Resurrection came slowly. After six weeks in Isle of Palms on the heels of three weeks in Portugal, Minnesota in mid-March was a desolate homecoming. Crusty brown patches of leftover snow and leafless trees stark against a brooding sky, replaced boundless beaches, ocean breezes, and unrepentant sunshine.
I’d escaped nine weeks of winter. Gentle weather and emerald-green palms had lulled me into believing it was spring everywhere, and indeed it was. But the season looked different as my Uber driver inched me through messy construction and stop-and-go traffic on the Minneapolis, south-494 loop.
My mood plummeted.
It wasn’t just the landscape. I was exhausted, mentally, physically, and emotionally.
The next morning, I loaded luggage smelling of saltwater and dead fish into the back of my Prius and began the three-hour drive north toward home.
Home. Who am I? Home? Where is home?
I arrived, unpacked, and for days did nothing but stare at the monochromatic fields, forests, and sky, spread out in stark reality around me. I couldn’t connect. Disoriented, mildly depressed, listless, I wondered why I had ever moved to this barren wasteland.
One week passed…two…same old same old.
Around week three, I woke up one morning fully myself. Oh! Where have you been my blue-eyed…daughter? The rising sun dribbled pink-golden light over puffy clouds.
I heard birds. And was that a hint of green – the slightest wash of color in the treetops?
Something took hold of me then, some dormant gene from ancestors long dead. Dirt. I wanted my hands in dirt. A passion to dig and plant and grow stuff overwhelmed me. And where was last-year’s hummingbird feeder? Surely, those tiny beasts would need extra fuel until the flowers bloomed.
Once again, my life had purpose.
I dragged six-by-six beams left over from my construction project to create a planter along the west wall of the house.
My brother-in-law brought three tractor-loads of manure-rich soil and dumped them into that prepared space. Gwen had hostas, and seeds for cosmos, calendula, and cilantro. Sweating and grunting, we dug up the hostas and transferred them to my yard.
Then it was Mother’s Day. When I opened my g-mail inbox that morning, there was a sweet note from my youngest daughter and a gift card to Target, where she manages engineers in the IT department.
Yesterday, I spent it. I’ve wanted a weed-whacker forever, and now I own one. Target’s best. (Target’s only!) It required assembly. I can put together Wayfair furniture with my eyes closed. But a machine? We’ll find out my level of mechanical competency when I do its test run today.
I don’t recognize this incarnation of myself, but it feels right. Or, as is always the case with me, it feels right now. There’s no undercurrent of restlessness, no urge to be somewhere else. For the moment, I’m content to beautify and occupy my little corner of the world.
But…
Come November, all bets are off. Winter in Minnesota is not my happy place. I’m thinking Puerto Rico, Guatemala, Costa Rica…or…come to think of it…saya rindu Bali.
Guilt crawls over me like a damp shadow. I haven’t cleaned the house, haven’t cooked, haven’t called the kids. Since listening to the podcast that revolutionized my world, I’ve been doing nothing but writing, or thinking about writing, or rewriting what I’ve already written.
I stared at the numbers on the scale this morning certain they must be wrong. I couldn’t have gained five pounds this week. There must be old batteries in that lying piece-of-crap. I replaced them and the numbers got worse.
That’s what I get for writing. It’s a sedentary, and for me, addicting endeavor. I can sit from sunup to long past midnight, engrossed and tuned out to everything but the story unfolding in my head. I used to forget to eat. Obviously, not anymore.
I should message my sister. Walk? Now? Mailbox? Cryptic, but she’ll respond immediately with something like, Yes! 15 min. Corn. The mailbox is east on 578th Lane. The field that once had acres of cornstalks is west. It’s a little bit farther to the mailbox. We do the corn on lower energy days when we’ve already expended significant outputs on household tasks.
I send the message.
Walk? Mailbox?
Her: No! Drive. Not a nice day!
Me: No need. I’m walking. I need the exercise. I’ll get the mail.
Her: Wait. It’s icy on the road. I’ll walk with you in the field. Trudge, that is.
Me: I’m happy to wait. What time?
Her: Now is good.
Me:
We went and I’m back. It took a little convincing for her to abandon the field-trudging idea. My sister is lovely. Stubborn and lovely. So we walked on the road to the mailbox in slushy snow.
Here’s a photo from yesterday.
This is today, 37°F, not good for snow. It’s 3:00 p.m. With the moisture-laden atmosphere, half ice, half mist, it’s already getting dark. The sun will set at four-thirty.
I was going through a journal from 2011 and found a metaphor I’d written on one such day as this before I left for Bali. Spring is a comma. Summer and fall are sentences. Winter is the boring novel that never ends.
I’m in a different headspace in 2024 than I was in 2011. Way different. Winter in Minnesota now feels like permission to hibernate, and at almost seventy-five years old, I’m so ready for the slow-down that this season brings…after Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s Eve, that is. Even here in Codgerville, we hit those at a gallop.
After I vacuumed, dusted, and shook the rugs I read for a while, The Singularity is Near, by Ray Kurzweil. It’s a fascinating book about the exponential growth of AI. The singularity, as I understand it, is when biological intelligence and artificial intelligence merge. Terrifying but inevitable. He’s also written another book. The Singularity is Nearer. I don’t recommend either one unless you’re a happy dystopian and cozy with the thought of nanobots cavorting through your capillaries.
Now the candles are burning, there’s a wintery fireplace scene with soft music playing on the TV.
Soon, my three Codger neighbors will appear for 5 o’clock social hour. We’ll discuss the disturbing article that appeared in the Aitkin Independent Age newspaper, catch up on who heard what from whom, and, if somebody says something that triggers it, we’ll spontaneously burst into song – a tune from the 60’s no doubt.
My level of frustration at this exact moment in time is off the freaking charts!
In the past week, hours evaporated while I:
tried to change my cellular service provider
tried to connect to my new cell phone hotspot
tried to connect my Roku to the elusive hotspot
tried to connect my TV to Roku
tried to connect my computer to my printer using my new hotspot
tried to…oh crap…tried unsuccessfully to keep from bellowing obscenities…
It’s a good thing I live alone…
I thought I was tech-savvy. Seems that was yesterday. Things change at the speed of light…or is there something faster now? I wouldn’t doubt it.
Is it a function of age? If I were, say, 40, would I automatically have the necessary skills? Or six years old perhaps? My twin grandsons grasp technology better than I do.
Perhaps I’m past my use-by date. I haven’t expired, but I’m beginning to decay.
The other day I was visiting with a group of women, all seventy-plus. Our conversation began innocently enough, talking about the books we’d been reading, the TV series we were hooked on. As we warmed up to each other, we moved from the abstract to the intimate, how advancing years have made us less tolerant of discomfort in any form, especially clothing. Specifically, bras.
From pre-teen to middle age, I didn’t think twice about harnessing up with underwires to support my abundance. The silhouette was most important so I tolerated the metallic uplifting and powered on.
Then came Bali. Every cremation, wedding, and ceremonial event, required a sarong, a lace kabaya, and an undergarment so constricting from cinched waist to hoisted breasts that breathing was no longer involuntary. The Mona Lisa.
Ngusaba Tegen was the worst. We suited up by the hundreds and walked the gravel road in high-heeled flip-flops to gather outside the temple. Row upon row of offerings made by the men of the village, hung suspended awaiting the blessing of the priests. And so did we – wait. Women and children sat on the ground literally for hours.
Imagine ninety-degree heat, air chewable with humidity. You’re dressed in a tightly wound sarong, legs folded sideways underneath you with the Mona Lisa corset shoving your breasts up under your chin.
Balinese women don’t squirm. They don’t sweat. They just gossip happily, a child in their lap, an arm around the shoulder of the friend they’re chatting to. Hair perfect. Makeup exquisite. And in the midst of them is me, swiping at the moisture dripping off my chin, tugging at the sarong that threatens to unwrap, yanking down on the creeping corset that wants to pop my breasts out of the low-cut neckline of the itchy kebaya, all the while smiling, trying to appear, well, Balinese…cool, calm, composed.
Is it any wonder that here at Granny’s Landing in the middle of idyllic nowhere, I’ve burned my bras along with my bridges? After fifty years enslaved to the silhouette, I refuse to have my torso squeezed up or down, in or out. My breasts swing freely, like balloons full of pudding. There’s nothing sexy about them. The jokes about old ladies are too true to be funny.
Right?
I used to care. I’ve thought about that. Why did I care? If I’m honest, I have to admit that I was motivated by sheer vanity. I wanted to look good for me. Makeup. Perms. High heels. Mini skirts. Underwires. How much of that do I still do? Zip. Zilch. Nada. I’m over myself. Now, all I care about is comfort.
It’s wonderful! So liberating! Intoxicating! The incredible joy of not giving a damn.
And just so you know, somehow I managed to facilitate the new cellular service install and connect to the hotspot. As if by magic, the Roku talks to the TV and my computer works. The printer…no amount of begging, pleading, cajoling, or cursing, has succeeded so far. It remains disconnected to frustrate me yet again another day.
I’ve been wearing leggings for at least fifteen years. Nothing is more comfortable than the forgiving stretch paired with long tops that cover sagging buttocks and hide a thickening waistline. I had silky-thin ones for summer, bulky, fleece-lined ones for winter, and everything in between. I was set for life.
On April 9th, I left Minnesota to spend several weeks with family. I wish I could say for certain what happened when my flight crossed into the Eastern Time Zone. All I know is that my perspective shifted. I saw myself differently.
I like to consult the stars at pivotal points.
The eclipse in early April seemed an appropriate time to do that. The results shocked me. Supposedly, I was about to experience a profound transformation that would make me question everything I believed about myself.
I’m a person who journals for self-discovery, meditates, and digs deep into the workings of the subconscious. I value self-awareness, and mindfulness practices contribute to that knowledge. My initial reaction was, No way. I know who I am and I like who I am. Full stop. End of discussion.
I landed at LaGuardia and booked a Lyft to Weston, CT. A few minutes into the trip, the driver missed an exit. We were in New York City rush hour. Traffic was at a standstill and all I could see in any direction were the roofs of vehicles reflecting sunlight like shards of brass. That added another hour to a trip that was already an hour and a half. I had ample time to reflect on the astrologer’s prediction and the spacey sensation that some part of me was slowly dissolving.
That night, I took off my leggings, stuffed them into the bowels of my carry-on, and sensed the end of an era. I donned work jeans and a flannel shirt, clothing I’ve become intimately familiar with over the past two years of house construction, and buried myself in the physicality of hard work.
For the next six weeks, I shuttled back and forth between Connecticut and South Carolina, depending upon where I was most useful. CT meant doing whatever I could to assist my son-in-law with renovations to a newly purchased property. In SC I entertained my granddaughters while Mom traveled for business.
The first time I left CT for Isle of Palms, SC, I pulled on a pair of dressy white jeans and a long-sleeved tee shirt, the only articles of clothing I brought that weren’t legging-related or work grunge.
The following day I went shopping.
Whatever had clicked into place as I flew eastward, was actualized as I tried on fashionable, wide-leg carpenter’s pants, cargo capris, and holey jeans. I found bottoms first, then looked for shirts, the antithesis of flowy, to go with them. I was becoming the visual apparition of my revised inner essence.
Wide-leg pants symbolized elegance and liberation in the 1930s. Cargo pants originated in Britain in 1938. Wearing jeans became a statement of youth rebellion in the 1950s after James Dean popularized them in the movie: Rebel Without a Cause. These fashions today are a remake of those vintage items. Torn clothing surfaced with angry youth during the British punk movement as the disenfranchised pounded hard rock music with lyrics rejecting mainstream corporate mass culture and its values. Their ripped jeans symbolized freedom of expression and individual non-conformity
Since retirement, I’ve worn myself inside out. Whatever me wants expression, that persona is reflected in my apparel.
For the first few years in Bali, I gravitated toward lacey blouses and flouncy skirts, as far from business attire as possible. Then I moved on to capri leggings and flowy tops. When I landed in Mexico, after surviving COVID lockdown in Indonesia, the tables piled high with clothing at Tuesday Market drew me like a kid to a cookie jar. Bewitched by the sheer volume, the mass, the heaps of everything imaginable and unimaginable as far as the eye could see, I bought whatever caught my fancy, discarding most of it when I returned to the States a year later.
Mexico was a breath, a long inhale between COVID trauma and whatever might be next for me.
Upon my return to the place I was born, the only thing that made sense was work. I threw myself into resurrecting a derelict cabin, turning it into a habitable dwelling next door to my sister’s home on the family farm. I felt most authentic in shabby work clothes that required no thought.
However, this time coming home to Minnesota was much different. The skeptics who thought I wouldn’t stay in this remote place, no longer whispered their doubts. With a lot of help I’ve created a house I love that incorporates everything I’ve ever wanted in a dwelling. (Granted, free labor came with shaking heads and rolled eyes at my outside-the-box ideas.) But this community of family, old friends, and new acquaintances are rugged individualists. My renegade heart is accepted here and becomes more liberated with each passing year.
Finding one’s true self isn’t a one-time thing. I’ve had many iterations, some authentic, a few not. Whenever I felt pressure to conform to accepted standards, I hid my wilder side. Looking back, I shouldn’t have. It came out anyway but in a dark, destructive manner. Had I allowed my soul free expression, I believe I could have avoided forty-five years in a half-life of shadows.
But that’s hindsight, always 20/20. Now, I’m the punk granny in holey jeans spouting wisdom for the Gen Xs, Millennials, and Gen Zers trailing behind me. It’s the age-old, Do what I say, not what I’ve done, advice. No matter your age, if you’re reading this it’s not too late! Do yourself a favor: don’t hide your wild!
There’s a candle flickering on my left. On my right, Elon Musk, with the tips of prayer hands at his chin, stares from the cover of his life story. The dregs of winter loom sunless and drab through the window in front of my desk.
Internet is sketchy on days like this. But I can breathe again.
The past three weeks have been a race to get my loft space guest-ready. That meant mudding, taping, sanding, and painting non-stop to hit the January 25th deadline of the lunchtime arrival of Jessa and Dan.
A paper and pen list with each task and its to-be-completed date posted on my refrigerator in plain sight was my archaic method for achieving an on-time finish; that and the vision in my head. I could see it, the colorful patchwork quilt on the bed. The Tiffany-type lamp glowing. A cozy seating area by the flickering (electric) fireplace, and the new rug.
It would be a push. I knew that. But when I want something badly enough, Driven is my middle name.
Gwen helped the first day.
She placed the mesh tape over all the joints between the sheets of drywall. Then, she went home. For the next few days, I slathered joint compound (mud) over the tape, wielding a smoothing tool with a twelve-inch blade, determined to have learned from my ignorant first attempts at mudding a year ago.
The ceiling of the loft slopes from seven feet at the highest point, down to about three feet ten inches at the outside wall. For some of the work I squatted and ducked. For some, I stood. And for about one-third of it, I needed a ladder. Then, just to be sure I got a full calisthenic workout, every few minutes I bent to set down the mud and pick up the screw gun.
There’s a sweet spot for sheetrock screws that requires just the right amount of pressure so they come to rest slightly below the surface of the drywall. When done well, the mud smoothes over them and they completely disappear. Many of them needed an extra zap to sink them to the proper depth. I was meticulous. I wanted to get as close to perfection as an amateur possibly could,
My energy held out for about three hours every morning. Then, right shoulder, elbow, and wrist aching, I’d stop for lunch and rest. Rarely did I have what it took to go back to it the same day. To keep going, I counseled myself, Just a little longer, Sherry. Then you won’t have to do this part again tomorrow. Or I bargained, One more hour now and you can quit early tomorrow.
When I finally crossed mudding off the list, I thought the worst was over. How soon we forget. Sanding created woes of its own. Smoothing the walls wasn’t bad, but the ceiling was another story. Powdery dust fell into my eyes. I tried goggles. In seconds, they were coated and I could see nothing. Every wrinkle in my face was a ghostly line of white. The shoulder, elbow, and wrist joints that sustained the brutal workout of mudding, were now challenged in new ways. Oh! And did I mention my neck? All that cranking my head back to look upward as dust mixed with tears and mud oozed out of my eyes, meant a nightly dose of ibuprofen to ease the pain and let me sleep.
Then morning would come again!
When sanding was complete, every surface in my house sported a layer of grit. I knew there was no point in cleaning until I’d wiped down the walls, ceiling, and floor of the loft, and that had to happen before I could paint.
Neighbor Bear told me to check in with him, suggesting that he might have some things I could use. I left the dust and strolled over to his house. He moved into his unfinished residence on September 30th and was still unpacking boxes. In the process he’d come across paint (about 90 gallons of various colors) and painting supplies. He sent me home with rollers, brushes, trays, and eight gallons of random satin, gloss, and eggshell. There were various shades of white, a cream, two browns, and something called amber glow which turned out to be blaze orange. It was the 22nd. I had three days left.
As soon as I got back to the house, I wiped down the walls and ceiling of the loft and entryway with damp cloths. Then mopped the floor. Puffy little clouds no longer accompanied each footstep. Once that was done, I tackled the main living area, vacuumed the upholstery and the rug, dusted the top, sides, and insides of the furniture, and scrubbed the floor. I’d forgotten what clean felt like.
I should have stopped to rest, but I was running out of time. I knew the next day meant a run to town to get groceries, a 70-mile round trip, and prepping meals for my guests. So, I broke open the first can of white and began. I rolled the walls, then up and down the ladder for the ceiling, on hands and knees with the paintbrush for the plywood floor in the entryway, and with the roller again to cover the rough chipboard floor in the loft.
Three things kept me psyched up enough to face each grueling day:
Crossing completed tasks off the list
Visualizing the finished project
Wanting to please my guests
On the 24th, Gwen brought over their queen-size air bed, a magnificent thing that inflates itself. By evening, the loft was a charming guestroom. I messaged Jessa: I’m ready for you tomorrow! Within moments, she answered: Mom! Were coming on the 28th, not tomorrow!
I don’t know how our wires got crossed. I looked back in my messages and nowhere did I find any dates at all. But what a gift, three whole days to rest! The psychological circus that had kept me going for the preceeding weeks, quietly rolled out of town.
When they arrived twenty minutes early on the 28th, homemade Loaded Vegetable and Barley Soup was simmering on the stove. Creamy butter sat ready to be slathered on Mexican bolillos, and Gwen’s cranberry-apple galette waited in the wings for dessert. Tucked in the fridge for the evening meal, four potatoes lay scrubbed and ready for baking, and a side of peas. There were sliced tomatoes and fresh mozzarella with bay leaves for Caprese salad. A whole chicken stuffed with lemons and cloves of garlic, would become Lemon Garlic Chicken done on the rotisserie in the air fryer.
Between lunch and happy hour, we traipsed next door to Gwens to bake lefse. The equipment was set up and ready. Gwen gave a quick tutorial, and the rolling began. It was Jessa’s special request to revisit that ancestral ritual from her childhood and no wonder. She’s a pro! She rolled each round to a perfect transluscent circle, ‘like Grandpa used to do,’ she said. Somehow, Dan’s Scandinavian background didn’t give him the same leg-up. The dough stuck to his rolling pin, and when he did manage to get one ready for the griddle, it resembled the shape of a turnip, or Africa. Fortunately, he could laugh along with us, and his tasted just as good as the perfectly formed ones.
It was a wonderful visit, but the joy of having them here reached its apex when they hugged me goodnight and disappeared into their private loft room with the fireplace flickering on the freshly painted and almost perfectly smooth walls and ceiling.
Why has moving here, thirty miles from the nearest grocery store, nearest hardware store, nearest fast food restaurant, or Dairy Queen, made my life busier and more social than ever before?
I’m not complaining, but this isn’t exactly what I’d planned. I expected vast quantities of downtime to write, reflect, and daydream. I imagined isolation and a touch of loneliness now and then, solitary walks, and, okay, I’ll admit it, boredom.
How much wronger could I have been?! I think I’ve maxed out the wrongness scale.
So here’s the latest from Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay.
Let’s start with mornings. They’re glorious. So stunning, in fact, that after taking this shot through my kitchen window, I ran outside in bare feet and jammies, climbed the ladder to my under-construction loft, and took another.
In jaw-dropping awe, I stood for many minutes, transfixed as the sun cleared the horizon.
Thirty minutes later, I was in Bear’s barn renovation, insullating the walls.
Construction is an ongoing theme. My garage/entryway/deck/loft addition is progressing.
Today, I sat under open rafters, imagining stairs, windows, a rug, as a lone cloud sprinkled a few cooling drops on my sweaty-hot head.
Did I say hot? Yesterday, it hit 103 degrees! The only thing hotter than the sun was the inside of my house. Even the sunflowers were wilting.
But that’s Minnesota. Extremes. It suits me.
On the social front, we have our community ‘meeting’ every evening at five o’clock. Whoever hosts provides appetizers. We plan our work for the coming day, moan, and groan over the latest political outrages, share poetry we’ve written, or ponder the meaning of life. Sometimes, someone has a deep, philosophical question, like, If time is a construct of man, is reality a neverendingnow?We keep ourselves entertained.
Then there was the garden. I planted one row of beans last spring. Gwen and W did the rest. All summer, they tended to weeds and watering while I went to South Carolina to visit granddaughters, then to Minneapolis to tend my grandsons. I showed up again just in time for harvest and the canning, freezing, and pickling processes.
Somewhere along the way, I decided to brew kombucha. Random? Not really. It’s a healthy alternative to my Spicy Tamarind Vodka fixation, a drink I was introduced to in Mexico.
Amazon had everything I needed. The brewing jar came from CraftaBrew.com with instructions and a cloth cover. An amber-colored, live scoby starter from poseymom.com and cardamom-flavored Ahmad black tea arrived, and I was in business.
Now I wait.
Isn’t it gorgeous? I can start tasting it after seven days. If I like the flavor, I’ll bottle it then, or l can let it ferment longer for a tangier version.
It’s getting late. I’ll wrap this up. But just now, the moon…
I wanted to title this post, Settling in on Fantasy Bay, but that was a tad too optimistic. It’s not quite where I’m at.
When I moved back to the family farm of my childhood, I wondered what life here would be like as an adult. Where would I fit in? I couldn’t conjure a scenario. Nothing felt familiar.
To be fair, I didn’t have much time to dwell on it. From the moment I arrived, I focused all my energy on the shell of an abandoned hunting shack, hoping to magically turn it into a home.
I put my body through nine months of physical hell, climbing up and down ladders, crawling on my knees, scooting on my butt, pounding nails, lifting and dragging plywood, sheetrock, flooring, siding, and falling into bed at night, utterly spent.
For six of those months, I lived next door with my sister and brother-in-law, who were on site beside me, doing even more of what I was doing every single day.
We worked through fall, but as the veggies in the extensive garden matured, there were days devoted to the harvest. Our trio picked, cleaned, chopped, canned, and froze, all the carrots, beans, cucumbers, peppers, tomatoes, onions, kale, corn, apples, raspberries, and strawberries. Occasionally, a relative or friend would come by for coffee. At those times, work ceased for a blissful couple of hours.
Then weather turned bitter. The garden froze. It was back to the house project and more of the same until finally…
I had heat. The walls and ceilings were sheetrocked and painted. There was a composting toilet, a fifty-gallon water tank, and enough plumbing to supply water from there to the bathroom sink. I had a fridge, a microwave, a rug, and a massive sleeper sofa.
Valentine’s Day dawned with a celebratory move into my new home. There were kitchen cabinets but no countertops, little by way of furnishings, and no stove. As I occupied the space, energy shifted. Now I was on my own clock. The unfinished pieces demanded attention, but I could easily procrastinate. I began to imagine a gentler life.
I soldiered slowly on. W uninstalled the ineffective, tankless water heater and replaced it with a 2.5 gallon tank model that delivered H-O-T water!
He put in the shower.
I bought unfinished butcherblock countertops, sanded, stained, and polyurethaned the heck out of them.
W installed those and the kitchen sink. My stove was delivered.
If you will recall, I have no well. By trial and error, I perfected the method of carrying water in one-gallon milk jugs, twenty at a time, from their house, to fill my under-the-sink container, something I’ll be doing once every two weeks until the end of time.
More furniture arrived, and Gwen helped me assemble it. The counter-height table and stools went together like a dream. She’s much better at following directions than I am. But the ungainly hall tree challenged our skills and our patience to the max.
Just as I began to relax into the cushy refinement of a job well done…
And just as I began to picture a life of ease…
The Bear arrived.
No…. If you’re thinking along the lines of my monkey nightmares in Bali, this was not that. Bear is a long-time family friend affectionately nicknamed for his resemblance in stature to that animal. Years ago, he bought twenty acres of this farm with the intent of retiring here. That time had come.
In a level of excitement resembling mine when I first laid eyes on my hunting shack, he looked at the falling down barn on the property and visualized paradise.
Knowing I could never directly repay the hundreds of volunteer hours Gwen and W spent helping me (karma doesn’t necessarily operate that way) I set to work helping Bear with his dream. The universe had seen fit to bring a remodeling project as daunting in scope as mine. Once again, I was crawling on my knees, scooting on my butt, lifting and dragging rotted plywood and dank insulation to twenty-yard dumpsters, putting my aged body through physical hell, paying back.
Meanwhile, I’m getting clear about what life at Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay will look like. In fact, one word pretty well sums it up:
Projects.
And just to make certain there’s no shortage of energy-sucking, back-breaking tasks, I’ve started an addition to my tiny house: a garage, entryway, and deck. Home Depot delivered the first load of materials last week. (Click the link below to watch the video)
Gone forever is the relaxed, sedentary, writer’s life that was my existence in Bali. This chapter is about pushing physical limits, laughing in the face of the seventy-three year old in the mirror who thought she’d retired.
But it’s also about community – being a contributing part of something vital, something bigger than I am. Learning new skills. Getting filthy sweaty dirty and not caring what I look like.
I’ve peeled back a whole new layer of self-discovery revealing the rest of who I am: physically strong, capable, gritty, and unadorned…
It’s been a month since my last post. Time flies. What a cliche, but nevertheless, how true.
For fifteen of the past thirty days, I was in Isle of Palms, South Carolina. It was a good time of the year to be away from northern Minnesota. Spring melt had turned frozen ground into gooey mud. Extra humidity from thawing snow made 32 degrees feel bone chilling.
Isle of Palms had none of that. I wore sandals and strolled barefoot on the beach.
The trip, planned months ago, was to be a vacation for me plus three days of childcare with my granddaughters. Joy had a work conference in Florida and Kellen was going with her, an opportunity for the two of them to get away while Granny Sherry covered the home front with Hadley, almost 7, and Delaney, almost 4.
Had I known then what I know now…
Let’s just say right up front that I summoned the wherewithal to survive. It wasn’t the girls. They were angels! Seriously. What a tribute to their parents.
No. It was their schedule.
I’m thinking back to 1955 when I went to kindergarten. By then, my sister was three, and my brother was one. Our neighbors had teenage kids. They collected me on their way to the bus stop and walked me back after school. Dad left for work early in our only car. Mom stayed home.
Fast forward sixty-eight years to Isle of Palms…
5:30 a.m My alarm goes off. I stumble out of bed, wash my face, and dress for the day.
6:00 a.m. Delaney pops out of her room, all smiles and chatter, with Ellie, her much-loved, stuffed elephant. She has dressed herself, and she’s hungry. This is the tree-year-old! I put waffles in front of her.
6:10 a.m. I enter Hadley’s room with a cheery, “Good morning, sweetheart, time to rise and shine.” Nothing. She sleeps on the top bunk. I climb the ladder and pat the blankets until I locate a leg. Gently massaging that body part, I say, “Time to get up, Hadley.” In a somnabulent state, she arrives in the kitchen.
6:25 a.m. I have Hadley’s lunch packed and her backpack with the requisite water bottle waiting by the door. While she eats, I brush tangles out of her hair and secure a ponytail. Her clothes are on the counter, chosen the night before. Now, with significant encouragement on my part, she dresses.
6:35 a.m. Delaney is ready, shoes on, with Ellie in tow. Hadley straps on her backpack, and the three of us walk one block to the bus stop.
6:40 a.m. Hadley’s on the bus. Delaney and I return to the house. She plays ‘teacher’ while I have my first cup of coffee and load breakfast dishes into the dishwasher.
Delaney’s make-believe classroom
7:15 a.m. I brush Delaney’s hair ever-so-gently to avoid shrieks of “OWWWW!” Then, contrary to all logic, she insists on a freakishly tight ponytail. I check for any possible clothing adjustments, she’s three, after all. But this fashionista takes after her mother…impeccable.
7:30 a.m. Delaney stuffs Ellie into her backpack, and we’re out the door.
7:55 a.m. We arrive at Delaney’s school in Mt. Pleasant and join the queue behind a line of other cars.
8:00 a.m. The school door opens. Teachers stream out and head for the waiting cars to gather the kids.
8:30 a.m. Back at the house, I pour my second cup of coffee and collapse on the couch.
I could take the next three hours off. But clean laundry needs folding and dirty clothes mysteriously multiplied overnight. I start the washer. Toys are strewn everywhere throughout the house. There are piles of beach sand on the rug by the front door.
Hadley’s fort
My mother kept a spotless, orderly home. I can’t relax surrounded by clutter. The three ‘free’ hours evaporate.
11:30 a.m. I drive back to Delaney’s school and fall in line with the other cars moving slowly to receive our children.
12:00 noon Lunch. Delaney requests playtime before her nap. I say twenty minutes and set the timer.
2:15 p.m. There are very few things that remove the sunshine from Delaney’s soul, but being awakened early from sleep is one of them. Hadley gets off the bus at 2:30 and we have to be there to collect her. I coax Miss Grumpypants out of slumber while slipping her shoes on. This time, we take the golf cart to the bus stop.
That schedule alone would have been plenty. But there were after-school activities, a promised gelato run, tutoring, gymnastics, a four-year-old friend’s birthday party, music in the park…
Joy and Kellen came home with a new agenda. A house had come on the market in Connecticut, and would I mind watching the girls while they flew there to see it? Of course, I can do that!
After living on the other side of the world for so many years with no deadlines and few responsibilities, taking care of those two, pecious beings challenged me to the max. Their hugs and sweetness melted my heart. I felt needed and appreciated. But that schedule…OMG!
When Joy and Kellen had taken care of business and were back at home, there were delightful hours at the beach.
We strolled through opulent neighborhoods, and I oogled the unfamiliar architecture of elevated island homes.
Joy took me on a tour of historic Charleston.
We enjoyed the best sushi I’ve ever eaten at a little place called 167 Raw.
In my 20s, I lived in North Carolina for a year. The landscape was similar. Memories resurrected.
What an adventure! I loved every exhausting minute. Saying goodbye was easier knowing that they’re all coming to visit me in August and, as I’ve already noted, time flies.
I returned to the shy green of northern Minnesota spring, to snowless fields and singing birds, to my cozy cottage at Granny’s Landing on Fantasy Bay…and slept…and slept…and slept…
For three glorious days, the earth sucked up snow as fast as the sun could melt it. We walked outside in sweatshirts ditching heavy jackets, hats, mittens, and boots. Buoyant, joyous, we scoured the roadside for signs of flowers. I picked pussywillows. Temperatures climbed to the seventies.
Yesterday, it rained all day. Any traces of winter that had lingered were gone. Wet-dirt scent, reminiscent of plowing and weeding, triggered nostalgic farm memories.
Today, a blizzard whipped horizontally past my windows dropping a white shroud over yesterday’s Spring.
This is Minnesota.
The nastiness outside gives me permission to light candles, cuddle in slouchy clothes, and do as close to nothing as possible. By nothing, I mean nothing that resembles work. Gazing at the blustering snow, reading, writing, pondering…these are acceptable pastimes for a day like today.
So I’m pondering…pondering the impact of the different environments I’ve experienced over the past twelve years.
In Ubud, Bali, eight degrees south of the equator, day and night were virtually equal parts dark and light – sunrise at 6:30 a.m. and sunset at 6:30 p.m. It varied by several minutes over the course of a year, but not much. Nestled in the foothills of volcanic Mt. Agung, the landscape was perpetually green and the air dripped humidity with two seasons: rainy and not quite so rainy. Balanced. Predictable. Easy. I never grew tired of the eternal youth of Bali, the jungle foliage, the sensory overload of sight, sound, and smell, and the kind, hospitable Balinese people.
Photo credit: Sharon Lyon
San Miguel de Allende, Mexico, was the color of sand, except when the jacarandas bloomed bathing the city in violet. At twenty-one degrees north of the equator, and 6,135 feet above sea level, SMA was high and dry. The sun baked down during the day but come January and February, there was a bite to the evening air. The architecture, the people, the food, the mountaintop vistas, were extraordinary. But I found I didn’t resonate with the desert aesthetic, and I was never entirely certain that my presence was welcomed by the locals or merely tolerated.
Now I’m 46.7 degrees north of the equator and approximately 1,200 feet above sea level. I’m surrounded by family. I don’t need to wonder if I’m welcome. It’s a far different story, and so is the climate. I’d just gotten comfortable with summer when the leaves went crimson and left the trees naked. I blinked and the world turned white overnight. Snow accumulated in epic proportions, shifting and drifting, swirling whorls around the pines. Nights descended earlier and darkness delayed morning. Focused on getting my house habitable, months passed. Sometimes, I’d stop and marvel at the crystalline purity of blinding, bridal white.
Then, without warning, it was gone. In its place, brown remains of dead vegetation, nude, gray branches, and sticky, oozing, mud met the eyes as far as they could see.
Now, three days later….it’s back! Whiteness. Winter. Everywhere.
I’m glad I’ve experienced other climates and the customs and cultures they spawned. Bali felt young. San Miguel was ancient. Here, cycling through the seasons, I’m in touch with the passage of time: birth, growth, aging, death. I feel aligned and in tune with the reality of life’s terminal nature. It makes me more introspective than I already am – makes me treasure my time on this planet more than I already do, makes me grateful for every experience, blissful or traumatic, that contributed to the unusual path I’ve walked.
And…it makes me hungry! There’s something about cold and snow that generates a ravenous appetite! Out of necessity, I’m learning how to cook. I sort of knew the basics, once upon a time. But this climate requires more than tofu and salad. The body here needs starch and protein, fat, and sugar in quantities I haven’t seen on my plate in decades.
It’s an adjustment. Everything is. But if there’s one thing I have in spades, it’s flexibility. If there’s another thing, it’s determination to thrive where I’m planted. So now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to go cook something.
Those two words more than any others have defined the past twelve years of my life. Make that thirty years. I was in my forties when I began to consciously focus on figuring out who I was and what I wanted.
I bungled it big time at first.
Because, at forty, I had deeply ingrained beliefs that worked against me. Identifying those subconscious dictators and changing the stories took a very long time.
Growth and change will always be my modus operandi, and the most recent development in that neverending saga happened on Valentine’s Day. I moved into my new home.
Gwen, W, and I loaded my earthly belongings into the back of the ‘Gator’ and bumped through the trees, a distance of about half a city block, from their house to mine. In moments, we had created an insignificant little pile of stuff on the floor just inside my door. I was home.
The house was far from finished but I knew I’d get more accomplished faster if I was living with the inconveniences day after day. Cabinet doors were painted but not hung. I didn’t have countertops. There was no cooktop or oven. I did have a microwave, a refrigerator, a Mr. Coffee, and massive motivation to get the rest done!
There were hurdles.
The countertop I ordered through Home Depot arrived broken in half. I reordered. Again it arrived, in their words, damanged beyond use. Three times I waited for a whole one to come. The third also arrived in pieces. I gave up and bought an unfinished birch butcher block slab. After immersing myself in DIY videos, I sanded, sealed, stained, and polyurethaned it hoping my inexperience wouldn’t be too obvious.
Cabinet doors went on fairly easily. The handles didn’t! I measured, leveled, drilled, and agonized. In the end, they looked great. Nobody ever needs to know where wood putty and paint mask the mistakes.
Then, the stove arrived. Don’t get me started! It was a brand new Kitchenaid range and I nearly burned the house down trying to convert it from natural gas to LP. It took Shanna, a brilliant technician from S & D Appliance in Brainerd, to whip it into working order.
………
Today, as I sit at my dining island writing this, every nook and cranny has a tale to tell. I know this house from the outside in. My sweat and blood stain its 2 x 4s. Choice expletives still echo from the rafters, reminding me that demoralizing setbacks are momentary and dogged determination yields bounteous rewards.
When there were things I couldn’t do myself (and there were many) Gwen and W came with the tools and expertise to make it happen. They have at least as much time, energy, and frustration invested in my home as I have. They remain an essential, much loved, and deeply appreciated part of my new life.
I wish I could give you an in-person tour of my sanctuary. But I’m here and you, my friends, are scattered all over the world. So photos will have to suffice for now. Here is my tiny home with industrial farmhouse decor at Granny’s Landing on the shores of Fantasy Bay.
Please, come in…
To the right of the front door, a black hall tree serves as a place to hang guests’ coats, with additional storage below the seat. Between that and the sofa is a forced-air furnace that keeps me toasty and oh so happy these cold, winter days.
My walls, ceilings, and draperies are white. The floor is weathered gray. A monster sofa with sleeper bed tucked inside is the color of oatmeal. That monochromatic palette gives me the opportunity to accent with bright colors. I love the handmade braided rug from India and the two throw pillows from Mexico. The black mining cart coffee table and the wire ceiling fan lend themselves to an industrial theme. The bamboo runner on the dining island is from Bali, as is the bowl with batik wooden balls on the chest. The hand-embroidered wool runner was my very first purchase in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico. I bought it at the Tuesday Market from the woman who made it. I treasure these collected bits and pieces.
Continuing around the room, we arrive at the kitchen. It’s a compact space adequate for my needs. I wanted a counter-height dining table and this set checked all the boxes. I chose the rich, mahogany stain for the cabinet countertops to mimic the dark wooden surface of the dining island.
The refrigerator cubby accommodates a rolling metal shelf unit for additional storage. Part of the yet-to-be-completed task list is a cabinet over the refrigerator. Patience! Good things come to those who wait I’m told. And note the container suspended from the wire rack. That’s a space-saving hanging trash can I found on the Temu shopping website. Hiding under the shelves is a bucket for compost. My recyclables go into separate bags stashed out of sight.
As we turn the corner, a magnificent, 7-foot handmade oak chest holds the TV, all my clothing, and miscellaneous necessities like drawing tablets, magic markers, paint, glue, you know…stuff. The chest was made by the father of a dear friend and has been sitting, abandoned, in Gwen and W’s unheated storage barn for ten or more years. It’s impeccably made. Nancy’s father was a gifted craftsman, and this chest withstood freezing and thawing, freezing and thawing over and over again to emerge in my home, unscathed.
Let’s swing momentarily past the bathroom door to the red chest. I found it on Facebook Marketplace for $25. It was a TV cabinet but now it holds my winter jackets, mittens, hats, a yoga mat, and a sewing machine. Anywhere my eyes come to rest, there are gifts from friends and family and tokens of remembrance from travels.
Everything delights me.
At the onset, I promised myself I’d have nothing in my home that made me cringe. At first, the glaring proof of my mudding, taping, and sheetrocking ineptitude embarrassed me. Now when people say, “You could cover that up with texture…” I say, “That IS texture.” It gets a laugh. And now, it feels intentional, part of the magic of a derelict hunting shack transformed but still hinting at what it once was.
Let’s proceed through the bathroom door…
This room is just plain fun. All of my plumbing drains live under the shower. That required some wild creativity. Fortunately, the ceilings in this tiny house are 8 1/2 feet high – not the standard 8 feet – so we had an extra 6 inches to work with. The shower tower soars a lofty 20 inches off the floor. To access it, I needed a large, sturdy platform and steps.
The black metal and wood staircase slides under the platform when not in use. I made the cushion and the shade from a quilt set purchased from Ophelia and Company through the Wayfair website. The two throw pillows came with it!
I’m equally thrilled and dumbfounded by the ease of shopping online. The towel bars, TP holder, and the hangers supporting the shade, are industrial pipes. A thin, black metal frame around the mirror and black wire cages for the old-fashioned exposed light bulbs add to the edgy-ness that is softened by the Parisian print fabrics. The Eiffel Tower is the epitome of industry. A wrought iron lattice structure on the Champ de Mars, “…it was the symbol of technological prowess at the end of the 19th Century…a defining moment of the industrial era.” (https://www.toureiffel.paris).
There is a caveat to shopping online, however. 99.9999% of the time the products require assembly.
Gwen helped me with the sliding barn door for the bathroom and the island table and stools.
When the hall tree came in boxes weighing more than we could lift together, we attacked that project with the confidence borne of ignorance and two successful prequels. Gwen can figure anything out. Really. But anyone watching us fight with that massive cabinet would have doubted it would ever hold together. W offered his help and we nearly bit his head off. He disappeared for the rest of the afternoon. As you can see from the photos, we did it. But no more. Neither of us wants to tackle anything like that again. Ever.
In the meantime, I was remembering how to sew.
The bathroom accessories were a great way to engage with the machine and practice. Gwen said it was like riding a bike – you never forget. Ummm, well, sort of. I was super happy that the instruction booklet was included.
When I first moved into the house, I tiptoed around feeling light-headed and giddy in the space, not quite believing it was my home, wondering what to do now that the major jobs were done. I didn’t know how I fit…where would I sit to write? Which side of the sink would hold dirty dishes? How many people could I comfortably entertain? I felt guilty curling up on my luxurious couch with a book. Surely there must be something I should be doing…
Those feelings weren’t surprising after ten months of constant, often back-breaking labor.
One morning about a week ago, I woke up grounded. Since then I’ve been my old self, journaling, yoga-ing, meditating, drawing, and daydreaming. Ah, yes. Daydreaming. Not of new vistas or grand schemes. I’m dreaming of a simple life in this community of old friends. Of planting and harvesting. Of being present with the seasons. Of contemplating death, not in a morbid sense, but with curiousity, aware that it awaits, and knowing that when it comes I’ll be ready. I have lived…I am living…fully and joyfully!
writing for self-discovery 
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