"Yoga Over 50"




yeah, right

I’ve been practicing yoga for 15 or 20 years… give or take.  During that time, I’ve had a few “time outs” and slipped in my routine, but all in all, I’ve stuck with it.  My practice is like most things I do….kinda-sorta.  My years on the ski slopes only took me to the lowest grade of intermediate…guess I’m just a mediocre kind of gal.  So my personal journey with yoga is similar.  I still struggle with many of the poses, don’t know any Sanskrit language and fall asleep during relaxation.  (you’re not supposed to be THAT relaxed)  I can’t help myself.  I’m usually exhausted by that point!  “ In the moment, mindful”….are you kidding?  I’m only mindful of how wonderful it feels to lie prone.  Maybe I’m the only one who doesn’t get it.  Come on, it is a lot to take it, isn’t it?  For starters, there’s all different types of yoga: Anusara, Hatha, Vinyasa, Ashtanga and Hot, for God’s sake.  That’s just to name a few.  And the poses or positions or postures (take your pick of terminology) have names like downward facing dog, cobra, pigeon, cat, cow and my favorite, corpse.  The idea is to synchronize your breath as you move through the postures to heighten mind, body and spirit.  The central philosophy is the law of karma.  You reap what you sow.  To be more balanced, composed and connected.   I find the law of gravity plays a bigger part.  I caught a side angle glimpse of myself in the floor to ceiling mirror yesterday….sprawled in down-dog.  It was not a pretty sight.  Humbling doesn’t even come close.   My yoga “bible” is titled “Yoga Over 50” and promises to help one “find the way to vitality, health and energy in the prime of life.”  That’s a pretty tall order and a mighty promise, but I’m counting on it. 

Still Reliving the Holidays

This year’s Book Club Christmas party chalks up there…..way up.  It was a night to remember.  Forget the spit and polish.  Pat and family laid out a splendid country gourmet banquet fit for the landed gentry.  It was true Town and Country picture-book perfect, as we gathered around the fire-pit to sip our wine, and bellied up to the oyster table to shuck a few.  Hot butter and cocktail sauce sloshed up to our elbows as we downed a few bushel full before we were escorted down to the barn for the main course.  Dinner was served in the barn….the barn to end all barns.  Did I say no spit and polish?  I lied.  This is definitely spit spot!  A true show place.  Tables lined up end on end to seat 20. Blazing candelabras adorned the setting.  Bowls of Brunswick stew were dished out with baskets of breads passed around.  All blessed with full hearts for good times and good friends, we ate with relish and savored the moment.  It was definitely a holiday highlight for me.  Thanks Pat for doing it just right.

Country Living

Recently while in North Carolina, George and I took a sojourn down the road and headed to Layden’s Country Store.  Bound for homemade sausage and hoop cheese, we struck out for Belvidere.  It’s a gem of a place and the hub of activity for half-dozen or so counties.  It’s got it all.  When we pulled in, the hunter’s outside were gassing up their boat for a day on the water.  Dressed head to toe in camouflage, they were already spinning tales of the day’s booty.   A bell jangled over the door as we pushed it open into the inviting space.  “Hi ya’ll,” said a voice from behind the ancient cash register. “Come on in.”  The smell of wood smoke, sausage cooking and well- oiled floors floated on the air and the whole store just sighed “stay a spell.”  It’s a pure slice of American and I’m afraid a fading landmark.  We stocked up on hard to find staples….special items we wanted for the holidays.  Sausage, hoop cheese, saltines, cinnamon hard candy and glass bottled coke filled our bags when we left for the return trip to town.  What a great way to spend the morning, quite an adventure.

 I always did love country life.  (You know I was born on farm.)  Must have it in my veins.

New Year's Eve

Sunrise
  Kill Devil Hills, NC

There’s always a lot of hoorah about New Year’s Eve.   What’s everybody doing?  Where’s everybody going?  Should we just stay in this year....stay home?  That option is always tempting, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.  I know I have a bad case of FOMO (fear of missing out) and it kicks into high gear around New Years.  I mean, it is the big kick off. 

So, we invited dear friends to join us at Kill Devil Hills for an evening of fun and frivolity.  There were eight of us, all beds were spoken for, and cars began pulling in by 4:00 on Monday afternoon.  The protocol is to bring your own linens so we don’t have to bother with laundry in the morning, and of course the unspoken, but strictly adhered to policy, is to arrive with a plethora of food and beverage.   

Phyllis and Margene pulled in first and claimed the twin room (that made sense).  Their beds were made up by the time Dru and Everett arrived with Howie.  Made sense to assign them to the downstairs suite since Howie brought along his crate.  We had all taken a walk on the beach searching for beach glass and running behind the dogs, by the time the O’Neals arrived….cocktail hour.

An evening of constant conversation including politics, gun control, music, books, real estate, television programing, ship wrecks, and who can remember what, was followed by dinner and more wine and lots more conversation.

Those of us with FOMO decided to head over to Manteo for some live music and a taste of the wild side.  Poor Richard’s is a tiny waterfront bar that is the favorite of Manteo locals - especially the gay and lesbian crowd.  It’s our all-time favorite hang-out.  It did not disappoint on New Year’s Eve.  It was rocking.   We weren’t.  Just not enough oomph.  In my case, not enough alcohol.  Actually not any.  Which turned out to be a good thing.  Brilliant really.  We got pulled over on the way back.  We figure it was just a blind call, but my inspection sticker was six months overdue and my registration was not up to snuff.  He didn’t really know that though.  Not until AFTER he pulled me over.  I was very polite.  After all, I have never, ever gotten a ticket.  Honest.

I didn’t break my long standing record.  Just a warning to get in line ASAP on Wednesday morning and take care of it….and I did. 

We got back to the cottage unscathed and roused the dead-beaters out of their beds.  We actually saw the ball drop and had an orgy of a group hug at midnight.  Aren’t friends great!

We lingered over a huge, delicious breakfast provided by the O’Neals.  That was after consuming a box of Duck doughnuts that Everett picked up at daybreak.  Closed up New Year’s with the dishes all stacked in the dishwasher and suds just oozing out the top and sides.  Turns out I had put a laundry detergent pellet in the dishwasher.  Good grief.  It was a morning of mopping suds and running multiple cycles through and through.

All in all I chalk this one up as one of the best.  We held our own and managed to hang in until the midnight hour.  We are well and happy and oh, so lucky.  Happy New Year!

 

 

 

Bumper Crop

 

We’ve had a bumper crop of pecans this year.  Some years are lean, some years are a bust, but this year the nuts keep dropping.  It’s a wonderful thing.  We’ve been gathering them in since early November.   The first couple of baskets we toted back to Farmville and commenced to cracking using my dad’s tried and true nutcracker.  It’s one of those cylinder types that you adjust to the nut size and then pull the handle down to make the connection.  It works great.  That connection cracks the nut and sends shell fragments to all corners of the room.  Then the real work begins where each nut has to be separated (their two lobes are attached) and gently scraped of any shell debris.  This is serious work because  random shell pieces make for a  bitter bite.  It’s tedious, if not mindless work.  So you can imagine how delighted we were to discover the “Crackin’ Man.”   This fella over in Tyner has this thingamajig that cracks pecans.  It goes twenty-four-seven this time of year.   It’s a wonder to behold.  After weighing your nuts (he charges per lb. before hulling) he dumps the bucket into the hopper and the mechanized chain driven action begins.   Each nut is pulled through the press and just the right amount of pressure is applied.  They come out the bottom and drop into a paper bag all ready to go.  You still have to do the cleaning up and picking out, but that goes pretty fast.  We had our 10 pounds cleaned, roasted and packaged up for gift giving in no time.  It’s a pure wonder.   Let ‘um keep dropping.

Christmas Season

 

Christmases creep up on me and go in a flash.  I was just easing into the season a week or so ago when our local arts center, AOA, put on its annual “Christmas on Main.”  Our band, Go Figure? opened with a blast of Sweet Home Chicago, followed by our own Mike Goodman (city editor) ragging out Midnight Hour (and playing the drums at the same time) and straight into Jingle Bell Rock.  We played to a sold-out auditorium for two performances and a good time was had by all.  Local folks were out for a taste of Christmas and the dancing Santas filled the bill two-fold.  Who doesn’t feel the earth move with 30 identical Santas jingling their bells and tapping their beards off in perfect synchronization?  They were awesome.  There were elves and fairies and a gospel choir.  It was pure small town local talent and a pure delight from start to finish.  Even the mayor got into the fun playing the most important role of all…..Santa Claus.  I have to say it surely pumped me up and got me into the spirit of the holiday.  All that clapping, singing and Ho-Ho-Ho’s will do it every time.  It’s just all over too fast. 

Christmas Tree Time

It’s time to get our Christmas tree.   It’s a custom in the Jackson household to find our tree….not among the dozens that line the grocery store sidewalks or even among the beautiful trees available at the nursery. That’s not what I’m talking about.  That would be just too easy.  Almost like cheating. 

No, we Jacksons take this tree stuff serious.   George’s job is to scout one out.  This process takes the better part of the year.  He’ll have one or two that he’s “watching” and keeping them in mind for the year they are ready.

Mind you, we don’t own any Christmas tree farm.  We prefer to poach.  That’s kin to stealing.  I tell you, it’s something to behold.  Once the tree has been spotted….often by boat sliding up some remote creek, we fortify ourselves with boots, gloves and chainsaw.  This “sting” has to be fast and as nonchalant as one can possibly pull off.  Very inconspicuous.  It’s not that easy dragging an 8 foot cedar tree down a ditch embankment on the Camden Causeway.  Most everybody headed to town for the day rides by….some folks wave.  I swear.

And we’ve brought home some real winners.  One year the sap “let down” after the tree was trimmed and the presents were under the tree with care.  Oh my.  Talk about a sticky mess. Then there was the time that thousands of baby spiders hatched out during the night while we were “all snuggled in our beds,” and we came down stairs to find webs crisscrossing the living room.  

 Some trees are huge (they didn’t look that tall in nature) some are small, sparse and pitiful, but once they get hauled in and gusseted up….they’re all perfect. 

A disclaimer:  All of our trees have been on public easements or buried in a vast woodland and are in danger of some kind or another….clinging to a ditch bank, fledging under another massive tree or something like that.  George says that Aldo Leopold would say, “George left the site better than he found it.”  I’m just saying.