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.

Here is a stunning photo by Moses Pendleton called “Insex.” The man loves a pun, what can I tell you? Beautiful photo.

Photo by Moses Pendleton

And here’s a poem to go with it. Though it’s not yet October, it reminds me of Moses because he’s such an avid gardener and therefore, a little preoccupied by the garden’s never ending and yet, constantly ending, cycles. I’m feeling the passage of time so intensely, now, with the kids back in school. Didn’t we just have babies? Didn’t they just start school? I love this poem so much:

October (section I)
by Louise Glück

Is it winter again, is it cold again,
didn’t Frank just slip on the ice,
didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring seeds planted
didn’t the night end,
didn’t the melting ice
flood the narrow gutters
wasn’t my body
rescued, wasn’t it safe
didn’t the scar form, invisible
above the injury
terror and cold,
didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden
harrowed and planted–
I remember how the earth felt, red and dense,
in stiff rows, weren’t the seeds planted,
didn’t vines climb the south wall
I can’t hear your voice
for the wind’s cries, whistling over the bare ground
I no longer care
what sound it makes
when was I silenced, when did it first seem
pointless to describe that sound
what it sounds like can’t change what it is–
didn’t the night end, wasn’t the earth
safe when it was planted
didn’t we plant the seeds,
weren’t we necessary to the earth,
the vines, were they harvested?

I’ve blogged before about what a spooky time of year this is, here in New England. The days are getting shorter, but our windows are still open so we can hear all sorts of madness outside, which makes some of us a little mad inside. During the last full moon, I had a terrible time sleeping. The next morning, I was talking to a friend who lives in a neighboring town, and he said that he had been sitting out on his porch until three in the morning, unable to sleep as well.

“It was the coyotes screeching that kept me up,” I said.

“Oh no, that was me,” he quickly replied. “I’m surprised my cries of anguish carried that far.”

Last night I got a little spooked again. I was standing at the back door, calling in the dogs, before I went to bed. I leave the screen door closed when I call the dogs, because I believe that the past few times we’ve had bat invasions, they flew in over my head while I was yodeling out the door for my dogs. So, last night, I was calling away, when I noticed a small piece of paper that somebody had slipped in between the screen and the frame of our screen door. It was on the outside, so I opened the door and removed the paper. On it was a name, which appeared to be Cory or Rory, and a phone number with a local prefix.

I studied the paper carefully, then looked out into the darkness, my heart racing. We live in the middle of nowhere. If a civilized person drove up the driveway, they would have left their number at the front door. You would have to come creeping out of the woods to leave your number at our back door. You would have to be a madman who came creeping out of the woods.

Who was this Rory (or Cory)?

I studied the number. There was something familiar about it. The last digits were (let’s say) 1212. I kept repeating them over and over. 1212, 1212. There was just something about the number. I remembered that you can do a reverse phone number search so, after the dogs came inside, I went to my laptop and shakily typed in the entire number. That’s when I realized who it was. It was me. That’s our number. I looked at the slip of paper, now, with my glasses on, and saw that it said, Leary, not Cory or Rory and that it was followed by our number. Then I realized that we had the screen replaced, recently, as a certain mentally challenged member of our pack leapt through it not long ago, leaving a hole that was like one of those cartoon silhouettes of her body.

Mystery solved. The screen door people had stuck our name and number on our new screen. It only took me 45 minutes (of hyperventilating inner hysteria) to solve the whole thing. Really, I should offer up my services to the Feds. There is no mystery I can’t solve, given ample time and a working computer, as long as the culprit is me.

Well, the clutter is gone. How did it happen? My sister Meg, showed up, that’s how. She called on Friday, just to chat. I started to whine about not knowing where to start with all the clutter in my house, and she was in her car and on her way here from Massachusetts before I could even hang up the phone. Meg is one of those organized people. I’ve often thought that she was a little bit OCD with the tidiness and orderliness, but it turns out that she’s just tidy and orderly. And she LOVES tidying and organizing others. Or so she said. Maybe it was just to make me feel better.

Anyway, we started Saturday morning, soon after the sun came up and we worked all day. We filled an entire dumpster. Meg was ruthless. “Throw it away,” she said, over and over again.

I would hold up an old purse, a purse that, in its day, had cost me a small fortune and had well earned its keep in the way of drawing admiring praise from my friends. Now, stained, mildewed and filled with change, old receipts,gum, nuts, flea collars (yes, don’t get me started on the things that accumulate in my bags) Meg told me to toss it.

“But it’s by Balenciaga,” I said.

“I wouldn’t let you walk out of the house with that thing. Look at it,” she replied.

Then, I had to look at it through her eyes and not only did I not want to ever walk out of the house with it, I couldn’t believe I was even touching it. So I tossed it! That’s how the day went. We emptied out drawers, cabinets, closets, an entire room. It felt so good. We filled dozens of contractor-sized garbage bags. Then we loaded then onto the mule:

And then the bags went into the dumpster. We didn’t do ALL the hauling to the dumpster. Most of the heavy work was done by our friend and handyman Juan.

Here’s a photo of the dumpster when we were finished:

Well, it’s not the first time my little sister has bailed me out. I love her dearly.

Thanks Meg! I owe you (another) one!

In honor of my birthday tomorrow, my dear friend Pam has sent me some photos from my youth. The first shot was taken on a week long Marblehead Junior High school field trip to New Hampshire. I think we were in 8th or 9th grade. We had to camp out in tents, poop in snake-filled pits and climb Mt. Washington, as I recall. Good thing I was so “outdoorsy” in those days.

Yup, that’s me on the left. What’re ya laughin’ at, my hair? My girlfriend Alicia? I’ll kick yer ass!

That’s right, there was snow on the ground, the trees were bare, but ‘Lish and I were wearing shorts and t-shirts. We weren’t pussies. I wasn’t even wearing shoes. I think that’s a radio or tape player on the table. I recall that all we listened to, that entire trip, was The Kinks, and it’s impossible for me to hear “L-o-l-a, Lola” without thinking of my friends Pam, Alicia and Amye and all the fun we had that week. It makes me a little uncomfortable, thinking about it now, considering the fact that I looked like such a …guy.

I just showed the photo to Denis and he wouldn’t be convinced that I wasn’t Matt Dillon in The Outsiders.

As you can see in the second photo, I was starting to sort out my gender issues by the time I was in high school. There’s not a lot you can do with those man hands, but I think I used a curling iron to get my “wings” to flip back, just like Farrah’s, to compensate for them. Pam’s kitchen was a favorite hangout of ours. You can’t really lie about your age with that phone and that paneling behind you. Yes, that was quintessential Massachusetts, circa 1978 (ish).

Pam reminded me that those turtlenecks were called “Vaccaros”? Does that ring a bell?

I’m finishing (still) this book set in Massachusetts and am in Massachusetts and just feeling so nostalgic. Thanks for the photos, Pam. And the memories, Alicia, Amye and Pam. We were girlfriends, just not in that sense.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that!