Tell Me More About . . . D’Vine Vineyard

On October 8, 2018October 22, 2018 By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musings, Tell me More about3 Comments

When Dave Page found himself interested in growing a vineyard on his property in Columbia Crossroads, Pa., he had no idea the plot of land that he’d set aside for growing grapes would become a sought-after wedding destination for brides and grooms.

When you step outside the front door of Dave and Denise Page’s home there is a four-acre field lined with 1,800 grapevines of eight different varietals of grapes. Off to one side of what Dave calls “D’Vine Vineyard” (incorporating he and Denise’s names) is a handmade wooden pergola with a swing where brides and grooms pause to have their photos taken on their wedding day. Across the road from the vineyard is a rustic barn, sprawling cornfields, and a mini orchard of apple, peach and plum trees. Behind the barn is a pond that looks like a painting and an empty field perfect for setting up tents and tables for wedding receptions or other celebrations.

Dave owns a total of 120 acres, part of which he rents out to a neighboring farmer to grow corn.

Denise says it was their niece who unwittingly started the now thriving wedding venue business in 2014 by telling the Pages she thought their rustic barn and the former working farm would be the perfect location for her wedding.

Though puzzled by the interest in the barn, built in 1907 by Dave’s great-grandfather, Fred, the Pages agreed to the request and began to prepare the space for wedding guests. The barn hadn’t been a working barn since Dave sold the cows off in the 1980s and was only being used to store equipment and hay. The Pages would soon learn that vintage, rustic, old-fashioned, or whichever term you might want to use, were becoming popular themes among young, and even older, couples as they looked for wedding venues.

Their nieces’ wedding was photographed by Danielle Barden, a well-known wedding photographer from Tioga County, Pa., who shared the photos on social media, Denise says. The photos went semi-viral and more requests for the location began to flow in. The vineyard, located about 40 miles South of the New York Finger Lakes region, has booked close to 50 weddings and events since that first wedding in 2014.

The Pages were pleasantly surprised by the attention but didn’t make plans to quit their day jobs to start a full-time venue or event location.

Instead, Dave still works as a classifier for the American Holstein Association and Denise is a full-time nurse. A full-time event venue and winery may come someday, but not until they both retire, says Denise. For now, the pair books weddings or other events for the weekends, in a space where the renters do most of the work, including setting up and tearing down. Their children Brandon and Denee and daughter-in-law Cheryl help the Page’s run the business.

Denise and Dave never expected their site to become such an attraction, they say. The land began as a dairy farm more than 100 years ago and is one of only a few century farms in Bradford County. Five generations of Dave’s family farmed the land.

The farm was passed to Dave in the 1970s by his grandparents, Max and Louise VanVeghten. The barn is all the original wood, having only a new roof put on a couple of times over the years and some of the floorboards have been replaced. An addition was added around the time Dave took over. Dave has now turned the bottom of the barn, and part of the addition, into an area to press and ferment the wine, as well as a small bar area to be used to serve guests refreshments. The wine press is locked off from guests during events, per state law.

Last year Dave also turned one of the old stalls into a changing room for the bride and her bridal party, complete with full-length mirrors, outlets for hairdryers and curling irons and even an old barber chair where hair stylists can prepare the bridal party members’ hair.

Dave added the deck to the back of the barn around the time of the first wedding.

Until he retires, Dave spends any free time he has testing wines, experimenting and sharing the results with a select few. He’s happy to show friends and family the wine bladder presses, the bulk milk tanks that he’s transformed to hold the wine, and the barrels where the wine ages, he says.

But for now he’s only making what he calls practice wine.

“We have a license in holding but we don’t bottle,” according to Denise. “We make wine for our own use. In the future probably we will do festivals.”

To learn more about booking D’Vine Vineyard visit their website at https://dvinevineyardandwinery.com/ or follow them on Facebook.

On the eve of her fourth birthday

On October 6, 2018November 20, 2018 By Lisa R. HowelerIn authentic, everyday musings2 Comments

And there she was, drifting off to sleep on the eve of her fourth birthday. There was pink in her hair and I wondered what it was since we’d just washed our hair together tonight in the tub. Then I remembered she’d got paint in it a week before and apparently I hadn’t got all of it out in the bath that night. I thought about how much I loved noticing those little details of her childhood.

The day before she’d been sitting on the hill, in the grass and fallen leaves, outside her grandparents’ house, wearing a shirt on backward, since she still hasn’t mastered how to put them on the right way, with rainbow pants and chocolate smudged on the corner right above her upper lip, left over from the brownie cake her grandma and grandpa had made. After her bath, the day before her birthday, she put on an adorable, felt looking pink dress, as if she was preparing to wake up the next morning ready to celebrate her official birthday, one I couldn’t believe was already here.

She was the baby we never expected and the one we never knew we needed.

She delights us, surprises us, aggravates us and most of all she completes us.

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A downhome, country wedding . . .

On October 4, 2018March 8, 2019 By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musings3 Comments

Laid back weddings in the country are my absolute favorite type of weddings to photograph so when Travis’ mom called and asked me to photograph a simple country wedding at Mt. Pisgah, I was absolutely delighted. When I met the adorable, light-hearted and friendly couple I was even more delighted. I wasn’t able to meet Crystal and Travis ahead of the wedding since Travis was traveling for work and they were temporarily living in another state. The day of the wedding Crystal was helping to set up her own reception and smiling all the way through it and Travis and his groomsmen were unsuccessfully trying to figure out how to fold the handkerchief for their tuxedo jacket pockets.

Back at the couple’s house, recently purchased but not yet furnished because of the move for work, Crystal and her bridesmaids were full of laughter as they dressed and worked on the complex but beautiful back of the wedding dress, looping strands of fabric together to create it’s criss-cross pattern. The bridesmaids had been given only one instruction for their dresses – make them a bright, cheerful blue and they each complied while choosing styles that fit their unique body types.

The house was an old farmhouse that I guessed could have been built anytime from the late 1800s to the early 1900s. The light fixtures and much of the wallpaper seemed original and was distracting to this documentary-style photographer who is also a history buff. I wanted to hold an entire shoot on the wooden, vintage staircase where sunlight was pouring in from an upper window and casting a square pattern on the rustic floral print wallpaper. Before the wedding, the light was hitting perfectly but in my rush to photograph the groom and groomsmen before the wedding I forgot to pose the bride in the stream of light until during the reception when I followed her into the house and asked her to stand in the light, now fading and less eye-catching than before.

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Up at the site for the wedding, next to the lake at Mt. Pisgah State Park in Bradford County, Pa., the grass had not been mown where the nuptials were supposed to be held, due to a month long of wet weather, pushing the ceremony to the pavilion. The inconvenience didn’t phase the couple who continued to smile and take it all in stride. The officiant focused his remarks on the power of love while the bride and groom smiled at each other, Crystal’s mischevious temperant in full view as it remained for most of the day, when she stuck her tongue out briefly at Travis who smiled and shook his head. Much of the time it was as if the were the only ones there, both of them forgetting their family and friends were looking on.

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Once their union was announced, and the kiss gave, they gathered for photos of the bridal party and family. Crystal, a collector of visual memories, was sure to ask for photographs of her and Travis with their closest friends and family, careful not to leave anyone out and cognizance of each person’s feelings.

The day finished with a downhome, fun reception in the couple’s backyard, catered by Rooster Ridge BBQ and Catering in Barton, N.Y. and featuring a photobooth by The Photo Shack of Athens, Pa.

Thank you, Travis and Crystal, for letting me be part of your beautiful day.

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The heartache is real as family farms start to fade away

On August 27, 2018September 10, 2018 By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musings, farmers, The Farm Project5 Comments

It was a humid August night and the field next to the now defunct dairy barn was full of equipment and maybe a couple hundred people. An auction trailer was set up off to one side and to anyone driving by it might have looked like some sort of community festival, complete with hot dogs and drinks and baked goods. But this wasn’t a party or celebration; it was the end of an era.

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The Robbins family had been farming this land and milking cows here for more than 40 years but debt and the inability to survive financially forced them to make the hardest decision in their lives – sell the farm equipment and the livestock. If that sale didn’t cover the debt they’d sell the barn, house and property too, Billie Jo Robbins said, admitting she was unsure what the future held for her family but that her faith in God’s plan for their lives was helping to lessen some of the anxiety.

She had taken a job at the local bank the year before to try to help the farm stay in business, but as milk prices dropped and operation costs rose, the family couldn’t plug the holes fast enough. Her husband, Paul, recently took a job at the local cheese making factory and the dream of passing the farm on to their two sons, Matthew and Kevin, is now gone.

The loss of a family identity and business is heartbreaking but even more heartbreaking is that the Robbins aren’t alone in their struggle and forced life changes.

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“Local dairy farmers forced to auction off farm.”

It’s a headline that should be in more newspapers and on more news sites than it is because it is real and it is happening in Bradford County, Pennsylvania, where the Robbins live, but also all across the country.

It isn’t only dairy farmers being forced to close their doors. Farmers of all types are being crushed under the blow of low product pricing, but dairy farms are being hit the hardest and according to various media outlets the hard hits are coming for a variety of reasons, one of those an oversupply of milk. Some question if the push for people to drink less dairy and more plant-based proteins is one reason the dairy industry is suffering, but this seems unlikely with Americans love of ice cream, pizza and milkshakes still going strong.

And even worse than the farms closing down are the suicides of farmers who collapsed mentally and emotionally under the weight of the pressure and the feeling of failure.

According to an article on the National Public Radio (NPR) site, one co-op had three out of 1,000 farmers commit suicide in three years, and while those stats might not seem alarming by quantity the fact they are happening at all when at one time they weren’t, is frightening.

Even here in Bradford County farmers are receiving letters from their co-ops, first with dismal news about the future of dairy prices and the information for suicide hotlines and how to find counselors.

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DSC_9324_1 Standing in that field the day of the Robbins’ auction one has to wonder who these buyers are. Local farmers? Corporate farmers? Farmers barely getting by themselves? Billie Jo wondered too and admitted it felt awkward selling their equipment to farmers who may be struggling the same way they were. She didn’t recognize many of the people there but others she knew because they were there for something more important than buying.

“Many came here simply to support us and that means so much,” Billie Jo said.

Farmers support each other, which is one reason many farms in this area of Pennsylvania are surviving at all.

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Sitting in a truck, waiting for her husband, a farmer from Troy says she doesn’t know what the main reason for milk prices dropping so low is but she feels before long the Bradford County landscape won’t be dotted with very many family farms anymore. She and her husband, now in their 70s, own a dairy farm and can’t imagine doing anything else. They’ll keep farming as long as they can.

Knowing they aren’t alone in their heartache or their struggle helps the Robbins deal with their situation easier than some might. Their faith in God keeps them trusting that beauty will come from ashes.

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To read more about the struggles of dairy farms in Pennsylvania you can visit my posts on The state of dairy farming in Northeast Pennsylvania: tangible struggles, palpable heartache and immeasurable joy and The Farm and Tell Me More About . . . Mark Bradley, Sayre Pa Dairy Farmer

The town that lost its’ library

On August 22, 2018September 10, 2018 By Lisa R. HowelerIn authentic, everyday musings2 Comments

The day the library died in the tiny town of New Albany, Pennsylvania, rain fell from the clouds like a waterfall and didn’t stop. The already saturated ground gave way with nothing left to hold it in place. A week before the bottom floor of the library had taken on water in another flash flood, most likely weakening the foundation.

Volunteers were working to clean out the ruined books two days before the water rose again, sending water rushing up around the building as it had before, across the major highway running through town and toward the gas station in the middle of town.

This time the building couldn’t withstand the rush of the water. No one had expected it all to wash into highway it had sat next to for over 60 years, crumbling like a matchstick house, but it did, taking with it some of what one community member called “the dedication of so many to keep it going.”

The downstairs of the building, where the library was, was empty of people when the building collapsed, but a family upstairs was there and held on tight to each other as it fell and their apartment landed fully intact in the water rushing by. Neighbors and the local fire department helped to rescue them, pulling them out and across the rushing water to safety.

The building hadn’t always been a library. A few times it had been a store and above it was an apartment for those who ran the business downstairs. After it became the town library many volunteers, most middle-aged to older women who were retired or homemakers, filled it with books, organizing and categorizing and creating a gift for what some might call a dying town.

Inside its walls were whole new worlds; voices never before heard, thoughts never before thought, dreams never before dreamed, chances to be given, opportunities to be provided, and lives to be escaped for just a little while.

For some, a library doesn’t seem very important, especially in this modern age when books can be read on digital devices and smartphones. But to a town without much, a library can provide a sense of community, a sense of imagination, and even a feeling of belonging.

“Expand your mind” is the encouraging message added at the top of the library’s Facebook page, updated the week flood waters first damaged the library.

Who could blame members of the town if they felt a desire to give up a little bit more on the town when they saw the crumbled ruins of the library either in person or in photos. Some 30 years ago the only factory in town closed, and in subsequent years the town pool was filled in, the only local supermarket burned to the ground, the town bank closed, the elementary school closed, the population began to dwindle and hope began to fade.

The factory never came back but the store reopened and later became a mini-mart and gas station, there was still a post office, a beauty shop, a borough park where the pool once was, and a sense of community- if only one that hung by a thread.

While the town may be dying from an economic standpoint, there are some trying to keep the community feel alive by organizing family days, fire company fundraisers, and, of course, preschool storytime at the library.

Let’s be honest, anyone trying to keep the community feeling in a small town alive today should be commended since it isn’t the physical community that is dying in today’s society, but the idea behind what a community really is. Defined by Webster’s dictionary as “a feeling of fellowship with others, as a result of sharing common attitudes, interests, and goals,” the psychological idea of community is fading into a world where our primary form of communication is smartphones and social media, or anything that doesn’t involve actual in-person interaction.

When photos of the library smashed in the middle of Route 220 surfaced on social media last week a deep feeling of loss was expressed, maybe because so many remembered a simpler time when talking to people face-to-face was normal and days for reading and focusing on less than 10 activities at a time was normal.

Honestly, there isn’t much to the town anymore, in some ways. I grew up two miles from there and many of my days were spent riding bikes with my best friends, Julia and Sarah, on its’ streets. I attended the elementary school, swam in the community pool, walked to the local store for snacks, ate with my grandmother at the small diners that are now gone, and yes, even visited the library a couple of times.

For me and others, losing the library was like watching even more of the community break away. After the most recent flash flooding, the library won’t be the only building that will have to be torn down, a fact that only adds to the heartbreak.

“I can’t remember a time without the library,” one man said.

His mother, Doris, was one of the volunteers who worked to build the library’s collection. Now in a nursing home, she asks visitors from her hometown, “How’s the library doing?” Family and friends have decided they won’t tell her the truth about the building, but instead simply let her believe, as they’ve always told her, “It’s doing well.”

Another resident, Todd, said, “The library was a labor of love of so many people. There were many times when some thought it was not used and thus not needed, but these people persevered and keep it going. There were times when hardly anyone came, but they still were there during operating hours. The people were dedicated to keeping the library open, found ways to bring in new books and create programs for kids. And most recently, it became a place for local histories and genealogies. Breaks my heart to see it completely washed away. “

“I remember being very young and going to get a book. It was a big deal to be able to pick your own book out!” a cousin of mine, Gila, said. “I started volunteering at 16 with Doris. I’d stay a few years and then move on. I always came back.“

She was one of the main volunteers running the library, updating and rearranging it in the years and months before the flood destroyed it.

Volunteers aren’t yet sure if, or how, they’ll rebuild the library. A fundraising effort has started and the hope is that one day they’ll find a new home where they can again open a small bastion of imagination, nurtured community and unvetted learning in a small, sometimes physically crumbling town.

Since I recently rediscovered my love for reading full books, and not only short excerpts, I’d love to see the fundraiser succeed and for the spark of knowledge to be lit again. And maybe through it, a desire to rebuild the other parts of town damaged or falling apart even before the flood.

To learn more about the fundraiser to rebuild the library click on this link….

August 10 on 10 Zooma the Wonder Dog’s summer follies

On August 10, 2018August 10, 2018 By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musings11 Comments

This is part of a monthly blog circle where photographers and bloggers share ten photos from the previous month on the tenth day of the month. To follow the circle find the next link at the bottom of the blog post, after my dog has finished her ramblings.

I haven’t been anything but trouble this summer.

That’s what my Mooom tells me anyhow.

She’s not really my Mooom but that’s what the short, loud human calls her so I do too. Plus she’s like a mama to me now that I live here with the human daddy and Plaything One and Plaything Two. She feeds me, cuddles me, tells me I’m a good girl and she even scolds me, just like a mama.

This summer she’s scolded me a lot. She doesn’t let me have any fun.

Before I go too much further I should tell you who I am. I’m Zooma the Wonder Dog, and I’ve talked to you before, filling you in on my adventures since I was adopted from the farm.

I hear my name yelled a lot these days and I happily bark back at the sound, even when it’s said in “that way” – the “annoyed tone” as Moooom calls it.

“Zooma!” “Zoooooma!” and “ZOOMA!” are how I hear my name a lot. It’s usually followed by statements such as:

“What are you eating?!”

“Stop eating that!”

“Get down off that table!”

“Did you just pee in there?!”

“That’s not where you poop! You poop OUTSIDE!”

“Leave the cat alone!”

Ah. The cat.

I call her The Beast.

She totally loves me. She does.

Don’t let the flailing and hissing fool you. We’re best friends. We totally are. She loves when I nip at her ears and chase her up onto the couch and corner her under the table. Those flying paws are a simple greeting of joy and adoration. Sure, she catches me with one of those sharp things on the end of her feet sometimes but I’m certain it’s a total accident so I just keep showing her love until she starts to love me back.

It’s been real hot lately and I have what Moooom calls “lovely fur” all over me so I feel really, really hot when I’m in the backyard watching the neighbors push machines around their yards. Moooom says I’m supposed to be outside doing something called “my business” but since I have no idea what that is I usually just go out there and lay in the grass, chase the fat buzzing thing with wings that flies out of the hole under the house, tip my head at the other humans getting in and out of those loud things called cars and finding a new way to twist myself around Plaything Two’s table. ‘

When I get twisted around the table and cry Mooom gives me extra attention and says things like “Oh. You poor thing. How long have you been like this?” And then she pets me and hugs me and lets me kiss her face without saying things like: “Ew. I know where that tongue has been. Don’t you dare lick me.” which is what she normally says when I try to kiss her.

Sometimes when it’s hot outside Plaything One and Plaything Two splash in something they call a kiddie pool. I like to bite at their ankles and toes and listen to them scream as they step out of the pool and then sometimes I stick my head in the pool and slurp out the water.

I like Plaything Two because she feeds me all kinds of yummy treats, even when Moooom tells her to stop it. Mom calls Plaything Two, “Grace,” but I like to just call her Plaything Two. Plaything One is fun because he runs a lot and I try to bite his ankles and his shirts while he runs. Mom calls him “Jonathan” but again, I’m just sticking with Plaything One. He flails his arms wildly, and screams all crazy like while he runs, which is always entertaining to watch.

Well, it’s been a long day of chasing The Beast and chewing up cardboard, bones, paper bags, Plaything Two’s toys, and having some ice cream at Johnny D’s, so I think I’ll take a nap, probably in the middle of the floor again so Moooom can say “What in the world dog? You can’t find a better place to lay?” and I can look at her with that innocent expression I’ve mastered, complete with the head tilt, raised ear and lolling tongue.

To continue this months 10 on 10 blog circle visit Jennifer Blake at Blueberry Hill Images

The week in review: swearing preschoolers, more rain, and a little local history

On August 6, 2018August 8, 2018 By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musings, week in focus2 Comments

When I got back from picking up a few groceries one day this week my 11-year old niece let me know that my daughter, who will be four in October, had been placed in time out while I was gone for taking the Lord’s name in vain. My niece didn’t call it that because my niece hasn’t been brought up in the church so she doesn’t know the Christianese my family does, but she felt that my daughter saying “Jesus!” emphatically several times in a row was not appropriate and so she made her sit in time out. My daughter didn’t mind sitting in time out, by the way, but what did send her into a crying fit was when she was told she couldn’t watch any cartoons for the duration of the time-out. Her time-outs are three minutes so it’s not like not watching a cartoon for that duration is the end of the world, but I suppose it’s a big deal when you are almost four.

Now, in my house I have said “Jesus” several times in a row but not as a swear word. I deal with some chronic health issues so I have been known to say the name Jesus when I can’t think what else to pray. And sometimes I even say it emphatically. I thought maybe this is what my daughter was imitating but I didn’t really have time to try to figure it out at that moment because she needed a nap. I thanked my niece, took Little Miss up for her nap, and didn’t think much about it again until that night at bedtime.

We read The Oscar the Grouch book two times and then she told me she’d learned something that day.

I said, “oh? What did you learn?”

“I learned that geez louise is a really bad word,” she said seriously. “It is not good to say.”

I said, “is that what you were saying today with your cousin?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding and looking a bit bewildered by it all.

Though her brother says he heard her and knows she was saying “Jesus” I have a feeling she thought she was saying “geez louise” and never thought she was somehow swearing at the heavens.

I let her know that geez louise isn’t necessarily a polite word but in our house, it isn’t considered a swear word. After that conversation, I felt relieved my daughter hadn’t picked up an offensive way to speak about Jesus and looked forward to the day her articulation is more developed.

It rained all week again, which left the little town I grew up near dealing with some flooding. I live about 40 minutes north now and we escaped any major damage but we were ready for some sunshine and a change of scenery by the weekend so we traveled to a historical site near us called French Azilum.

It’s touted as the place where Marie Antionette was going to live if she had escaped France alive, which, of course, she didn’t, instead losing her head to the guillotine. A group of her servants traveled on ahead, however, eventually settling the land in the area along the river before some of them eventually returned to France and others left the settlement and founded other villages around the county, including the village I grew up in.

One of the main highlights of the site is the Laporte House, which was built in 1836 by John Laporte, a son of one of the original French settlers. The home is original and provides a look at how life was lived in the early days of our country. Mr. Laporte was a US Senator, a state representative, his family name was carried on in the town name of the county seat of our neighboring county, Sullivan County, and apparently, he was also a very tall and large man at 6′ something and 300 some pounds. A tour of the home and where his family would have lived is something that I had never experienced before, despite living in the area my entire life and having visited the site more than once over the years. My mom has told me I did tour the house at least once, as a child, and though I don’t remember that tour, the house did seem vaguely and eerily familiar to me, which I figured was simply because I grew up in and around very old houses.

A Civil War encampment had been set up on the grounds, unrelated to the historical site, and we were being given a tour by the local historian and camp commander when he was called away to a cast iron frying pan throwing contest. Yes, you read right – a cast iron frying pan throwing contest.

We decided this wasn’t something we wanted to miss so we headed to a field to watch women in long dresses toss cast iron pans toward the camp commander to see how far they could throw. I believe the longest toss was about 37 feet and it was a young girl with a wicked pitching arm. Apparently, the tossers normally have their husbands or intended stand out in the field as a “bit of motivation” for their throw. This time they had the local historian instead and luckily he came out unscathed.

I was asked to participate and I declined, a decision I now regret, because, as I told my sister-in-law later in the day, I don’t feel you’ve fully lived until you’ve tossed a cast iron pan at a man in a field. If I’m ever asked to toss a pan again I’ll definitely take them up on the offer.

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When you’re afraid to let your thoughts go beyond the surface

On July 28, 2018October 14, 2018 By Lisa R. HowelerIn authentic, everyday musings, Faithfully Thinking3 Comments

I’ve been keeping my thoughts at surface level lately, finding ways to distract myself from the “deep thoughts” I don’t want to face.

It’s been going on for months, but it got to the point of fully crawling into a psychological hole of denial around the time my aunt died in the end of December. When those thoughts would come to mind – the ones that reminded me everyone dies and others will follow my aunt soon – I grabbed my phone and flipped through photos on Instagram, or watched clips on Youtube. Anything to keep my mind from going there – the dark part of my mind where thoughts grab me and pull me down and hold me in the darkness while my soul spins around and around in a panic.

“I don’t want to grow up. I hate that daddy can’t carry me anymore and I’m too big for us to cuddle at night,” my almost 12-year old told me one night as we turned off the lights for bed.

My stomach tightened and I mumbled something about knowing it was hard but that it was natural to feel worried about the future and growing up. Then I hugged him and rushed off into the darkness of my room and tried to hold it together. I searched for comedians on YouTube and watched them until I didn’t have to think about it anymore. I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I knew if I cried it was all over. I’d fall apart and it would take me days, if not weeks, to recover because if one rock slipped out of place they would all crumble down.

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The rock that said my little boy is growing so fast and I can’t slow it down.

The rock that said my daughter doesn’t fit snuggly in my lap anymore either and it’s leaving me feeling out of control.
The rock that said I thought about calling my aunt the other day to tell her a funny story and then remembered she wasn’t there to tell.

The rock that says my mom’s health isn’t good and someday I won’t have her to call and seek comfort from.

The rock that says my dad is so tired from Lyme and taking care of two properties and I’m worried he’s going to end up in the hospital, but I can’t make him slow down because he’s an adult.

The rock that says our finances are often not great and it scares me. The rock that tells me I’ve failed at making a career and helping support my family.

The rock that says I don’t pray enough and I know it.

The rock that says I don’t trust God the way I should.

And when all those rocks come down – what will happen?

I have to keep the rocks in place because with them in place I am less of a spazz, less of a person people shake their heads at sadly, less of a jumbled mess of anxiety and more of what a good Christian is supposed to be.

At least, this is what I have told myself as I hold myself hard against the rocks, holding them back, putting them where they belong if they threaten to fall, while the tears try to leak through and push my feelings out into the open, where anyone could see them and know I don’t have it together at all.

I know I’ve said I’m not a person who says “I had a vision” and I wouldn’t call it a vision when I was thinking about all this late one night and I saw Jesus in my mind’s eye, standing by me, looking at me with a small, gentle smile, as I held the rocks in place and then watched as he took each rock in his hands and they faded into nothingness, one by one.

“Don’t worry about these,” he said. “I’ll hold them for you. You can let them go.”

I don’t let go well, Lord, you know that, but I’m trying.

I’m trying.

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The day I made a nationally known writer run away from me

On July 18, 2018July 25, 2018 By Lisa R. HowelerIn everyday musingsLeave a comment

One day in June I caused a nationally syndicated advice columnist to run from me after I mentioned I enjoyed her column when really I had only looked her up a few days before because I was told the freelance photography job I had been assigned would include her. She wasn’t even the subject of the photos or the story; her husband was.

I think the columnist, who for the sake of this post I will call “Betty”, imagined I was some fan-girl, wannabe writer and was going to gush over her writing and beg her for advice right there in the houses her husband had built. I, however, had no intention or interest in gleaning information from her about how to become a successful writer. I don’t really have aspirations to be a successful writer, which is something a writer isn’t supposed to say, er, write. It isn’t that I wouldn’t enjoy getting paid for writing and having more than only my family appreciate it, but the idea of accepting all that comes from being well known doesn’t appeal to me.

Honestly, I couldn’t figure out why “Betty” was even present at the interview, which was being conducted by someone else and hasn’t been published yet, since the story wasn’t about her. It was about her architect husband and the tiny house community he had built along one of the picturesque Finger Lakes near us. I’m guessing her “nationally known” status was the reason for her presence, though I didn’t know her. After being told her name by the editor of the magazine I was shooting for, I looked her up where anyone else looks people up these days – Google. The couple had their engagement and wedding featured in the New York Times and her column showed up on a who’s-who list of national newspapers. It turns out she’s also a New York Times best selling author. (Disclaimer: this post was not sponsored by the New York Times, unfortunately.)

On this day “Betty” had no clear connection to the story, other than she was the wife of the subject, and I could tell even she was a bit baffled by her presence. Her confusion over the need for her to be at the interview may be why she ultimately excused herself, but I did notice that move came immediately after I said, “I enjoy your column.”

Actually, I also said, “I’m a blogger. No one reads it, so I just do it for fun.” I can see how that sounded like I was about to follow that comment up with: “What can I do to get people to read my blog?” But I wasn’t going to. Because I wasn’t there for Betty. I was there for her husband. I was actually only trying to be polite and recognize her work as well as his.

I don’t even know why I said anything because I’d only read one of her columns.

Ever.

Two days before I met her.

However, I really did enjoy it and also enjoyed listening to her talk about how creative, smart and amazing her husband was. She was a delightful person who reminded me of myself in some ways, except she’s older and has five daughters in her blended family., and, based on her column, has a great deal more talent at writing.

Shortly after, or actually immediately after, my awkward comments she leaned toward her husband and said, “If I’m no longer needed, I’m going to slip away.”

And she did, though the interviewer suggested I grab a photo of the couple before she left. I did and it was sweet how the pair, who found love for each other late in their lives, smiled and giggled at each other like young newlyweds. Still, I couldn’t figure out why a photo of her was needed because, I reiterate, the story had nothing to do with her.

It’s a shame I frightened her away because I probably could have actually learned quite a bit from her, if not about writing, then a little bit about life itself. I guess I can read her column more often if I want to learn about her view on life. I’ll probably find we don’t agree at all on a number of things but there may be others we do.

What I do have to learn is how to be more tactful when I try to compliment others on their talents.

Maybe I’ll submit a question to her advice column about all of this.

Something like:

“Dear Nationally Syndicated Columnist:

I inadvertently freaked out a nationally syndicated columnist who may or may not have thought I was trying to ask her for writing advice during an interview about her husband. I was not trying to ask her advice. How can I explain to her I’m not some weirdo freak, but really was just trying to be polite?”

Sincerely,

Weirdo Blogger in Pennsylvania.

Boondock Ramblings

Category: everyday musings