the Lord for His goodness." Many others are even less fortunate, and have lost everything.

CNN’s Anderson Cooper arrived in town on Wednesday, stunned at the extent of the devastation, and publicly apologizing for the national media not covering the story before now, preoccupied with the Gulf oil spill and the thwarted terrorist bombing in New York. He is overwhelmed at the volunteer spirit he sees in Tennessee – groups and individuals mobilizing to help those in need on a grassroots level, anxious to do all they can. Organizations pitching in quickly, everywhere people seeing what they can contribute, looking for opportunities to give of time and money and effort. There is very little crime to speak of in the midst of this disaster, virtually no looting. Tennessee is famous for this volunteer attitude, and Cooper has never seen it before.

Pope John Paul II High School, Hendersonville

Over 1500 people gather for the National Day of Prayer at Hendersonville First Baptist – relocated from the Grand Ole Opry that is badly flooded. In spite of the new federal ruling that such an historic day is now contested as unconstitutional, all 50 States in the Union make the declaration to honor it. At times such as this, many realize we need to seek God’s face.

Vietnam Veteran's Blvd

Unlike New Orleans, this region was not built 5 ft below sea level, trusting a levee bank to protect it from a wild ocean surge. Rather than mass entitlement programs, the entrepreneurial spirit is still strong. People don’t sit around waiting for the government to bail them out. They pitch in and help one another. It makes me proud to be a Tennessean.

The music industry, the lifeblood of Nashville, is finding ways to help this city get back on its feet. And for many of them, the personal losses have been devastating. Musicians like Vince Gill, Keith Urban, Brad Paisley and LeAnn Rimes have lost entire collections. The Nashville Symphony is playing a free concert this weekend in the public square. The Grand Ole Opry will return to the Ryman this weekend, and Alan Jackson and Brad Paisley will be performing. The CMA awards in June will donate 100% of the proceeds to flood relief. Volunteer groups are mobilizing across the state. The long road to recovery is just beginning.

Watch this short video for a sensitive rendering of this week’s experience.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pFjaQoOdJvI&sns=em

More pictures at today’s Tennessean online newspaper: http://www.tennessean.com/apps/pbcs.dll/frontpage

My Dancing Girl

2010-05-08T21:09:00.000-07:00

A week ago we buried my little dancing girl, my sweet Saki – our little spirit of light and joy, light as air, wild as a dervish, gentle as a moonbeam. She has graced our home these past 9 years, but I will always see her spirit dancing in the sunlight, returned to her Creator, the source of all life.

As we stood around the sunlit grave close to Bill's oak tree, Tux spontaneously wandered over, explored around the hole, and, prompted by who knows what, braced himself on the edge and leaned in. His head reached down to Saki's - the only part exposed from her little white shroud, and he sniffed her in a farewell kiss. Then he withdrew to the oak tree and lay down in the grass.

Saki arrived on Bill’s birthday, December 10, 2000. Somewhat traumatized by the party and houseful of people, that first night. A little bundle of white fluff edged with chocolate points. Startling blue eyes. Our perfect little Siamese.

When I left on my round-the-world trip to visit family early in 2001, Saki was in the prime of her wildness, Flying around the house, up curtains, across dressers, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake. But she was great comfort to Bill when his sister passed away as he stood by her bedside – and I was half a world away.

Saki soon had a little brother, a cheeky tuxedo kitty who survived her witchery. When Tux could defend himself, they became fast friends, inseparable, intuitively connected. These two irascible felines brought much love and laughter to our home. Tux the sociable greeter, Saki the velvet-soft lover. When Bill passed away just two years ago, Saki took it upon herself to cuddle up with me every night, bringing sweet comfort that filled a void in my broken heart.

I have to admit, she was my favorite little girl. Hard to imagine my sweet little soft, furry girl, so full of love and impudence, has gone. I will miss her running wildly through the house, lapping fresh running water from the kitchen faucet, scampering high into a tree stirred by a sudden gust of wind, and nudging my face to kiss me goodnight with a gentle mew. The days and nights have lost a tender magic.

Shake-Down Cruise!

2010-04-12T20:34:00.000-07:00

The sailing season has begun! Just a week ago, and it was one of those sparkling spring weekends you just feel so good to be alive. Trees covered in pale green fuzz of leaves bursting out, pollen filling the air, sky a crisp blue criss-crossed with contrails of jets passing high over Nashville. Time to go sailing again!

Friends from long ago have recently found me and renewed contact. Nancie had offered to help clean up the boat, but hey, this is too pretty a day to simply work, so I called her up to go on a shake-down cruise. Let’s make sure the Wanderin’ Star can still sail!

Mr. Honda starts up with just a little coaxing, and we cast off from the dock, weaving our way through the boats at anchor in the cove. Hard to imagine why more sailors from the yacht club are not out there doing the same.

We clear the marker buoys and once out in the main channel, hoist the main.

The sail billows excitedly, ready to GO! We hook on the jib to hoist it too, but nothing! The halyard – that combination of half rope and half stainless steel cable that hoists the foresail – is stuck. Won’t budge. Obviously jammed right up where it passes through the pulley at the very top of the mast. Of course! Nothing I try will dislodge it. Damn! Only two choices. Sail with just one sail – or climb the mast and free the halyard.

It only takes me a moment to make that decision. On a beautiful day like this, just too incredible to sail with only one sail. While newly appointed helmsman Ronnie holds us steady, I drop the main and Nancie gathers up the sail and straps it to the boom. We have a good team already. I begin my climb up the mast, legs wrapped around it like a monkey. Ronnie has grabbed the camera to record the event on film. I reach the halfway point, hauling myself up on the spreader bars, where I take a welcome break. Wow, I am really out of condition. Haven’t been working out for a couple of months, and I can tell. Ok, time to go the rest of the way. The mast towers almost 30 feet above the deck, the boat rolls a little in the breeze.

I take a deep breath, wrap my legs around the mast and start hauling. It gets harder with every foot. Nothing to hang on to except the pole. Concentrate. Hands grab higher, grunt, pull upward. Finally I am almost at the top, and reach high above my head to hang on to one of the stainless steel cables (main stays) for a little extra support. I have to hoist higher yet to pull on the stuck cable. It still won’t budge. Hoist myself up higher yet, and tug that thing upwards. It finally breaks loose. I am jubilant! Pull the two sides of the halyard with both hands to make sure it’s free and clear, hanging on with my feet. It slides easily through the pulley. We did it! Yay! Now we can really go sailing!

I slide down the mast in seconds and land on the deck –exhilarated. Nancie is open-mouthed in admiration. “I never saw anyone climb a mast before!” she exclaims. “Every cruise is a new adventure!” I explain with a grin. That’s the magic of sailing.

We sail for several hours, tacking this way and that, not trying to go anywhere in particular, simply enjoying cutting through the water and watching the sails billow in the wind. This is living in the moment.

Nancie is an experienced sailor, having spent time in the coastal waters of the Carolinas, and she’s eager to get current again after years away from the water. Her husband has given her permission to buy a boat this year, so she’s a perfect crew for me. Anyone who offers to spend time cleaning up a boat before ever getting the rewards of sailing, truly understands what sailing is all about. Half of the fun is simply messing about on boats.

Before the sun sets, we turn for home, and Nancie & Ronnie offer me back the helm. For all our years operating Wanderin’ Star Yacht Charters, Bill and I had the scenario pretty well organized. He manned the tiller, I did the sails. The forward deck hand, as I always acknowledged my position. Bill was the Captain. Of course, we actually shared everything, and that’s what made sailing so much fun. On all our boat charters, we always trained our new crew to steer the boat and run the sails.

If we ever had an emergency, they would be able to help handle the boat; they had fun, learnt new skills, and we’d joke that we could sit back and relax. Bill was such a natural teacher.

Truth be told, as much as we enjoyed teaching people how to sail, and sharing the joys of every adventure, the sweetest reward of many a cruise was when we dropped off our customers at Drake’s Creek, and sailed the Wanderin’ Star back to Harbor Island – just the two of us. Those special times alone together. We had shared a wonderful experience, given them a gift, and now we could simply enjoy those treasured moments together.

As I pointed for Harbor Island on a downwind run, I positioned the sails wing on wing – on opposite sides of the boat to catch the wind behind us. It was a fun balancing act, keeping the boat perfectly positioned, sails billowing.

The stereo had a beginning season malfunction, so no Jimmy Buffet music – Bill would have been crushed, as no cruise was complete without Jimmy Buffett! But as we passed a fishing boat, music drifted across the water, dancing in the late afternoon sunlight. Standing astride the helm, while the Wanderin’ Star cut through the gurgling water, sails full, I was caught by surprise by a flash of the deep happiness I always felt with Bill on so many, many similar occasions. I didn’t know such happiness was still so close at hand.

Maybe, when you celebrate the moments in life, love and joy and happiness are always just a breath away.

Moonbeams and Stars for Remembrance

2010-03-30T01:02:00.000-07:00

It is the beginning of Passover, and a full moon is rising. Tonight it holds a different significance – for two years ago this was the night of Bill’s departure, his passing over into the presence of God.

Nearly 3500 years ago, the Israelites huddled in their homes awaiting the angel of death to pass them by untouched because they had the blood of the lamb smeared on their doorposts. While next morning the house of Egypt mourned the death in the night of every firstborn son, it marked the day of new life and new beginnings for the Israelites. They passed from 400 years of slavery, to freedom, departing on the next journey to the Promised Land, led by the One True God, who showed His faithfulness over and over again.

Two years ago, God was getting ready to take Bill by the hand, and lead him into the Promised Land. The blood of the Lamb had already been shed, the atonement had been paid, his safe passage through the valley of the shadow of death guaranteed.

It wasn’t until the morning before that I conceded it really might be his time to go. We had always embraced life with both hands. We'd seen our share of miracles, and knew nothing was impossible for God. We had raised our glass “To Whatever Comes Next” from the moment we met and fell in love. But for us both the real adventure always lay beyond this earthly dimension, and the next journey with God one we both anticipated with joy. “I’m ready to go, but I’m still having so much fun here!” Bill often said.

That last night all our close friends gathered in his hospital room, and we shared stories and toasted Bill’s life with champagne in that inimitable toast, “Here’s to Whatever Comes Next!” It’s always good. About to get better beyond belief. When 5:00am on that morning of March 30 ticked by, I was on my knees beside his bed, praying the 23rd Psalm. First out loud, and then silently.

I have to admit to being totally intrigued at what happens at the moment a person dies and leaves this earthly life. I had already told Bill “If God calls your name, it’s ok. You go.” How could I ever hold up my wonderful free-spirited sweetheart? There was no way. As I prayed silently “Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the House of the Lord forever,” he breathed his last, and I handed him over to God. Simple as that. Now that’s assurance. There is not a shadow of doubt that Bill moved straight into the presence of God. Jesus was his friend, his confidant, his saviour. Arms outstretched. Grace extended to cover it all. We don’t have to be perfect. Just forgiven and redeemed.

I often see Bill, with my spirit eyes. Tumbling and laughing in exuberant joy. I catch glimpses of his irrepressible life in the moonbeams, and the stars on a clear velvet night. Just like I feel God’s breath on a warm summer’s evening, or hear His voice in the birdsong in the early morning, see His beauty in the dewdrops, or the flash of a butterfly’s wing. When I fall on my knees before my Creator every morning, I am always awed at the wonder of His creation, and the tenderness of His love. So very grateful for the love Bill and I shared, a foretaste of what is to come when I too step into the presence of my Lord and my God.

Life has always been filled with hope and promise. Don’t let anyone tell you different! Look deep into your heart, and you will find you too have a song yet waiting to be sung, dreams waiting to be fulfilled, and a divine destiny that God has planned for you. A butterfly emerges from a chrysalis, transforming from a mere earthbound caterpillar into a beautiful creature on wings of flight. How much more splendid is our destiny – we, who are created in God’s image!

As a tribute to the love of my life, I am adding a few favorite pictures that truly capture the essence of Bill. To all who have known and loved him – you are already blessed! Treasure every moment of life. Embrace the spiritual journey. Perhaps you too will see the shooting stars, the moonbeams shining softly on your pillow, and feel the warmth and tenderness of love in your heart.

Amazing that once again the clouds have cleared tonight, the full moon has risen, and as I am transported back to that night two years ago, I also find myself slipping from one past moment to another.

That first night under the windsock locked in a passionate embrace; sailing on a moonlit lake, caressed by a warm breeze; tiki torches flaring in a tropical night, surf crashing on the distant reef; the Hungarian maestro cradling his violin, eyes closed in his wizened gypsy face, as the haunting strains of "Fascination" echoed the story of our love.

Shooting stars and shark's teeth at midnight on the day we scattered Bill's ashes at sea. Sweet memories of life and love.

Fly-In Breakfast

2010-03-27T23:00:00.000-07:00

Last week I experienced a whole new spin on breakfast. Sue and I met up with a fellow EAA pilot at Gallatin Airport at 8:00am, and hopped in his single engine four-seat Piper Archer to fly to a mystery location for breakfast!

We headed west over the pretty rolling hills of Middle Tennessee, the first time (unbelievably!) that I have flown in this area that has been home for the past 23 years. Since I’m about to get current flying again, this is a great opportunity to start recognizing landmarks and learn my way visually from the air. This was so much fun!

I love to think of all the times Bill flew home to Hendersonville, landing on the Martin’s field next to his family homeplace. He nicknamed it Hendersonville International Airport, and often talked of the time he took his Mom for her first airplane ride out of that field. She came out all dressed up in hat and gloves, and he dropped her off at Berry Field (now called Nashville International Airport), where she caught a bus into the city to go shopping.

Now, ironically, his aviation artwork has virtually taken over the Gallatin Airport, inspiring many up and coming pilots. I guess I’m one of them!

Forecast to be a clear day for flying, but cloud cover was already moving in from the west, making visibility a bit hazy. We flew along the edge of the restricted Fort Campbell airspace (on our northern edge), and after 53 minutes flying reached Houston County airport on the Tennessee River. Made our approach across the middle of the field to join the downwind leg of the circuit pattern.

As we rolled to the end of the runway, there were already about 9 other airplanes parked in the grass off the end of the strip.

We parked in the grass and walked through a gate to the nearby restaurant for a wonderful breakfast. I had Bill’s favorite. Bacon, eggs, crispy hashbrowns & coffee. Delicious!

We met up with a bunch of other pilots, many of whom Ray knew. The EAA (Experimental Aircraft Association) members often meet up in various locations for fly-in breakfasts on a Saturday morning. It’s a great excuse to go flying, make new friends, and explore new locations around Middle Tennessee. Maybe this dream of barnstorming America will actually come true one day!

On the return trip I got to fly co-pilot, but since Ray used the GPS and had it on autopilot, there wasn’t much to do!

We did find my house and circle overhead for a few photos, so that was fun to see it from the air for the first time (Google Earth isn’t quite the same!).

Interesting to see the winding Cumberland River where we have spent so much time sailing the Wanderin’ Star.

I can tell that I’m going to want to start keeping Saturday mornings free – just in case! This could get addictive!

Dual Citizenship

2010-02-28T14:49:00.000-08:00

Australia and America have always been allies, and it's quite a privilege to now hold citizenship in both countries. Akin to marriage, this new commitment of dual citizenship brings with it a deeper sense of responsibility, and I'm looking forward to living that out.

I have always felt a deep loyalty to Australia, the land of my birth. As I looked up at the huge American flag waving in the breeze outside our church this morning, I realize that as a new citizen here, it's as though the country has formally adopted me, and my feet feel firmly planted on both sides of the Pacific. A rebel Aussie on Southern rebel turf!

But above all these sentiments of patriotism, I am reminded that my ultimate allegiance goes way beyond these two countries, to the King of Kings and Lord of Lords. My real home is not on this earth, but in God's heavenly Kingdom, and the following is my true Pledge of Allegiance...

I pledge allegiance to the Lamb

With all my strength

With all I am

I will seek to honor His commands

I pledge allegiance to the Lamb

To the Lamb of God who bore my pain

Who took my place, who wore my shame

I will seek to honor His commands

I pledge allegiance to the Lamb

(lyrics by Ray Boltz)

Citizenship Ceremony

2010-02-27T08:17:00.000-08:00

FRIDAY, FEBRUARY 26, 2010 - Today I pledged my allegiance to the United States of America, and was sworn in as a U.S.citizen.

I stood with 60 other people from 26 different countries in the tightly packed courtroom in Nashville. Saying the Pledge of Allegiance after being sworn in suddenly had new meaning. Now it was my personal commitment all the way.

Wow! There are so many marker moments along the journey to this day. So let me take you on a little trip. Take the time to stop and explore the couple of side roads along the way. And feel free to leave any comments at the end.

Falling in love with Bill over 30 years ago - my dashing Southern Gentleman from Tennessee - turned my heart towards America. The day I signed our marriage certificate, I also pledged allegiance in my heart to the country of his birth, as we united to become one. He took me on two extensive business trips to the States, and I was hooked! I began keeping a map of the U.S. beside our bed, dreaming of the wonders to be explored, new places and people and cultures, breathtaking sights, fascinating history. I studied it frequently till it was dog-eared with use, and Bill laughed every time I sang “I want to live in America!”

When our plans to buy property in Australia fell through, and his contract with the Australian Government drew to an end, we decided this was it! We packed our bags, stored or sold furniture and belongings, and in 1986 moved to the U.S., embarking on a new adventure together – now irrevocably connected to both countries.

I entered the U.S. with the coveted Permanent Resident status – a Resident Alien, as my “Green Card” stated. Immigration wasn’t very amused when I sat in their office in Honolulu airport with these alien antennae on my head (a gift from Australian niece Julie for the occasion!) to process my final entrance paperwork. Well, we thought it was funny!

We hit the West Coast, bought car and camping gear, and headed east to Tennessee. It’s been a grand adventure ever since. Reconnecting with Bill’s roots, living first in his old family homeplace. A thousand treasured times with his sons, nephews, brother, sister, and their families spread coast-to-coast. We have criss-crossed the country many times, camping, sailing, flying, and exploring. Tried various enterprises in a country that encourages entrepreneurism. Always drawn on by the creative urge. Blessed with an abundance of wonderful friends.

I’ve grown to care deeply about America, and the principles upon which it was founded. Life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, equality, upholding the principles of morality and honesty and our God-given rights. I believe it both a responsibility and an honor to follow the call given by President John F. Kennedy – “Ask not what your country can do for you, but ask what you can do for your country.” Giving a hand up is far more productive than simply a hand out; building up people’s self esteem more enduring than robbing them of hope; and honoring God in all we say and do opens the pathway for God to bless this nation. I plan to use my new privilege to vote, and seek after accountability in this country.

Let’s now take a trip to the Tennessee State Legislature and listen in to the words of an amazing woman, Lt. Col. Courtney Rogers (Ret. USAF), whom I have had the honor of getting to know in recent months.
Click on the Session Start video on the left hand side of that page.

There is something so special about flags. Growing up in Australia, the sight of the Australian flag is a wonderful reminder of my country’s heritage and its place under Southern skies guided by the Southern Cross. Living in America I have come to appreciate a new flag – the Stars and Stripes with its colorful history dipped in blood. This is a country steeped in patriotism, and over the past 23 years I have pledged my allegiance to that flag more times than I can number. It is now filled with new meaning, as I metaphorically wrap that flag around my shoulders, embraced by the country that my husband was also prepared to die for.

I received my first U.S. flag two years ago. Presented to me in honor of Bill’s service during World War II as a pilot in the USAC/USAAF. Presented on the day we scattered his ashes around the big oak tree, and celebrated his life.

Take a moment to watch this short video clip to understand the patriotism my husband was honored for.

Thank you to the 20 friends who stood with me in that court room to mark this significant moment, including the two family who’d driven 12 hours from Florida, and the two friends who’d made the trip from Atlanta – and to those who were with me in spirit. Thank you all for welcoming me as a new citizen!

DUAL CITIZENSHIP

For many years Bill and I have kept our two countries linked. Bill as U.S. citizen and permanent resident of Australia; me as Australian citizen and permanent resident of the U.S. Several years ago Australia and the U.S. made a reciprocal agreement to allow a person to have dual citizenship. With Bill’s passing almost two years ago, taking off on the last Great Adventure, I felt I wanted to firmly plant myself and my loyalties in both countries. While always being proud to be an Australian, and proud of the land of my birth, I am also deeply committed to my adoptive country. So to all my fellow Aussies – have no fear, I have not sold my birthright!

I AM NOW A CITIZEN OF BOTH AUSTRALIA AND THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. A true Aussie American!

Eager for Spring

2010-02-19T22:29:00.000-08:00

Hallelujah! The snow has finally melted on the ground! Of course, snow is very pretty, I’ll be the first to admit. It sparkles in the sun and makes the world look fresh and new, with a beauty in the silence that is totally captivating.

But here in Tennessee, we are ready for springtime! If we wanted long winters, we’d live further north! This has been a cold winter by Tennessee standards, and up here on the ridge before one good snow melted, along came the next one. Four in the past three weeks. That’s a lot for us.

It’s been fun getting snowed in, and the snow ploughs have been a regular sight down the road. The dogs love it, and the birds empty out the bird feeders twice a day, if I’m generous enough to keep filling them. All these hungry mouths to feed! And the recurring question first thing in the morning has often been “Can I get off the ridge today to go to work?” It’s the ice that determines the answer to that. I guess we’ve just gotten spoilt with relatively mild winters – a few snows for sheer enjoyment, interspersed with those glorious days that fool us into thinking spring is here, and we start thinking about planting and growing, eager to get outside and dig in the dirt.

So before I move on, let me share a few pictures of our recent snows.

Lest you think we Tennesseans are the only ones talking about the snow like this, I’ll share a wonderful story a friend forwarded to me just a few days ago.

This humorous story should make those getting snow smile, and those of us not, smile even more.

December 8: 6:00 PM. It started to snow. The first snow of the season and the wife and I took our cocktails and sat for hours by the window watching the huge soft flakes drift down from heaven. It looked like a Grandma Moses Print. So romantic we felt like newlyweds again. I love snow!

December 9: We woke to a beautiful blanket of crystal white snow covering every inch of the landscape. What a fantastic sight! Can there be a more lovely place in the Whole World? Moving here was the best idea I've ever had. Shoveled for the first time in years, felt like a boy again. I did both our driveway and the sidewalks. This afternoon the snowplow came along and covered up the sidewalks and closed in the driveway, so I got to shovel again. What a perfect life.

December 12: The sun has melted all our lovely snow. Such a disappointment. My neighbor tells me not to worry, we'll definitely have a white Christmas. No snow on Christmas would be awful! Bob says we'll have so much snow by the end of winter, that I'll never want to see snow again. I don't think that's possible. Bob is such a nice man, I'm glad he's our neighbor.

December 14: Snow, lovely snow! 8" last night. The temperature dropped to -20. The cold makes everything sparkle so. The wind took my breath away, but I warmed up by shoveling the driveway and sidewalks. This is the life! The snowplow came back this afternoon and buried everything again. I didn't realize I would have to do quite this much shoveling, but I'll certainly get back in shape this way. I wish I wouldn't huff and puff so.

December 15: 20 inches forecast. Sold my van and bought a 4x4 Blazer. Bought snow tires for the wife's car and two extra shovels. Stocked the freezer. The wife wants a wood stove in case the electricity goes out. I think that's silly. We aren't in Alaska , after all.

December 16: Ice storm this morning. Fell on my butt on the ice in the driveway putting down salt. Hurt like blazes. The wife laughed for an hour, which I think was very cruel.

December 17: Still way below freezing. Roads are too icy to go anywhere. Electricity was off for five hours. I had to pile the blankets on to stay warm. Nothing to do but stare at the wife and try not to irritate her. Guess I should've bought a wood stove, but won't admit it to her. Gosh I hate it when she's right. I can't believe I'm freezing to death in my own living room.

December 20: Electricity's back on, but had another 14" of the damn stuff last night. More shoveling. Took all day. Damn snowplow came by twice. Tried to find a neighbor kid to shovel, but they said they're too busy playing hockey. I think they're lying. Called the only hardware store around to see about buying a snow blower, and they're out. Might have another shipment in March. I think they're lying. Bob says I have to shovel or the city will have it done and bill me. I think he's lying.

December 22: Bob was right about a white Christmas, because 13 more inches of the white crap fell today, and it's so cold it probably won't melt 'til August. Took me 45 minutes to get all dressed up to go out to shovel, and then I had to pee. By the time I got undressed, peed and dressed again, I was too tired to shovel! Tried to hire Bob, who has a plow on his truck, for the rest of the winter; but he says he's too busy. I think the jerk is lying.

December 23: Only 2" of snow today, and it warmed up to "0". The wife wanted me to decorate the front of the house this morning. What, is she nuts!!! Why didn't she tell me to do that a month ago? She says she did, but I think she's lying.

December 24: 6". Snow packed so hard by snowplow, I broke the shovel. Thought I was having a heart attack. If I ever catch the son-of-a-gun who drives that snowplow, I'll drag him through the snow by his b---s and beat him to death with my broken shovel. I know he hides around the corner and waits for me to finish shoveling and then he comes down the street at a 100 miles an hour and throws snow all over everywhere I've just been! Tonight the wife wanted me to sing Christmas carols with her and open our presents, but I was too busy watching for the damn snowplow.

December 25: Merry F!=3D@x@!x!x1 Christmas. 20 more inches of the !=3D@x@!x!x1 slop tonight. Snowed in. The idea of shoveling makes my blood boil. Man, I hate the snow! Then the snowplow driver came by asking for a donation and I hit him over the head with my shovel. The wife says I have a bad attitude. I think she's a fricking idiot. If I have to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" one more time, I'm going to stuff her into the microwave.

December 26: Still snowed in. Why the blazes did I ever move here? It was all HER idea. She's really getting on my nerves.

December 27: Temperature dropped to -30, and the pipes froze. Plumber came after 14 hours of waiting for him; he only charged me $1,400 to replace all my pipes.

December 28: Warmed up to above -50. Still snowed in. The Battleaxe is driving me crazy!!!!!

December 29: 10 more inches. Bob says I have to shovel the roof or it could cave in. That's the silliest thing I ever heard. How dumb does he think I am?

December 30: Roof caved in. I beat up the snow plow driver. He is now suing me for a million dollars; not for only the beating I gave him, but also for trying to shove the broken snow shovel where the sun don't shine . The wife went home to her mother. 9" predicted.

December 31: I set fire to what's left of the house. No more shoveling.

January 8: Feel so good. I just love those little white pills they keep giving me. Why am I tied to the bed?

Now that the snow has melted, the buds are almost bursting on the trees, and look! the daffodil bulbs already have shoots 3 inches high! Before you know it, we’ll even be casting off from the dock and sailing the Wanderin’ Star in a spring breeze!

Circles of Life

2010-02-13T11:00:00.000-08:00

February 7, 2010, marked the one-year anniversary of the horrific bushfires in Australia, in my home state of Victoria. The day 173 people perished, as the flames roared through small townships and majestic forests of towering eucalypts, devouring everything in their path and sending helpless wildlife fleeing for its life. In Australia the flags were flown at half mast, a national day of mourning remembering the victims of Black Saturday, Australia’s worst-ever natural disaster in recorded history.

As much as man is fascinated with fire, drawn to it like moths to a flame, it is a heart-wrenching experience to know that your country is burning up, the land of your birth that you love to the very core your being. Of all the images I hold dear, that capture the true essence of all I love about Australia, it is the tall eucalypts, multicolored bark peeling in long tendrils, leaves hanging lazy and relaxed, exuding the invigorating fragrance of eucalyptus oil that permeates our very pores, filling every breath we inhale.

Last May I returned to Australia to share my country with my American brother-in-law, Don, and his wife Barbara. What a treat that was! Such dear ones in our family. But filled with so many unexpected experiences. Many circles of my life completed.

Just before nephew Mike’s wedding, we drove up to Marysville, one of the areas hardest hit by the bushfires. Almost every building and house in the town destroyed by fire in the February of 2009. We drove up the Black Spur, a steep, winding, mountain road through stunning stands of towering Mountain Ash, miles of fragrant eucalyptus forest, once magnificent gleaming white trunks trailing long strips of peeling bark. Tall tree ferns, coarse brown bodies decked in delicate waving fronds. Shrouded in a blue mist heavy with the exotic fragrance of the Australian bush. Now it was a landscape of blackened trees, grim reminders of the blazing inferno that had swept these mountainsides.

Very little remained of this once thriving little mountain retreat. A mecca for holiday makers. A romantic resort for lovers. A spiritual retreat. Mike had planned to bring his bride here on their honeymoon, and we walked the charred remains of the land. The sign proclaiming Riverside Cottages was the only reminder left.

In the middle of town we stopped to walk the desolate streets. Lone chimneys the sole survivors, ashen strings of a piano splayed in the dirt now a ghostly relic of happier days. Bulldozers scraped debris into growing mounds. A huge eucalyptus tree –called simply a gum tree by every native Australian – lay prone across a reserve flanked by a gurgling stream, burned and toppled in the devastating fires.

In a sudden urge, I touched my hand to the bark, a gesture of reverence for the sacrifice it had made. It was like a brand – red hot, almost burning my skin. In that instant I could hear the crackling and roar of the approaching fire on that fateful day. The bush exploding spontaneously, feel the heat of the wall of flames sweeping the hillsides on its deathly rampage. I felt the pain of the tree about to die, heard the screams of wildlife fleeing the raging inferno. I took my hand away and the sounds and sensations dimmed – put it back, and flames fanned the roar filling my ears once again. I knew my connection with this sunburned country ran deep – I had no idea it was this strong, to feel its very pain.

Many years ago I had stayed at Marysville’s El Kanah, where we spent a week at a CFO camp for spiritual replenishment and renewal. We stopped at the only remaining store in town, a bakery, and asked for directions. Take the road out of town and past the golf course. I recognized the landmarks. There was the golf course. And opposite – I could barely reconcile the site of the lodge now vanished. The red earth scraped bare. Images danced before my eyes, and I heard the strains of music, the prayers and the praise and worship, saw the loved faces, felt again the warm hug of my spiritual mentor who had been one of the leaders at the retreat.

A man emerged from the lone building left standing on this scarred patch of dirt. He had evacuated just minutes before the building exploded in flames and evaporated. We walked around the remaining stone wall. “Do you recognize where the entrance was?” he asked. We walked the curving perimeter of the wall, and suddenly it all came back in a flash. I saw people gathered in the main conference room, where we shared creative dance and worship, meditation, creative writing and art. I heard the speakers, and saw the campers lined up before the leaders for the final prayer blessing. Now consumed by fire, yet here I was, a seeming lifetime later, walking around it and looking in, observing my life past. “God has blessed so many people here,” I murmured. “You have no idea.”

This was also the place Bill had met Norman Renshaw – the man of God who prayed for his healing from leukemia 30 years ago. Life and death, renewal and rebirth, through trial and fire. I knew this trip back to Australia after Bill’s passing one short year before would be significant, but I had no idea in how many ways. When we complete the circles of our life, it is a profound experience, like walking on holy ground. We are never the same again.

The biggest surprise of all on this sad and melancholic day were the signs of life everywhere. Across a vast landscape of blackened trunks and scoured land, a bright green fuzz adorned every tree. Young shoots emerged up and down every tree trunk, new life sprouting from the ashes of destruction. Fresh new fronds spread eagerly from charcoal tree ferns. Irrepressible life springing forth.

The wonder of the Australian bush is a great life lesson. Very much akin to the Australian spirit – tough, resilient, determined, optimistic. It is designed to regenerate only after fire – the catalyst that germinates native seeds, is needed to sprout leaf buds hidden beneath tree bark, and the purging force that clears leaf litter, pests, and low scrub that competes for light and nourishment from the soil. Fire is part of Australia’s life force. Devastating, but cleansing. Destruction followed by renewal. Death and rebirth. We see God doing the same with us. He puts us through fiery trials in life – not to destroy us, but to refine our character and reveal our strengths. To eliminate the things that slow our growth and our progress, that inhibit us from reaching tall and flourishing. Painful, yes, but the regeneration cannot come without it.

Snowed In!

2010-01-31T15:55:00.000-08:00

A fresh deep snow is the just the way to finish out the month of January. Almost 5 inches blanketed the countryside up on the ridge by Saturday morning. The dogs were ecstatic! I'm dogsitting the neighbor's retriever/chow mix, Dakoda, who is good company for Schooner. They snuffled and cavorted in the deep drifts as we tromped through the woods down to the creek.

A refreshing walk in the brisk air is energizing to the mind, so the afternoon was spent at my favorite writing spot in front of the crackling fire, looking through the French doors at a steady kaleidescope of birds visiting the feeders and foraging for seed in the sparkling snow. Red Cardinals, cheeky Blue Jays, Carolina Chickadees, sparrows, and a whole possy of doves flock to the welcome feast, chattering in glee. Red-headed Woodpeckers vye for the best position at the suet cage, clinging upside down on the dark tree trunk.

A flock of noisy blackbirds arrive in a flurry of squawks, bossy interlopers that chase away the more genteel smaller birds.

On Sunday, cabin fever hits, and the lure of a cappuccino down the hill is too strong to resist. Time to find out if the truck will make it off the ridge without sliding off the road. The snowy stillness has been broken by a few trucks creeping down the road, the ice now turning a little slushy in the bright sunshine. Time to be fearless.

The cappuccino was excellent!

A New Perspective

2010-01-29T21:16:00.000-08:00

Birthdays tend to be time for reflection – of the road we have traveled, and the future stretching out before us. For reasons as yet unclear, 2010 feels like a very significant year. Already I see momentous changes and events in the lives of friends, and ever-widening ripples of influence spreading far beyond. It’s a year of excitement.

So many wishes on birthday cards that this will be the best year ever. I never thought I could believe that for myself again, but in my heart of hearts I’m beginning to wonder if it really might be so.

Yesterday I heard a well known National Geographic photojournalist speaking about creativity. “Our perspective determines whether what we see is ordinary or extraordinary,” he said. “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. Break the pattern to bring the vision into focus, and reframe problems into opportunities.”

The answer will always be there, he assured. Jesus himself promised that those who seek will find.

As Dewitt Jones encourages, sometimes we just need to view life through a different lens.

So here’s to birthdays, and celebrating life, and friends and family who love and laugh with us while sharing the journey.

Loss

2010-01-22T05:45:00.000-08:00

There are days and nights when one more loss is just too much. People sit in the comfort and warmth of their own contentment and secure relationships, not having a clue how fragile we are, as we struggle to find our way. Our life is off balance. When you get a glimpse of where you’re going, hope creeps in. Sometimes a bigger picture of opportunity and purpose flashes on our screen, and for a moment, for one glorious, elated moment, we see beyond the immediate horizon to a pathway leading upwards and onwards.

To lose that, a window opening from this tower in which our heart is imprisoned, to once again be cast down into the dark dungeon of our aloneness and hopes and dreams dashed – that is painful indeed. I am a bird still imprisoned in this cold and stony tower.

But for one brief moment, I thought I might soar free across a landscape of vine-covered hills, walk the cobblestone streets of ancient medieval villages, touch the worn stones and feel the passion and fire of people connected to the earth and the simple life, and find myself again.

A Light to Follow

2010-01-20T22:52:00.000-08:00

Sometimes in life it is so hard to do the right thing. You struggle to get it right, find your way, keep your integrity, balance the pros and cons, listen to your heart, ask God to show you His way. I’ve learnt that God mostly gives me the answer in my spirit. When it’s disturbed, I proceed unchecked at my peril. I always regret the times I have ignored it. But even when following what you know is right for you, is not without its risks. The risk of offending someone, of losing a friendship, even missing an opportunity. God has placed His Spirit within those of us who have recognized His voice and responded. And it’s the way God can then communicate directly with us – this mysterious spirit-to-spirit communication.

I’ve been reading the Book of Proverbs lately – 31 chapters, one for each day of the month. When you search after wisdom, it’s quite astonishing how God reveals it to you. Not always easy stuff to hear. It goes against our natural, human tendencies, but it leads us on the high road. Helps us recognize the temptations that come along daily, and how to deal with them. And they always come along the lines of our vulnerabilities. Even those friends who know us best would probably be surprised at what they are. I’m surprised at myself.

But in spite of all this optimism, this solo journey is not easy. The times I have been driving and, with heart torn apart, wishing the car would just drive off the road and send me on my way to that open doorway to heaven I see so clearly. God, why did you design me to find my completeness in another, my perfect soulmate, and then ask me to find my way without him? Where is the meaning in all that? No matter how many friends may care about you, your life begins to feel incidental to any of them. They all have their other priorities – and that as it should be. But whether you ever make it home, or return from a trip – who would really care? In such a brief time, just a distant memory in their lives. Tiny ripples in a pond, a mist drifting across the silent waters. But for those who live in this grief of separation from the one who brought all the richness and color and vibrancy to life – what can you do but cry out to God, who does understand?

Life swings from a strong sense of purpose, where the track is so clear and energizing and exciting, to these valleys of darkness, along a lonely road, occasionally illuminated with the lights of oncoming traffic. Will you make it to the next destination? And what awaits you? A lonely room in some nondescript hotel? It’s like living in some in-between world. We slip between the dimensions with an ease unknown to those walking in their own realities. Perhaps the next full moon will shine more brightly on the path, and we’ll find our way across the vast reaches of space. Always drawn to the light.

Blue Moon Rising

2010-01-01T19:20:00.000-08:00

A Blue Moon to herald in 2010 seems like an announcement from the heavens. What portent for this coming year? The second full moon of the month - called a blue moon - usually happens once a year. But what of the chances of it falling on New Year's Eve?

On New Year's Eve 29 years ago my sweetheart proposed to me just before midnight struck. We had left the dance hall at our gliding club airfield, once a WWII primary training base, and were sitting on the curb outside. As the refrain of Auld Lang Syne floated out from the building now filled with revelling pilots and their partners, we walked inside hand-in-hand, now irrevocably committed to a lifetime of love and adventures.

Time has passed, and Bill has departed on the last great adventure. So often something special happens on our various anniversaries. It's NYE - and in Tennessee it has been overcast and rainy all day. No likely sighting of the blue moon. Two visitors stop in and we share the last two hours of 2009. We toast with champagne - always "Here's to Whatever Comes Next!" And these two - Bill's oldest son, and a very close friend who has walked many miles with us - depart for their own homes.

As I climb into bed in the loft, the final amazement awaits me. The clouds part, and from high in the sky a blue moon shines down, flooding my pillow with light. It is blindingly bright, and I gaze up at that full moon, feeling touched once again with the magic of the love of my life who stole my heart many, many moons ago. There have been shooting stars and shark's teeth at midnight, so why should I be surprised?

Magic is all around us.

"When I admire the wonder of a sunset or the beauty of the moon, my soul expands in worship of the Creator." - Mahatma Ghandi