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.

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

The Year at Blue Note Garden – 2022 – 25 January 2023

It may, perhaps, be the influence of Blue Note Garden’s newest resident, but this annual report to family and friends is going to cut to the chase.

Although I was very concerned about a marked drop-off in the number and types of wild birds this past year, the gardens were in splendid form in Spring and early Summer of 2022—possibly their best ever. Then, three months of severe drought followed—August, September, October—resulting in many plants barely rescued from decline by hand-watering from hoses and much less or no color in the fall until nearly winter. At Christmas time, we went from a balmy 52 degrees F (11 C) one afternoon to 3 degrees F (minus 16 C) the next morning. At least half of all of our mature layered plantings, many dating back to the 1990s— especially broadleaf evergreens—may be completely gone or severely set back. I’ll be waiting to prune until we’re convinced they will or won’t come back; in some cases, that may be as late as May. Anyone with an enterprising child bound for college could likely setup a sharpening shop to pay for their tuition—everyone’s pruning tools are in for some heavy use!

One morning not long ago, there was what I call a golden sunrise with lots of yellow and orange in the early-morning, slanting winter sun. Looking out from the house’s west windows, the view was of a landscape of dead brown and black leaves almost completely set afire by the light of burnt umber. In between the masses of dark foliage, the Tennessee River shone as a peculiar, clear mirror. It was a sobering sight.

* * * * *

Franklin says: “You have three perfectly good zipper pulls on that jacket. Do you need me to show you how to use them?”

Into this bleak winter environment bounded a new puppy, brought home from friends of a sister in North Carolina on New Year’s Day 2023 at 8 weeks of age. He is equally joy and unrelenting, exhausting work. Meet Franklin—training-name “Frankie”—12 pounds at his vet appointment in early-January and now, nearing the end of January, an amazing 17 pounds and sleek as a hunting hound dog.

When he arrived, I gave him his choice of the five (!) dog beds I found stored away in our hallway attic but, of course, he chose instead Kenneth’s old Frankie and Theresa 2022-2023 1 gym bag, lurking in a corner of the utility room, as had both dog Daisy and cat Buddy before him.

Given our many years of caring for animals of all kinds, it had, stupidly, not occurred to me that more than one set of hands would be essential for managing a puppy. (A few weeks after his arrival, I now have multiple hooks and crates throughout the house.) The resident 14-year-old cat, Coco Chanel, quickly washed (“licked”) her hands (“paws”) of any involvement, although she has also been remarkably unconcerned about the situation. (I have taken extreme measures to keep each one of us three separate at feeding times.) Once or twice in the last few weeks, completely tuckered out, I have dissolved into hysterical laughter as I find myself at my kitchen table in the midst of an orchestration of puppy whimpering and high-pitched yelps coming from the kitchen dog crate, while Frankie finds his squeaky-toy under his feet in the crate and so stomps on that as well, in time. Meanwhile, Coco looks at me from her basket as though to say: “Better you than me!“ I’ve always wondered how the word “bedlam” really feels and now I know. I find it ironic that while I am dealing with my hearing failing, I can also be very much perturbed by high-pitched puppy wailing. (Not to mention that my own first 15 of 18 years would have involved a great deal of infant and child crying on the part of six siblings, none of which I can now recall.) I finally found my stash of hundreds of ear plugs from my days as a traveling musician and there are now pairs everywhere at hand.

Having said all of this, Frankie is a wonder. He is a true mountain dog: Born in Hot Springs of a hound and beagle; fostered in Asheville; brought to Knoxville by car where he wailed and hollered constantly until we hit the switchback curves and hills of the highlands in Marshall, when he promptly fell asleep. Here at Blue Note Garden we have a trail called Connor’s Trail, after one of my nephews. It starts at the highest point of the property and wends its way all the way down to the lowest point. When I walk with Frankie, I stick to the trail—still a pretty precarious route—while he takes one rock after the other, sometimes jumping off one onto the next. I’ll get his DNA analyzed for fun someday, but it is easy to imagine that he might be part caribou!

* * * * *

3 February 2023 Update of One Month in the Era of Franklin (1 January-1 February 2023):

The tale of Frankie and me came to a good but bittersweet end earlier this week when I returned him to his foster family, who had never stopped inquiring after him every few days. I came to realize that they wished they had never given him up, despite their already having several other pets. I also came to feel that Frankie was not happy without his big foster family of dogs, cats and people coming in and out of their home and yard. Despite all my attempts to give Frankie enough physical and mental exercise, as well as arranging for several occasions to socialize him with other dogs, I could not do enough. I have always been one of those characters who “care too much and try too hard” but it did not feel right for me to stubbornly impose that sense of a commitment on a vibrant, rambunctious baby-puppy of inexhaustible energy when his foster family was more than willing to take him back.

Yesterday, with Frankie gone for two days, I realized that he never made a sound outdoors, except for one occasion when he barked a single time, late into the night at a toilet break, warning of a fox who then scurried away. On our morning walks, in particular, he could go totally-Zen while he sat or stood absolutely still to take in the sights, sounds and smells in the wild rocky woodland all about him here at Blue Note Garden. He would notice and wonder about the tinkle of a wind chimes nearby. Nostrils twitching, he could feel an unusual current of warm, moist air dropping down from our high north slope and then rising up from the waterfall channel below. Exceptionally for a little puppy, he’d look intently at me to make sure I’d also noticed all these wondrous things.

In particular, one morning he caught the whistle of a far-off train—on the historic Little River railroad line—and his head and ears slowly swung to follow precisely the route that I knew it routinely took. Every morning thereafter, he’d listen for it at exactly the right time; I won’t ever be able to hear that train whistle without thinking about Frankie. He noted much else: I’d say that by the time he left from here, he was able to distinguish the calls of seven or more distinct woodpeckers, not to mention many other birds passing through.

Every morning walk, he helped me move fallen limbs from storms out of the way from the nearby roads and trails. Every long afternoon excursion in parks, he helped me pick up trash that humans left behind, although he would have much preferred consuming the trash. This is not to mention the many tree nuts he rescued from squirrels and chipmunks, eagerly chomping down on them as teething toys.

It was only when he was indoors, in our quiet home of old lady and old cat, that he had a very hard time settling down.

It was a painful thing to do, but I am very glad I steeled myself to be the one to return Frankie to his family and did not ask my youngest sister to do so. Propelling himself out of the car crate, his 17 pounds immediately plunged into a running and wrestling match with the foster family’s two old dogs, well over 75 pounds each. Clearly, he was at home, where he was meant to be. His foster mother reported the next day that the dogs played hard the entire evening and then slept contentedly all night long.

However hard, giving Frankie back was the right thing to do. I look forward to hearing more about how this beloved, smart and bold puppy grows into himself in that wonderful family. Getting to know Frankie has reminded me of the little hound in Where the Red Fern Grows, a remarkable children’s book. One of two dogs in the story, the little hound gives life all he has and because of that he lives on as a memorable character. Frankie has that drive to purpose and I hope he will find it.

Only here for one month, this “mere dog” leaves a big hole in our home and my heart, joining the mounting number of other holes I am grateful to harbor. Not long ago, I ran into an essay whose author described “joy” in aging as being experienced “with a tear in the eye.” I like that reminder: The joy won’t last, so be sure not to miss it amid the inevitable pain.

Kenneth and I watched together It’s a Wonderful Life at every Christmas season of our 42 years together. I had not watched it by myself since his death five years ago until just this past Christmas of 2022. I recommend it, with my best wishes to all of you, as a fine way to start the New Year of 2023!

Puppies Casey and MacCoo at Lanntair Farm in 1985

Sights and Sounds

The sounds of Blue Note Garden are decidedly on the quiet side except for when the birds get carried away singing, or the forlorn howling of trains rumbles through across the river, or the wind stirs the two sets of wind chimes and they play a duet. In late winter, owls begin to call and continue for months as they mate and then track owlets—their nest and roost is in full view of the house’s living room windows and a mere 40 feet away.

In summer, the Orchestra of Frogs starts-up—from tiny peepers to bull frogs. The peepers can barely be seen they are so small and in shades of green that match whatever they’ve landed on, but they can certainly crank up the volume at will. In fall, nature is assaulted by humans with industrial-size leaf blowers, determined to remove all leaves, laying waste to what should be valued as bounty.

The Beach House

I hear that a shared family beach house can become a battleground when too many relatives all show up at once.

Well, you haven’t lived until you’ve watched a battle between two squirrels and two barred owls for possession of a bole hole in one particular beech tree. The ongoing struggle is the wildlife highlight of the many grim and gray days of March here at Blue Note Garden.

Now, there are dozens of such holes in our many large trees but, for some reason, this is the piece of real estate that these four creatures want. Every evening as dusk comes on the four engage, with each pair using its strategic strengths in concert to attack and evade maneuvers. The squirrels can jump and run both horizontally and vertically down and up trunks and through a maze of branches. The owls can swoop in,  but their wingspan is so wide that twigs can get in their way.

Owlets Away

How good is it that an owlet—perhaps even two or more owlets at a time—can be brought up in a devoted two-parent family, year after year? To paraphrase what author L. M. Montgomery had Anne of Green Gables declare: “I’m so glad I live in a world that has Octobers.” I feel fortunate to live in a world where owlets can grow up with two barred-owl parents working around the clock to respond to their every need for months on end. For years now, I think I’ve sent news alerts out to most of you about the owls who regularly nest winter-through-spring in one of our towering beech trees and I’ve also sent a few photos I’ve been able to furtively take of them. (Ma Owl is, in particular, a force to be reckoned with.)

Over this past weekend there seemed to be a lot of chatter from parents to owlets and whining in response from owlets to parents—it would appear that the parents are anxious for schooling in flying and hunting to commence in earnest and 24/7 meal deliveries to begin to decline. Yesterday I finally got to actually see one owlet, rather than just hear him, when he made the momentous climb from deep within the nest cavity to the open threshold of its high entrance. There he mostly preened and fluttered his wings from time to time, taking in the sights. The training wheels really went on this afternoon when he hopped-off and glided from his 30-foot high perch to another small branch in a young but tall maple close by.

When I went to do errands in late afternoon, the two parent owls were stationed within 25 feet of the owlet in two different directions except for times when they took turns going over to the exceedingly small branch the owlet had chosen to land on and where the much bigger parents had no choice but to crowd-in to do some grooming—each parent looking badly inconvenienced and awkwardly balanced. I’ve read that the baby owls have heads that are much heavier than the rest of their body, so it is often the case that they will try to rest their head on something, anything, close at hand. (See attached photo of what may be a second, smaller owlet resting its head on the open nest ledge, looking for any sign of its fledging nest-mate.) As soon as a parent departed from the branch, this little one promptly flopped flat-out forward on its front to rest head and body along the full length of the short branch. All tuckered out, indeed!

Mind you, this small, if rapidly growing-up, creature has been submerged in a bole where it could not see out for months. It has listened to all kinds of fearsome sounds, including heavy rains and high winds. All of its meals have been dumped into its nest day in and day out. And then it turns out that the very first thing its parents require of it outside the nest is that it should step off the edge of its longtime home and trust that it will be able to arrive somewhere else equally high and nearby. (If I had a ton of money, I’d install a patio area in front of the bole where there could be a place to rest in between fledging flights; on the other hand, the portico platform would make it easier for predators to pay a visit, such as the big red-tailed hawk that had lurked about earlier in the season.) The Driver’s Ed phase of pilot-training  seems to have arrived this evening, with the owlet back in its nest and the parents off a little ways hunting.

An old friend in our neighborhood walks long distances every day while she can, beset with early-onset Alzheimer’s; the interminable walking helps to stave-off anxiety over what she knows to be a terminal condition. She walked down the long driveway into Blue Note Garden yesterday to seek my help with a problem she was having with accessing her usual classical music station through her phone and ear buds. But then she told me she didn’t care if it worked because she was just then hearing more birds and other natural sounds than she heard anywhere else—perhaps she should just listen and pay more attention. “Theresa, why is it so alive here?” Her question—that a person with a brain shutting down could still perceive the difference in the sounds of life renewing—brought me near to tears. I asked her to remain very quiet as I took her over to see the parent owls on sentry duty near their young nestlings, all of them bobbing around on a couple of leafy branches way high up in an old growth tree. And then she started to cry, too, as she watched them.

Many of you have probably been urged by me to read This is Happiness (2019) by Niall Williams at one time or another in the last couple of years. Were my husband alive, my copy would have been in a stack by his side of the bed where I put books I thought he’d particularly like. I still pile books there that are most meaningful; the sight of that tower of books has gone from being a source of pain to a cause of succor.

I am often care-worn in my mind about the Earth we are leaving to future generations. As I observe moments in nature here at Blue Note Garden, my fervent hope that a new generation of barred owls will successfully launch into our wild and worrisome world seems a very small concern in the bigger picture of impending catastrophe. This afternoon, as I observed both parent owls closely supervising their offspring and fuzzy owlets playfully taking the plunge into their new lives, I realized that they know what they are doing even if most humans do not. I will miss them but they do not need me to worry about them. My heart fills and I whisper to myself that getting to see them do what they do naturally—“This is happiness!”

Very soon, sightings of adults and young will be few and far between with all easily obscured by our forest’s dense summer foliage. I will still hear their calls from time to time and occasionally one will fly down close or roost on a lower branch and stare directly at me. There is also the promise—not the certainty, but the possibility—that they will be back next year. How good will that be!

Dear Friends,

Christmas Greetings to you all on this sunny but very cold morning (18 degrees Fahrenheit—about minus 10 Celsius) in the eastern hills of  Tennessee.  There is a 4-inch (about 10-cm) powder-deep snowfall on the ground that came down, quickly but gently, on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. We’ve not seen much snow in the last few years; most comes, if it comes at all, in January and February and then usually disappears pretty quickly, but this one has been here to stay for days.
Of course, as we’ve all experienced in this year of difficult times amid moments of joy and gratitude, there had to be a bit of trouble and it came later on the evening of Christmas Eve with a power outage that lasted 12 hours while the temperature plummeted. I never cease to be grateful for running water, our gas fireplaces, water heaters and stoves! And it all makes me remember our years of hauling heated water to horses at Lanntair Farm during some record years for cold and snow.

I’ve been in isolation at Blue Note Garden for ten months—six of those recovering from breast cancer surgery and chemotherapy—with growing appreciation for the world of nature that surrounds me here:
For several weeks, we had 60 goats—yes, that’s right, sixty—munching their way through the property across the lower road from us. We’ve had so much rain in the last couple of years that undergrowth on forest land that hasn’t been regularly maintained can become almost impenetrable—except for goats. The sounds of their work and play reminded me of when we first came to Knoxville and lived across the street from the playground of an elementary school—adorable to have nearby.
A couple of weeks ago, a large flock of cedar waxwings came through from the north and ate every single berry from all of my (my?!) holly trees and bushes before winging their way south. They left not a single branch for Christmas decorations. I was reduced to cutting down a couple of nandinas remaining here—which are invasive and warrant removal anyway. So the birds did me a favor in prompting me to get that done.
Unfortunately, a large robin collided with one of our living room windows several days ago. I put him in a cardboard box, hoping he was merely dazed, but he did not make it. It made me resolve to get around to putting together a bird mobile kit I purchased last year from Germany, of a large Merlin hawk to hang and ward-off birds from one particular north-facing corner where birds see-through to another series of windows and assume they can fly-on-through. If I build another house after selling Blue Note Garden I will be sure to install bird-safe glass—yes, there is such a thing and humans can’t tell the difference, but the birds can.
This morning a large, handsome red fox was walking around outside the house as though he owned the place. He just about does, because there have been far fewer human guests here at Blue Note Garden during this year’s Christmastime.
Still, I am very glad that most of you are not traveling unless quarantined, tested, or vaccinated. I think of you all in your own homes and it gives me great comfort to know that you are able to shelter, work and keep reasonably well. Please stay well and stay safe!
Much love to all,
Theresa

 Dear Friends,

Last Saturday morning, I started to worry about a family ZOOM call that we do each Sunday with many members of the family, some of them quite young children. I look pretty bad after an allergic reaction to my first chemotherapy session and did not want to frighten any of the little ones. So I came up with an elaborate disguise and said I’d have a Mystery Guest with me on Sunday evening.

Attached is a little 10-minute audio script I pre-recorded for the call. I hope it will bring a smile to your face.  And also convey that I am doing much better after a difficult stretch.

Much love, Theresa

Queenie: An audio script for young (and old) children

Hi!  DEAR FAMILY!  I am Mama Owl. Among creatures in these parts, I am commonly known as Queenie. 

Ah told My Dear Friend Treesa I would agree to be her Mystery Guest on Zoom with her DEAR FAMILY— IF AND ONLY IF she would get That Cat back in her bedroom where I wouldn’t have to look at her pretty face up close. That Cat set up such a fuss when I came in the house today that I told My Dear Friend Treesa I wouldn’t stay if she didn’t lock them both in back there and keep That Cat under control FOR SURE.

[Of course,  please don’t tell My Dear Friend Treesa that that has been my plan all along!]

You see. Frankly, I am very-very worried about My Dear Friend Treesa. I spend a lot of time in the woods around My Dear Friend Treesa’s BEE-YOO-TI-FUL house looking in on her. She doesn’t have ANY idea how much I can see inside her house but I have very-very good eyesight and I really-really love sitting on her garden porch.

And, you know, I am SO LONELY. All my little baby owls are fledged and doing their little learning flights with their Papa Owl, who is FINALLY doing something useful. And now I am molting, which is a little sad but necessary, for almost all birds at this time of year. Silly people always wonder why birds go silent and hide in August. Well, when we molt we lose our feathers and we can’t fly very-very well. So then we hide because we are not only ugly but in danger. I came to see you today in my disguise. Do you like it?

Well, enough about me. I don’t know how well you know My Dear Friend Treesa, but she is NOT a layabout. Day and night she LOVES to work very-very hard in the garden and then come in and work very-very hard in the house, and the kitchen, and her office. She almost NEVER sits down except to read or play the piano. And then sometimes she does both of those standing up! I cannot BELIEVE what my eyes are telling me when I see that from my porch outside. I mean, my perch outside.

For almost three years now, she’s also been mourning a really-really big and tall guy that ALL of my family just LOVED to buzz when he’d come in and out. It was so much fun to do wheelies around the head of that sweet man. [Sigh] But at least she kept working hard while she mourned the big guy. 

But in the last two months she just lays about on the bed or she lays about on the couch. Now, as you know, I could care less about That Cat but I can tell you that even pretty-face That Cat is worried about her. Especially in the last few days, My Word, even I have been worried about That Cat who, I can tell you, has lost a WHOLE lot of sleep running around checking up on My Dear Friend Treesa who hasn’t seemed to even be able to talk or eat.

But there are SIGNS that things may be getting better even though they are all still pretty strange. Poor pretty face That Cat has FINALLY been able to catch up on her LONG stretches of beauty sleep. That Cat FINALLY seems to feel there is a responsible adult back in the house. My Dear Friend Treesa is not back out in the garden too much except for the porch. But she’s moving around a whole lot better inside. She’s also molting just like me even though I never-never knew people could molt, did you? In fact, My Dear Friend Treesa has been molting SO very-very much that she’s going to win the contest this week with That Cat on hair loss. My Dear Friend Treesa is SO kind—she always collects ALL the hair when she cleans and puts it out in the big compost pile. Old Pa Owl and me collect from there every year. My Lord, almost every-every bird in the COUNTY goes there to collect nest fixings.

Well, enough already. When My Dear Friend Treesa told me she would speak with her family tonight I just HAD to get in here and check it out. Since I have no butt on MY bottom, I don’t have to worry about “butting in”—Get it?

Well, DEAR FAMILY, I think I have found the E-VI-DENCE of what’s been going on. [Ma Owl brings out tray loaded down with empty Ensure/Boost containers with a sign “EVIDENCE.”] Deep in a recycling bag are all these empty plastic bottles. Dozens of them. That is SO strange. It KILLS My Dear Friend Treesa to bring home cheap, unsustainable plastic bottles—and there are so MANY of them. And, God forgive them, but I think it’s OTHER people bringing them in, since My Dear Friend Treesa hasn’t gone ANYWHERE in, like, FOREVER. All you ever-ever USUALLY see in My Dear Friend Treesa’s kitchen is cooking-cooking-cooking—Get it?—and glass jars flying in and out of the freezer, and beautiful pottery, and shiny cookware rattling away on that big stove—all of that put away in the cupboards now. 

Well, DEAR FAMILY, I think you need to check what was in these ugly plastic bottles. 

The only other suspicious E-VI-DENCE I could find is this giant red bottle of MAGIC MOUTHWASH. [Ma Owl brings out large bottle marked “Magic Mouthwash.” I smelled it and it is just AWFUL. My Lord, who KNOWS what’s in that bottle, but it ain’t up to no good.

Now, I don’t have all the facts.  But I’ve caught some talk about My Dear Friend Treesa moving closer to her family. God knows, we’re all going to miss her. She has a lot of friends all around here in the woods who will miss her terribly if she leaves. Some of them come every year to see her. My little OWL family is going to miss her something AWFUL. But family is the most important thing and she should be with her DEAR FAMILY. We creatures know that and we hope people do, too. Wherever she goes, we hope she’ll have a garden and a porch where we can visit her.

Everything moves in cycles in its time: Mourning, molting, moving. I’d say her time has come to move, and we bid her Adieu, Adieu, Adieu. 

Get it?

© Theresa Pepin 2020

Queenie Audio
Approximately 11 minutes audio
New Recording 9 on iPhone
Queenie on Mac