True to its name, the Christmas Rose we brought from Lanntair Farm to Blue Note Garden in 1998 is in full bloom.
It is early morning and all is peaceful and quiet at Blue Note Garden. Well fed and content after their morning routines, Coco the old cat and Gracie the young dog are curled up in their favorite resting places. Occasionally they lift their heads to notice the birds, squirrels, and falling rain outside—remarkable after many weeks of heat and drought.
Advent has been an especially troubled and sad time this year. So many wars and such suffering, of a depth and extent I cannot begin to imagine. So much anxiety about what 2024 will bring. On the home front, several older friends are in hospice or have passed recently. The deaths have come in a cluster as Christmas neared and now their funerals will also occur one after the other in Christmas week leading up to the New Year. One former colleague has entered a home with early Alzheimer’s; her one wish to return to her childhood home for a visit gone unfulfilled in the years of her gradual decline because none in her immediate family could be bothered to go to the trouble—“she wouldn’t remember anyway.”
Gracie eventually bestirs herself and comes over to rest her head near where I am scribbling, occasionally sneaking in a lick on my hand. She must wonder how I could possibly waste so much time on a piece of paper and a pencil. Gracie will go with me to visit my old colleague this afternoon. People in homes I’ve regularly visited this year much prefer to see her rather than me, anyway. Everyone she encounters lights up when they catch sight of her.
Yesterday, Christmas Eve, I took Gracie with me to visit my youngest sister, her husband, and their grown children in for the holidays. It was a beautiful day for an afternoon turn-around trip over and through the mountains. On the way, the wonders of digital radio made it possible for me to listen, live, to Lessons and Carols from King’s College Cambridge with astonishing clarity. But on the return trip, there was silence—not a smidgen of radio transmission could make it past the ancient shoulders and peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains.
Accustomed to living with a cranky cat and a creaky old lady, Gracie is overwhelmed by all the different people she could engage with in Asheville—at one point, running with exhilarating esprit between one, then another, and then yet another, as though she were doing her best to attend to them all at once. I will long remember the sight of her in their good company.
As I watched family members and Gracie, I thought about all the boarders and animals at Lanntair Farm, such a long time ago. There was a lot about the farm that made it seem like the spirit of Christmas was present nearly every day. Perhaps that feeling takes root and grows out of being in a place and among a community focused on profound caring for fellow humans, animals, and the earth. No small task, but essential on a farm or in a garden.
Christmas traditionally manifests itself in many different ways—lights, music, squealing children with presents—but what I loved best was walking to and from the barns at Lanntair Farm, day after day, with our old dogs, Casey and McCoo. Shoveling manure at sunup and sundown put the rest of the day in perspective. Leading the horses in, we’d soon hear the comforting sounds of their feeding and their resting in sheltering byres. We’d catch Kenneth talking to the barn cats while he fed them. On especially magical days, there would be snow:
How fortunate I am to have known—and now remember—that sense of peace and joy. I wish the same for all of you! — Theresa
Some of you may remember my eventful trial in January with a delightful but thoroughly exhausting puppy Franklin (Frankie), who desperately missed his canine and human family at his foster home, as they did him. A mere one set of hands was certainly not enough. Back to the foster home he went, where he is doing splendidly; he is becoming quite the handsome and winsome lad.
In February and March, I let the search for a dog-companion go while I closely observe two owlets nesting in one of our huge hickory trees, with constant food deliveries from Ma and Pa Owl. The nest is directly above a huge brush pile, so critters are ready at hand (claw). By April, the two owlets have fledged and I can’t ignore any longer the huge amount of pruning work to do in the garden, the result of our two severe and precipitous winter freezes.
In May, I learn that Grace (Gracie), a 5 year-old lady black English Labrador, show dog and dam—reputedly a very good mother—is retiring and available for a week trial for adoption. Three days into that first week, we are out for a walk on a short but sturdy leather leash to learn whether we would be good walking companions; she turns out to be first-rate at both meandering and power walks/runs, in rhythm. We get a call from a homebound neighbor who has heard something in her yard—a “yard” that is some 40 acres of old-growth forest on the river. (She’s heard from me that Grace is a 77-pound sweetheart—she needs to lose about 20 pounds—who appears fearsome.) Well, it looks like a threatening storm is brewing so I ask Gracie what she thinks and she looks up at me, game for the assignment. We go over and walk all around our neighbor’s historic home place, report that everything seems fine, and start back for our own home.
All of a sudden, a freight-train of a thunder storm swoops into the forest; towering trees sway wildly, buffeted by winds from several different directions. I’ve been careful to keep Grace on leash—she is not my dog yet—but I consider letting her go while we each run as fast as we can. If she spooks in the very scary conditions, she could easily jerk away from me anyway. I look at her and she seems to shrug: “Uh, lady, we gotta get going, now!”
Damned if that wonderful creature didn’t stay with me for what seemed like an endless run through those woods, sometimes taking flying leaps off elevated banks into thickets until we finally battled our way to the main road and flat-out galloped home. Never once did she balk or pull on that leash.
When moving about, Gracie has an exceptional inclination to be aware of and honor personal space. (On the other hand, when she wants to express affection, she knows no bounds. I don’t change the day’s clothes until I put her in her crate at night, which she treats as her temple of utter and complete rest—likely her surest chance of being away from those nursing litters.)
Gracie doesn’t formally know much in the way of commands beyond “Come” and “No” — or she is skilled at pretending she doesn’t—but she readily follows suggestions and the situation. Interestingly, the main commands I find useful for her are pretty much the same ones that are critical for horses: “Easy,” “Walk on,” and “Whoa!” We’ve been working on “Stay!” When I attach her leash to a hook while I go get or do something, she neither pulls on the hook nor seems in any way anxious about whether I have a good reason for leaving her there.
Gracie reminds me of our two black labs at Lanntair Farm: She’s much like female Casey in physical build but echoes even more closely her brother MacCoo in disposition, who woke up everyday to greet us and seemed to ask “How can I lay down my life for you today?”
A friend of mine goes to great lengths to find me a gangway I can borrow to get Gracie in and out of my small hatchback because I worry about her jumping with all the extra weight —and then, too, there is a spay surgery coming up soon. (She could use a tummy-tit-tuck, too!) We carefully set up the trifold ramp for her exit down, taking pains to secure it in place to ensure we don’t scare her on her first attempt. Not to worry. She calmly ignores us and sashays down the runway like the Queen of Sheba, giving no glance at all to her feet. Going back up and in, she canters from a ways off and is in lickety-split, twirls around, and looks at us as though we’re dithering—not folding the ramp quickly enough so we can get going. Apparently, the ramp is old routine for her!
Most unusual of all, she almost never barks or makes any sound at all, although her longtime caretakers tell me to pay attention if she does. Sure enough, on her second week of trial she spots a cloud of rising vapor at a neighbor’s and barks once; I look but can see nothing amiss; it is a foggy day by the river and I think it is likely just a rising vapor cloud. It is not; it turns out to be a smoldering HVAC unit. Also on her second week, I hear her give a low soft growl but I am in a hurry so I pull her away for home. The next day, we go by that same area and see an enormous pile of shredded bark beneath a rotting tree—no dummy, Gracie likely had sensed a bear!
Christmas 2023
Dear Family and Friends,
True to its name, the Christmas Rose we brought from Lanntair Farm to Blue Note Garden in 1998 is in full bloom.
Advent has been an especially troubled and sad time this year. So many wars and such suffering, of a depth and extent I cannot begin to imagine. So much anxiety about what 2024 will bring. On the home front, several older friends are in hospice or have passed recently. The deaths have come in a cluster as Christmas neared and now their funerals will also occur one after the other in Christmas week leading up to the New Year. One former colleague has entered a home with early Alzheimer’s; her one wish to return to her childhood home for a visit gone unfulfilled in the years of her gradual decline because none in her immediate family could be bothered to go to the trouble—“she wouldn’t remember anyway.”
Gracie eventually bestirs herself and comes over to rest her head near where I am scribbling, occasionally sneaking in a lick on my hand. She must wonder how I could possibly waste so much time on a piece of paper and a pencil. Gracie will go with me to visit my old colleague this afternoon. People in homes I’ve regularly visited this year much prefer to see her rather than me, anyway. Everyone she encounters lights up when they catch sight of her.
Yesterday, Christmas Eve, I took Gracie with me to visit my youngest sister, her husband, and their grown children in for the holidays. It was a beautiful day for an afternoon turn-around trip over and through the mountains. On the way, the wonders of digital radio made it possible for me to listen, live, to Lessons and Carols from King’s College Cambridge with astonishing clarity. But on the return trip, there was silence—not a smidgen of radio transmission could make it past the ancient shoulders and peaks of the Great Smoky Mountains.
Accustomed to living with a cranky cat and a creaky old lady, Gracie is overwhelmed by all the different people she could engage with in Asheville—at one point, running with exhilarating esprit between one, then another, and then yet another, as though she were doing her best to attend to them all at once. I will long remember the sight of her in their good company.
As I watched family members and Gracie, I thought about all the boarders and animals at Lanntair Farm, such a long time ago. There was a lot about the farm that made it seem like the spirit of Christmas was present nearly every day. Perhaps that feeling takes root and grows out of being in a place and among a community focused on profound caring for fellow humans, animals, and the earth. No small task, but essential on a farm or in a garden.
Christmas traditionally manifests itself in many different ways—lights, music, squealing children with presents—but what I loved best was walking to and from the barns at Lanntair Farm, day after day, with our old dogs, Casey and McCoo. Shoveling manure at sunup and sundown put the rest of the day in perspective. Leading the horses in, we’d soon hear the comforting sounds of their feeding and their resting in sheltering byres. We’d catch Kenneth talking to the barn cats while he fed them. On especially magical days, there would be snow:
How fortunate I am to have known—and now remember—that sense of peace and joy. I wish the same for all of you! — Theresa
Gracie
Dear Family and Friends,
Some of you may remember my eventful trial in January with a delightful but thoroughly exhausting puppy Franklin (Frankie), who desperately missed his canine and human family at his foster home, as they did him.
A mere one set of hands was certainly not enough. Back to the foster home he went, where he is doing splendidly; he is becoming quite the handsome and winsome lad.
In February and March, I let the search for a dog-companion go while I closely observe two owlets nesting in one of our huge hickory trees, with constant food deliveries from Ma and Pa Owl. The nest is directly above a huge brush pile, so critters are ready at hand (claw). By April, the two owlets have fledged and I can’t ignore any longer the huge amount of pruning work to do in the garden, the result of our two severe and precipitous winter freezes.
In May, I learn that Grace (Gracie), a 5 year-old lady black English Labrador, show dog and dam—reputedly a very good mother—is retiring and available for a week trial for adoption. Three days into that first week, we are out for a walk on a short but sturdy leather leash to learn whether we would be good walking companions; she turns out to be first-rate at both meandering and power walks/runs, in rhythm. We get a call from a homebound neighbor who has heard something in her yard—a “yard” that is some 40 acres of old-growth forest on the river. (She’s heard from me that Grace is a 77-pound sweetheart—she needs to lose about 20 pounds—who appears fearsome.) Well, it looks like a threatening storm is brewing so I ask Gracie what she thinks and she looks up at me, game for the assignment. We go over and walk all around our neighbor’s historic home place, report that everything seems fine, and start back for our own home.
All of a sudden, a freight-train of a thunder storm swoops into the forest; towering trees sway wildly, buffeted by winds from several different directions. I’ve been careful to keep Grace on leash—she is not my dog yet—but I consider letting her go while we each run as fast as we can. If she spooks in the very scary conditions, she could easily jerk away from me anyway. I look at her and she seems to shrug: “Uh, lady, we gotta get going, now!”
Damned if that wonderful creature didn’t stay with me for what seemed like an endless run through those woods, sometimes taking flying leaps off elevated banks into thickets until we finally battled our way to the main road and flat-out galloped home. Never once did she balk or pull on that leash.
When moving about, Gracie has an exceptional inclination to be aware of and honor personal space. (On the other hand, when she wants to express affection, she knows no bounds. I don’t change the day’s clothes until I put her in her crate at night, which she treats as her temple of utter and complete rest—likely her surest chance of being away from those nursing litters.)
Gracie doesn’t formally know much in the way of commands beyond “Come” and “No” — or she is skilled at pretending she doesn’t—but she readily follows suggestions and the situation. Interestingly, the main commands I find useful for her are pretty much the same ones that are critical for horses: “Easy,” “Walk on,” and “Whoa!” We’ve been working on “Stay!” When I attach her leash to a hook while I go get or do something, she neither pulls on the hook nor seems in any way anxious about whether I have a good reason for leaving her there.
Gracie reminds me of our two black labs at Lanntair Farm: She’s much like female Casey in physical build but echoes even more closely her brother MacCoo in disposition, who woke up everyday to greet us and seemed to ask “How can I lay down my life for you today?”
A friend of mine goes to great lengths to find me a gangway I can borrow to get Gracie in and out of my small hatchback because I worry about her jumping with all the extra weight —and then, too, there is a spay surgery coming up soon. (She could use a tummy-tit-tuck, too!) We carefully set up the trifold ramp for her exit down, taking pains to secure it in place to ensure we don’t scare her on her first attempt. Not to worry. She calmly ignores us and sashays down the runway like the Queen of Sheba, giving no glance at all to her feet. Going back up and in, she canters from a ways off and is in lickety-split, twirls around, and looks at us as though we’re dithering—not folding the ramp quickly enough so we can get going. Apparently, the ramp is old routine for her!