Fruit flies, traps, burials, and kindness

Y’all, little makes me frantic like gnats and zealous fruit flies. They are so pesty and aggressive and present when they’re present. Every time I see, feel, or sense one of those bastards near me, I go into a hand-flailing tizzy. Just an hour ago, I slammed my hand down on the kitchen counter to attempt to vanquish a f.f. (drosophila melanogaster; Ms. Reon, my high school biology teacher would be enormously proud that I have never forgotten the scientific name of the humble f.f.), missed—because they’re quick AF—and now have a bruise under my index finger because apparently in middle age, your vessels just aren’t as robust as they once were. Add them to the freaking list.

Tom is obsessed with our 3D printer and recently constructed a phenomenal f.f. trap: you print the top, it screws onto a mason jar that you’ve filled with a bit of apple cider vinegar, and voila, you soon have a morgue. He could sell these things, but he is sharing for free on thingiverse because he is a good person who wants others to be as rapidly f.f.-free as we want to be. The point of that aside is that he brought a trap to our WV home, and I am here because I had to bury a cat—more on that in a sec—and “someone” did not take the garbage out last time that person was here, and now we have an infestation. The trap is now established, and I hope to have a total morgue by tomorrow morning.

As you all may recall, at our peak in WV, we had three adopted barn cats and four purchased goats who soon became eight goats because pregnancy. Then one goat, Lefty (had listeria, only turned in left circles, screamed a lot in a friendly goat way, soft AF), died; this was awful but not unexpected, and by the time we arrived, the vultures had done such a magnificent bang-up job that Lefty was maybe a pelt and a skull. We buried her, still rather miss her eccentricities, but accepted this as the circle of life. Seven goats remain.

Then Ruby, our most diminutive sweet girl (cat) died, and that was also very sad and it was unexpected. And then we settled into not-death for a while which, on a farm, is somewhat remarkable. And then our darling Spot, our favorite barn cat, just started to look poor. Spot, as you may recall, took on a raccoon two years ago, and while I’m not sure he won, he most definitely didn’t lose. He was shaped like a trapezoid, very dense; Oliver and I could never figure out how or why he was thus. Since we bought this place and adopted the cats and then took on the goats, we have had a caretaker come every day to feed them all. But he comes once. So the cats eat once (plus their vat of dry kibble), and Ruby and Jinx (third barn cat) were always extremely svelte as you would expect, not least because in their advanced teen years they totally gave up mousing. And yet Spot was an absolute unit. And he loved to be held like a baby. He was the best sort of cat: independent as fuck, not remotely needy, but if you held him like a baby and scratched him? Forget it. Butter. Purring. Love forever. He was all of our favorite, and then he looked so poor. And I took him to the vet and found out that he had arthritis (not surprising; he was 15), and feline AIDS (surprising I guess; dormant we thought?). Nothing we could do. And then a month later, this Monday, he just called it quits, and I was and remain so truly sad. So I had our caretaker put him lovingly (and in a bag) in the freezer until I could get here, and today I came up and dug a grave in his (Spot’s, not the caretaker’s) favorite sunny spot, and wrapped him in a favorite blanket with some favorite treats, and I hope he rests easily. One cat remains.

Tomorrow I am going to plant some flowers around the grave. They’ll probably die because about 90% of all I have planted out here in this effing rocky barren wasteland has died, but whadya have without hope? And Spot was such a good boy and I know he appreciated the beauty here and the flowers and birdsong and peace. I worry for Jinx, 19 years old!, but he really cannot hear so maybe that’s helpful? He and I have been hanging out today and he also cannot really groom himself anymore so I picked burrs and matted bits and so forth, and I hope he is not too lonely, but he probably is and that kills me a bit.

I filled the bird feeders, and it’s just astonishing how quickly the feathered friends return. It’s a rave out there right now: multiple types of woodpeckers, nuthatches, titmice, and so forth. Just flitting and flapping, calling and territorializing even though there are at least 12 distinct places to eat from across two feeders and a giant suet cage. Meanwhile, I cleaned my Emily-made pond because the duckweed has done what it does best and multiplied like the f.f.s in my garbage can, and lo! Frogs have inhabited the watering hole, and I was chuffed. Their heads were popping through the surface and back down, and some others were scampering in the bushes, and I just think that if people could all just focus a touch more on the teeming micro worlds around each of us and be kind, maybe that would ripple outwards? We need something, y’all! Things are looking poor. Just like Spot. And look what happened to him!

I started this blog when Oliver was very little. He is now applying to college—my heart!—and where I once wrote daily, I now maybe write 2-3 times a year. My heart and sense of self feel a bit less expansive now, a bit more intentionally protectionist. I see other parents behaving in appallingly ugly fashion, and I think, your babies are leaving soon! What are you modeling for them with your competitiveness? I see kids behaving in mean, shitty fashion too, and while I understand that growing up is hard, I just want to scream: please, please just take a minute and breathe and be kind. Just think about how you want to be treated, what you want to get back from the world, and be kind. To your fellow people or even, equally, especially, a cat or a frog or a bird.

I have changed so much in the past fifteen years. Some has been the necessary pivots you simply must make when life throws you the shit it does. Repeatedly. You pivot or you crumble, really. I am still learning. I am as worried as the next person about the future of our world. Will our kids have jobs? Healthcare? A planet that is alive? But what will always be available is a generosity of spirit. Of kindness. Of gratitude. The value of those things is infinite; without them the world feels mean. And is becoming more so all the time.

In honor of Spot, may I ask that anyone who reads this say or do one nice thing this weekend? Pay a stranger a compliment. Help someone. Take a shelter dog for an afternoon out. Put out a bowl of water and some nuts for wild things in your midst. Go outside and listen and breathe. I wish for all of you the absence of f.f.s!

Different words for...

Spinster. Crone. Witch. Old Maid. Hysterical. Past Her Prime. Shrew. Hag. Harpy. Harridan. “Fucking bitch.”

On Friday, in anticipation of, as we joke in the DC-area, a storm bringing “1-78 inches of snow,” I came to West Virginia. Our animal caretaker does not like to drive in icy conditions, I happened to really need a break—read: alone time—, and I despair when I think of any animals, especially my animals, being neglected in any way. Sign me up.

While MD did get a respectable 6”, my little corner of WV got nearly 10”! It is extremely cold and extremely beautiful, and I have spent today feeding and hydrating the goats, cats, birds, and any other little being that I hope to be serving with the vast amounts of seed and water I’m keeping stocked outside. ONE goat has deigned to wear its coat (Rambo, duh), the cats will only come inside for periodic warmings that I think are more about accommodating my maternal worry than their discomfort, and you can see none of the paths I shoveled on my first voyage to the barn. Hey, we still have power (miracle), and I have detailed the stovetop and painted a bathroom and taken many a photo, and the migraine I’ve had since late December is gone. And now it looks like I’ll be here at least until Tuesday. You don’t hear me complaining.

Why are there so many pejorative names for women who aren’t nubile and agreeable? I mean, I offered you but a sample above. And like WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!

If the (vastly understaffed because they’ve all been fired by trump) weather service is correct, tomorrow is to be sunny and at least ten degrees warmer than today. This will put the temp at roughly 25 F. I’m not complaining, but I’m also not expecting much in the way of melt. Considering that I did not see or hear even a single plow today, I think I best settle in. For pete’s sakes, I can’t even drive five feet in my driveway which is about a half-mile long, so… But yay for sun! And a proper winter. I pulled a massive dog tick off Jinx tonight, but hopefully the other ticks are all freezing to death in the snow and hopefully all the plants are having a proper lie in and remembering the concept of seasons, and hopefully everyone can just take a minute to calm down and think.

With humility, may I suggest we think about courage and moral integrity and the profound power that can be felt and asserted by saying “NO! I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS!”

I am about to start a new needlework class entitled Emerald Counted Threads, aka Blackwork in needle-speak. In preparation, I brought all my supplies to WV and today enjoyed reacquainting myself with variously sized needles, beeswax, hoops and threads, and the somewhat blinding creative optionality that can be found in so many places. I was awestruck by this bit of ice on a window, for example, but had no luck tracing it (the light) or reimagining it with paper and pencil (too intricate), so gave up and started something with pearled purl and jewel-toned bullion for Valentine’s Day. And to have a whole table full of material and a day of time and a room of glass which means light and so much beauty all around, well I felt rich.

Honestly, I also felt full of rage and deliciously entitled to and empowered by that rage. Were not two innocents just slaughtered in Minneapolis? Were not their killers simply supported with money (you fucker, Bill Ackman, I see you and your BS) and reassignments (no punishment, of course, gasp, what a concept, it’s like Catholic priest pedophiles) rather than punished and shamed as they deserve? Renee Good, a mother and school volunteer. Alex Pretti, a nurse for veterans. Both simply bearing witness to the horrors their community is enduring, both simply showing up, both killed for their goodness.

Y’all, if I find total peace in my counted threads class tomorrow, I will let you know. Could it be so simple? Yes and no.

Because you know what? No one should feel peace right now but for the intermittent kind that we all need to discover and hold onto to stay sane. If you support Donald Trump, you hate America. If you support the GOP, you are evil. If you voted for trump, you have blood on your hands. You should be shamed and tarnished and kicked out of decent society. You can hide behind your “Christian” values or your “safety” bullshit. But Jesus would weep at the sight of your cruelty and the most dangerous among us are white men who peaked in high school and have now joined ICE to feel tough and to vindicate their pathetic existences.

If my words make you uncomfortable, perhaps you’re starting to think of me as an overwrought libtard. A hysterical progressive. A deluded wine mom. If so, I am A-OK with that. YOU are on the wrong side of history, of morality, of justice, of democracy, of what our founders envisioned, and most certainly of Jesus. Fuck, I’m an atheist and I’m a better Christian than every Republican I know.

Consider the words that have historically been used to tar and feather women who were sick of towing the party line. Who wanted to live rather than be controlled. Who wanted to think for themselves rather than having their dear husbands/parents/churches/whatever do that “work” for them. Who would not, and will never, sit by while innocent men and women are being murdered for simply saying “wait a minute; I see your misbehavior and I don’t agree.” You start to wonder about the why behind the monikers, you know?

I will turn 50 in a few months. I’m nearing peak “crone” age. And I am reveling in it because I am no longer willing to sit down, stay mum, keep polite, and remain palatable. Some of you, some of my very family, are wrong. You are deplorable and you are ripping our country apart.

Spinster. Crone. Witch. Old Maid. Hysterical. Past Her Prime. Shrew. Hag. Harpy. Harridan. Fucking Bitch. In those denigrations is such power and liberation. Can you hear my witchy cackle as I raise my hands and heart to the skies?

Holding the line at 49

I am 49 today and before you say, “Wow, that’s almost 50!” I do want you to know that I am well aware of that fact. Time. It marches on.

Perhaps not surprisingly, I am in West Virginia for my annual birthday plantathon. It has been a spectacularly gorgeous day, and before you say, “Wait, it’s a Wednesday and you still have a child at home: are you there alone?” I want you to know that yes, yes I am here alone. And it’s delightful. Time. Sometimes you don’t get enough of it by yourself, to spend in the way you want, and because it marches on, well…take it when you can. Happy birthday to me!

I’m in our dining room which is also a sunroom, and I’m surrounded by healthy plants (both inside and out) and birds are chirping and enjoying my window feeder and the wind is blowing and my back is aching like a 49-year-old’s back even though I work out twice a week with my trainer Felipe who kicks my ass via Zoom from Argentina all the while telling me I’m “doing amazing.” Do you know I totally believe him even though I’m not sure I am doing amazing? I don’t care. I’m trying. And his dog, Truman, is the cutest. As is Felipe really. And being that young seems ages ago and also yesterday. And that both/and keeps tripping me up. Time. It marches on and lets you know about it. My friend Karen and I are forever sharing stories about living for forced interruptions during our Felipe sessions because my god, we’ve both had two kids and our core strength is never again gonna come anywhere close to what it ever may have been or what Felipe’s is. Probably Truman’s too.

This morning, I made blueberry scones and lemon curd (from a jar) and coffee, and while eating breakfast, a crimson cardinal landed on the fence outside, and I know it was my Nanny coming to say Happy Birthday, Em. I miss her all the time and she’s been gone more than a decade.

Today I mucked the barn, feathered out new straw all over it which of course the goats insisted on eating as I spread, and weeded and mulched and planted and talked to all of the worms and other little beings I encountered, and thought a lot about how fucking excruciating this past year(s) has been and all that it’s forced me to learn and stand up for. I thought how Nanny would get that. How my mom gets that. How stupidly hard life often is and how you will be forced to learn lessons that you’d really rather not. You can’t beat ‘em but you can join ‘em, and I guess that’s the meta lesson.

Y’all, some tufted titmice are fighting in the window feeder. They are so cute.

Anyway, hard is hard, but lessons can be good, and as time marches on, I would rather learn and pivot if it means this one life we get will be happier or more fulfilling or, maybe, just simpler? Less hard? I’m not even sure how to articulate it. It’s not binary, really. But you probably understand. Some things I’ve (re)learned this year:

Profound grief can be felt when someone is not gone but is gone from you. Such absence can feel like your heart left your body and started walking away from you, maybe punching you in the solar plexus on the way out. Grief remains a dicey social topic, not least depending on who took your heart and left and how and what was or was not explained (Tom and I are fine; this isn’t that).

Not unrelatedly, female friendships are the linchpins of life. Some women are shit (Pam Bondi, Usha Vance, Marine Le Pen, etc) but any (good) woman will tell you that she’d be up the creek with zero hope without her female friends. They are the ears, defibrillators, water, comrades, “tell me, girl,” spare tires, laugh tracks, diaries, emergency everything, honest, photo taking, wise, antibiotic, disgusting in the best way, care package sending, late night call picker uppers of life. Without my girls, I think I’d just have quit by now. I would like to add that I have two male friends that I consider girlfriends and that is the biggest compliment and thank you SA and MB.

Some-a minuscule percentage-of men seem to be getting this, but it’s not nearly enough, and I truly feel sorry for them. They are missing out on SO much. And I say that as a woman who birthed two boys and has spent years trying to underscore the value of emotion and sharing it. To their credit, they do feel and share it. To my fatigue, they only feel and share it with me. Do better society. Back to girlfriends. **Please take a moment to listen to Sister Suffragette by Glynis Johns in Mary Poppins. My dear friend Jennifer recently reminded me of this treasure, and shit, it holds up. Not least because…well, if you don’t get the why there, you’re hopeless.

Always behave such that history will not consider you a disgraceful cunt of some sort. Do you see what I did there? If, in that sentence, you’re upset by the use of “cunt,” you are probably not behaving well. Do better. Especially every single trumper, maggat, and other meanie out there. To be fair, WHAT is the Venn of Bad in which one is not a trumper or maggat? Truly? What is left in “bad”? Like, if you abuse animals, I suspect you voted for trump. You appear to be fine deporting a Maryland resident and father to El Salvador with no cause, so you don’t seem to have standards that constellate around good.

Another thing I’ve learned is just how important it is to keep learning, so let me know if there is any answer to the above question about the Venn of Bad. I don’t know that there is, but I am open and eager. Beyond that Venn, I continue to love learning about plants, birds (“peak middle age, Mom!” -Oliver), needlework, Irish literature, some other literature. Irish politics, Ireland, my students, and my female friends. Less enthusiastically but perhaps most importantly is learning to hold my own lines.

Holding ones own lines, aka knowing, asserting, and holding your boundaries, is, to be honest, an absolute pain in the hole for non sociopaths and, probably, most men. Not saying men are sociopaths but they are a lot better at boundaries. Boundaries is probably the #1 or 2 source of angst, fret, therapy, etc for all but one women I know. That woman is a dear college friend, she is neither male nor a sociopath, she is just awesome and powerful. A rare breed in my experience. You go, TC!

I am NOT good with holding my lines, but damn if this past year hasn’t said, “Emily, hold these lines or throw in the towel of life.” And so I have tried. And continue to try. And you know what? It is absolutely worth it, even when it is terrifying, risky, the threat of the unknown looms, or someone gets mad. MY values, my integrity, my moral compass…those are all worth holding the line for.

Most of the birds have returned to their nests and the goats and cats have called it a day. I’m still waiting for the orange feral cat to come get his dinner that I left out on the deck. Poor lamb- he heard me open the door and is hiding, but I hope hunger overrides his fear and he emerges for a double Fancy Feast.

I thank every single dear one of my friends and family who remembered me today. Your notes and texts and calls meant and mean the world to me. Oh, last lesson: It is NEVER a bad time to thank someone or let them know you’re thinking of them. NEVER. Do it more. You’ll never regret telling someone that they mean something to you or have done something that you appreciate. It puts goodness out in the world to thank and take time. It softens edges, it is healing. The world needs tenderness now more than ever. Also boundaries. Jesus christ, can we have more Harvards and fewer Columbias, more Marc Eliases and fewer Skaddens!

Look for and add to the beauty, tend your and others’ hearts (not least because you never know what they might be going through), stand strong and don’t be a cunt, be good to nature and it will repay you more than you could ever wish, and if you’re grieving, find your women. Do it now. Time marches on.