Because of predicted storms, Roxbury’s annual Pickin’& Fiddlin’ Contest has been postposed until tomorrow. So everybody who was planning to compete can lay down your bows, head indoors and rest your phalanges for a spell. Oh, sorry, phalanges is what we almost medical personnel call fingers. Yes, I passed my EMT class final exam and now only have to pass the state and national certification tests (only). Anyway, try to make it tomorrow. Bring a blanket, a picnic, some refreshing beverages and enjoy wonderful acts like this:

In the meantime, my NPR radio interview with author Wendy Burden is now on iTunes. You can go there and search “Ann Leary WHDD”  and download the podcast for free.  Or just click here to listen.

Looking for something nice to do this upcoming steamy Saturday? Well, if you live in or near Litchfield County, CT, I have a lovely plan for you.

First, arrive in Washington Depot at around noon and enjoy a tasty lunch at either The Pantry or Marty’s. Then, at 2:00, make your way over to the Hickory Stick Bookshop, where my friend Wendy Burden will be signing copies of her book Dead End Gene Pool until 3:00. I’l be there with her! It’s air-conditioned and, in my humble opinion, the nicest independent book store in New England.

After you’re done meeting Wendy, browsing, and perhaps purchasing a book for yourself or a loved one, hop into your car and head on over to Roxbury’s 36th annual Pickin’ and Fiddlin’ Contest – a really fun outdoor music festival to benefit the Roxbury Volunteer Fire Department. There are banjo players, fiddlers, and other strummers and pickers, young and old, from all over the country playing great bluegrass and country music all afternoon and evening. Bring the kids. Pack a picnic basket. It’s a blast, and for a great cause.

Or, if you’re not up for a crowd, drive to Steep Rock Land Preserve, which is about three minutes away from the Hickory Stick. I would suggest you walk, but it’s going to be so hot out. At Steep Rock, it always feels about 20 degrees cooler than everywhere else, because you are hiking along the cool rushing waters of the Shepaug River, under the shade of towering hemlock trees. You can sit on the river bank and read your new book, or chat with a friend, or even go in the river for a swim.

After your Steep Rock meanderings, head on over to the GW Tavern, also in Washington Depot, for a nice cold beer and a burger. My friend Joy is the bartender. She’s also an EMT in training, so be extra nice!

If you are unable to do any of the above, why not order Wendy’s book from the Hickory Stick by calling their toll free number: 1-800-255-2665 and asking them to have Wendy personalize a book for you? That way, when we discuss the book with her in an upcoming live chat (to be scheduled soon, promise), you’ll already know what her signature looks like! Many people don’t realize that independent booksellers are happy to have authors sign books for individuals and then ship them out. Just try to get Amazon or Walmart to do that. They won’t. So go on the Hickory Stick website and if you see any upcoming author appearances, you can request a personalized, autographed book. It really makes a great gift.

Now, must study. Have a certain final exam tonight. Can somebody please tell me what to do to treat a priapism?

I’ve been trying to teach Holly to stay. Yesterday, I told her and Daphne to lie down and stay, which Daphne did quite willingly. Holly pulled her usual stunt. Not only does she break the stay after a nanosecond every time, but then she becomes completely undone by her own wickedness, and puts on a maniacal display of the ultimate bad doggery such as attacking my ankles or ripping a piece of paper to shreds.  Such a naughty pup. She really thinks its a funny joke to do the most extreme opposite of the stay command.  Yesterday, she tried to corrupt Daphne into breaking the stay with her, but Daphne, appalled and unamused as usual, set a very fine example of how a dog with dignity and grace is supposed to behave.

Good girl, Daphne:

Photo by Phil Holland

Okay, I believe I might have a name for the blog. Don’t want to announce it yet because I want to make sure that it’s available.  I will say that I LOVE all your suggestions.

This morning I received an email from our friend Phil Holland in Greece.  He has composed another canto in his series The Dancer’s Craft, which is, essentially, a 30-year-long poem documenting the life, work and wild misadventures of choreographer/avant gardener Moses Pendleton. It doesn’t take 30 years to read it, you’ll read it very fast because it’s very good,  but that’s how long Phil has been working on it, which just makes me love him. Sticktoitiveness is a trait I highly admire in others because I lack it so.  I have  general awfuggitiveness.

Today’s installment of The Dancer’s Craft reveals the persistence of our gardener friend and his monomaniacal determination to cultivate his beloved sunflowers no matter what fate has in store for him.  We’ve had some fierce thunderstorms over the past few days (a girl and her horse were struck in a nearby town, but are thankfully okay),  but Moses had sunflower seeds to sow, so, sow he did.

The canto is supposed to be divided into 4-line stanzas.  But my software won’t allow me to separate the lines.  When I copy text, in this newish format, I have to … oh never mind, it’s insanely frustrating.  Just try to separate the stanzas in your mind.  And enjoy:

Canto for the Month of June

The air was heavy, turbid, close,

and smelled of earth and rain –

the dancer raced the clouds to weed

again at Quincy Lane.

He takes his trusty hoe in hand,

whose blade is like a beak,

and solo in the fields shows off

his dancer’s-craft technique.

He twirls his hoe, he slices,

he hooks weeds out by the roots,

witch grass and vetch go flying,

untouched are his sunflower shoots.

He must be in New York by eight,

he churns like a machine,

fast-forwarding along the rows,

in a sweat laced with caffeine.

And then the western sky goes dark,

and a single tongue of breeze

licks up the undersides of leaves

and whitens all the trees.

The dancer hears approaching

a sound like a speeding train,

and then he’s hit full-bodily

by a wall of pelting rain.

And then the sky’s ripped open

by a jagged, flashing blade,

the thunderclap which follows

explodes like a grenade.

The dancer’s sheathed in water,

his steel hoe bites the sod,

its shank of ash tight in his hands,

he’s a human lightning rod.

He holds his ground, in a fury

he hacks at the weeds in the rows,

he roars at the storm like Lear and Tom,

if he goes in a flash, he goes.

The worst of the front passes over,

the rain becomes gentle, and then,

as he finishes weeding, the sun comes out,

and he gets in his car again.

– Phil Holland

Today, as I drove around our charming little town in search of a USB cord (didn’t find one, but if you’re looking for candles I can show you ten shops within spitting distance of each other) I realized that I need no such cord, as I have several Moses Pendleton photos that I’ve not yet posted. Quite a few actually. There are are a series of red roses that I absolutely refuse to post here because they are rich and sensual and textured and beautiful, and the photos really do lose something when I reformat them for the blog. I just can’t do it, but hope to get prints of them from him someday. I know exactly where I will hang them, Moses, if you ever figure out how to print them.

But I recalled a photo that Moses sent me over a month ago that I just love.  Here it is:

Photo by Moses Pendleton

I love the way the two chairs seem to be just barely touching hands, facing into the late afternoon sun together. Rooted there, like a lovely old married couple.

Then, wonder of wonders, I found a place that sells …well I have no idea what the hell it’s called but you take the photo card from the camera and stick it in this little plastic thing and then you insert the erect male end of the little plastic thing into one of the female receptors on your computer and, if the camera and the plastic thing really love each other, boys and girls, they will make pictures together!

I know somebody here tried to explain this contraption to me once. Maybe somebody knows what it’s called.

So now I’ll post some photos I took during our last snow storm.  I hate to post my photos on the same page as Moses’s, but mine is a sort of photo essay. It’s the story, more than the composition that’s important.

This is Holly in the snow.  The snow makes Holly feel quite alive and full of herself.

She believes that the cold gives her special powers that will enable her to conquer all larger mammals.  Here is Daphne after Holly has gone for a muzzle-grab:

Oops. She tried the same move on Lulu and was forced to offer an immediate surrender:

Here they are having a little conversation, working out the terms of the surrender. Somebody looks slightly humbled:

But all is soon forgotten. Holly will walk behind the other dogs for a little while. Until her special powers return:

Horses in snow:

A field of white:

Remember when I blogged about the New York Times coming to our house to interview us and take our photos? Well, I have just received an email from our very own Tracy, informing me that the piece is up on the Times’ website. You can view it here.

There’s a slideshow on the Times site and I’ve nabbed some photos to post here.  The photographer, Andrew Sullivan, was really great, as was Beth Maker, the reporter.

Now do you see why I love that grey horse almost more than life itself?  Have you ever seen a horse with a sweeter expression. Love.

Here I am trying to be all pose-y.

Well, it’s hard being photographed next to HIM.  He always looks good..

I’m still trying to sort our how to arrange photos in this new format.  Is it weird to have typing in between the photos like this?

Here’s a shot of our home:

Please go on the site if you want to see the slideshow.  There are a few blog mentions, so everybody on their best behavior tonight.  Tea bags are for brewing tea!

A few weeks ago, I received a call from my book publicist. He told me that he had just given my agent’s phone number to somebody at Town and Country magazine.  Town and Country had an idea for me, he said. He actually used the word “collaboration.”  It was something they wanted me to write. They would be in touch by the end of the day

My first thought was that Town and Country wanted me to write an article for them.  But why wouldn’t they just contact me directly?  And why did they use the word “collaboration” and want to speak with my agent?  Suddenly, I knew what they were after.  Town and Country wanted me to write a column for them.  A regular column in which I would cover all my exciting goings on in town…and in the country.  It would be sort of like this blog – but I would get paid.  A lot.

I actually rushed out and bought Town and Country, and after leafing through its glossy pages, I realized why they wanted me.  They needed me.  This is one dull magazine.  Where to Shop, Where to Stay, What to Buy –  do people even care about stuff like that anymore?  No, thought I, they most certainly do not.

I was then stricken with this toxic combination of self-delusion and self-glorification that was escalating by the second and making it hard for me to sit still.  The publishers of Town and Country needed somebody to change the whole tone of the magazine and they knew just the gal to do it.  With a zippy column penned by me, about the really important things in the Town (where you can safely lock your bike, best dog parks, cool movie premieres) and the Country (horses, dogs,attack sheep, cool author interviews) they would have to brace themselves for the swelling circulation, the demands for space from advertisers and the need to start throwing an annual Town and Country Oscar party, hosted by … well, me!

Everywhere I looked I saw an idea for my column.  Everyone I spoke to became interesting future interviewees for my column.  Oh, my column.  My beautiful, beautiful column.

Well, the day ended with no call from my agent (whom I, of course had alerted to be on standby for their call).

The next day, still no call.

About a week later, I received a call from a friend in my town who is also a writer.  She was writing a piece for Town and Country!  Could she possibly have a photographer take photos of me riding my horse in Steep Rock for her piece?

So, they didn’t really want me to write a column.  I found out from a friend that Town and Country was looking for names of writers in the area, to write this piece, and my name was one.  My friend was the other.

I’m not exactly in a shame/self-loathing spiral.  It’s more like a little shame/self-loathing curtsy.

Well, yesterday, I had to leave the country to go to the town. I took a few photos with my iphone so that I could fool around with the photo placement capabilities of the new blog format.  I like how you can place them side-by-side.

I took the photo to the right while driving over my “Bridge of Sighs.”  It’s the bridge I must drive over every time I enter or leave our area.  I always sigh at the beauty of the lake, whenever I cross it, though it does have a rather spooky history.

When I arrived in the city I took a picture of the George Washington Bridge. Entering Manhattan, the way I do, on the Westside Highway has got to be the most beautiful drive into any American city.  The mighty Hudson is on your right, the George Washington Bridge looms ahead, and if you’re stuck in traffic, you can watch the trucks and cars crossing its span, carrying cargo and executives and musicians and waitresses and maybe even a writer or two into and out of the city.  There are massive barges being guided up and down the river by tugboats.  There’s a boat basin where sailboats bob up and down during nicer weather and there’s even a little lighthouse at the base of the George Washington Bridge, though you can’t see it when you’re driving. We have an apartment downtown, and I’m finally used to that hole in the sky where the WTC towers once stood.  Instead I focus on all the beautiful parks that have sprouted up along the river in the last decade or so. I love New York.

Yes, I took this photo while driving. Yes, I know, I know.

I had an appointment in the city today, and I was late. Why? Because, as I was driving past Greyledge Farm, I saw a Black Angus calf stretching his neck up as high as he possibly could so that he could peer in the window of the barn. It was INSANELY cute.

I had to pull over (sorry white honking minivan, you were tailgating though, Mama, you know you were) to take a picture. Of course, when I approached on foot, the calf stopped looking into the window and turned his attention to me:

His mom was a little suspicious at first. She put herself between me and her calf. “I’ll veal chop you,” was her message. Look at those eyelashes.

Then, when I began taking photos, she saw what I was about and she did what all mothers do in such a situation. She started fussing with her boy, trying to make him look all nice for the pictures:

Then he was clean as a whistle and all ready for his portrait, so Mom stepped aside:

So I made a big deal – heaped on the praise, tickled baby’s nose, scratched Mommy’s ears, complimented her on her eyelashes and slim waist and ample bosom. And then I was late.

Back Yard
by Carl Sandburg

Shine on, O moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.
An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month;
to-night they are throwing you kisses.
An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a
cherry tree in his back yard.
The clocks say I must go—I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking
white thoughts you rain down.
Shine on, O moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.

Somebody needs a little horsey Prozac:
He was just sad to be left behind today. Have I mentioned that I’m rather fond of this horse?
Well, I was up with the dawn to feed the horses and then I met up with the Little Britches gang at the Washington Horse Show. The Washington Horse show is an annual horse show to benefit Steep Rock Land Preserve and there is a category for handicapped riders. I assisted three young riders who all won ribbons (deservedly so, they all did an outstanding job). Then, when the Little Britches riders went home, it was still early so I drove home, watched Denis and his friends play street hockey for a nanosecond, then loaded up Snoopy, picked up Jen and a new horse she’s trying out and headed BACK to Steep Rock, just to see how the new horse would do with the show crowd and the trails and the river and everything. New horse (yet unnamed – have at it, blog readers) did wonderfully.
He’s a Paint Horse, which is a type of horse that usually has large white splotches on a darker colored coat. Sometimes it’s the opposite – dark splotches on a white coat. This horse has a white splotch that looks like the continent of Africa on his rump. I wish I took a photo of that. I thought Africa might be a good name, but Jenny already has a mare called India.

Well behaved Paint Horse with Africa on his butt is for sale by the way. Christmas is just around the corner!

(Blogger’s note – photos below were added later. They were sent by our friends whom we saw at the show):

And to prove you can hug your horse with helmet on:

It was just another gorgeous fall day. When I arrived home, I let Snoopy graze in the yard while Denis and I sat outside, and I heard all the gossip about this week on the set, while the dogs put on a show:


Then I hung with Mark a little. Sorry about the dumpster. It’s still there from my dehoarding weekend with Meg.