Them

After over a year here in Reedsville, WV, I finally ran into an unsettling moment, much anticipated but never experienced up until now. I've been, of course, unpacking it ever since. 
I was getting my hair cut, which meant not some hip place on Capitol Hill where no one noticed me but one where ladies' hair gets puffed up real high and sprayed into oblivion. My neighbors -- who are gay women! On a four-house road we are 50%! -- had recommended this place and by god they were right. I got the best hair cut I've had in years and was charged, no this is not a typo: $15. Must be more when you add hairspray. 

But this time our favorite stylist was out on maternity leave so I got the shop's owner. Within a few minutes the air was aflutter with F bombs and bold statements, delivered with the confidence of one who knows it's her shop. 

The guy she was talking to was shaking his head, ranting about somebody who had unfriended him on Facebook, and I paid no attention until I heard: "He called me a racist!" 

I immediately became aware of being trapped in my chair with someone messing literally with my head, and began to brace myself, hoping it didn't go there. It did. I never heard what he actually did to deserve the title but it was a big fight, with a former friend, and while of course he objected to the epithet, what I can't forget is his face. 

He looked completely stricken. 

He said, in disbelief, "and he hates Trump." He appeared to be completely baffled by both being called a racist and that someone could hate Trump.

I waited, aware of my body stiffening and hoping my mouth didn't open for any reason, but also getting a little freaked that I could get so scared just sitting in a hair salon with people just talking.

I keep thinking about that look. Of all the looks I thought I'd see on a real live possible racist, hurt, scared and baffled were not among them.  

He's four.

I can't believe how slow my processing has been because not only do I have a firm belief system but it is built on layers and layers and layers of assumptions that have gone unquestioned probably since my birth.
So the first piece I got was that "racist" is a really strong word. What does it mean exactly? It's huge. It has such a broad and deep spectrum. I've spent so many years exploring the subtlety of north and west coast racism. How insidious and institutional it is, all with a liberal presentation that says all the right things and votes all the ways. And yet so much is right there to see: plain and simple racism. But after you hurl the word then what? Scream it at each other? I mean, what is the goal?

It's very hard to see that look of hurt and not want to do something different. Surely there is something to work with there.

Parts of West Virginia changed hands between North and South during the civil war over 50 times. It depends on who you ask whether the state is The South or The North. As usual, and they are proud of this, it is not one thing but many things. Things that don't fit in a neat straight line; just take a look at the shape of the state itself on a map. 

But other things are hugely important: being nice, giving your kids the best you can, taking care of your family and neighbors, and keeping The Man out of your business. This last part has made me feel so much more comfortable than I ever though I'd be. Keeping out of someone's business is a very difficult thing. Not relying on passive aggressive jabs and "helpful suggestions" and notes left on doors and on and on. What if you just let a barking dog bark? What if someone's car is in the road? What if that stop sign fell down 5 months ago and no one put it back? What if the sign fell down and someone finally did put it back up, only 3 feet lower? What if the hose from the spring that provides so much beautiful, pure water fell into the mud? You come back in a month and someone has fixed it. No government around to be seen or see you.

So it comes down to something like: you may be queers but you're our queers and we'll look out for you, too. We've interacted as a "we" with all kinds of people, every one of them nice and polite and friendly. The hostess at our favorite restaurant calls us "you two" or "ladies" and always seats us at a booth. Her hair is piled up to there and never moves.

So anyway I went looking online for "how to talk to a Trump supporter" but all I found was vicious, hateful rhetoric that looked like it came from Fox news. Yet it was CNN, Slate, HuffPo, etc. There was not one article that suggested how to find common ground, what to do if you get baited, how to not bait, and all the other pitfalls that comprise the polarization that has become the new normal. (Btw, Yes Magazine's latest issue addresses exactly this; I highly recommend it.)

Reading the hate-fueled crap produced by "my own side" caused a small implosion. I was ashamed. And again, realized I had never even listened to anyone about why they thought Trump was a good option. Not really. 

So I started to. Freed from having to argue or convince, I started listening in on a lot of conversations. And all I heard were painful stories of being left behind, made fun of, misunderstood, and more saliently, colonized. Ripped off. Used. Adding insult to injury, one of colonization's best weapons is to demonize the people you're ripping off, the better to justify the crime. Stop me if you've heard this before.

The coal legacy here is deep but there is a distinction between coal miners and the coal industry. There are so many people "all buggered up" as Ann would say, from industrial accidents and lack of health insurance. Kicked out when they can't work anymore, not compensated for loss of limb and life. And then on top of it, made fun of. The money goes straight out of state. 

It has all left me confused. 
And grateful.
And more open minded.
And humble.
And protective. 

Local marching band competition..

I do like things complicated, as much as I often search to make them simple. So I have plenty of things to chew on. And I keep wanting to share them with you, my nearest and dearest and newest. So:

Folks here go to their kids' high school marching band competitions. No matter what. 
Haul people's cars out of the mud.
Rescue animals.
Hunt animals.
Buy really cheap bad food that makes them fat and sick.

Loyal parents

Transport goats in cars.
Attack drag queens. 
Raise hundreds of thousands of dollars for the same drag queens.
Pull off the biggest teacher's strike in the history of the country. 
Own a lot of guns but have THE LOWEST crime rate in the country. 

Confusing.

Goat yoga at the local Arthurdale Heritage Inc, the town founded by Eleanor Roosevelt on a tip from her LOVER Lorena Hickok.

I intend to keep it complicated, or at least not succumb to simplifying. 

Goat transport

Look at those hills

PD Pancake

Birdfeeder season

Since I last wrote I don't think we'd gotten PD. She would be classified as a Helper by a cat shelter. She is into everything and LOVES being inside, a good thing, because for the first time in my life I am insisting on an indoor cat. Her last name is actually Sullivan or Sullicake but you can't beat PD Pancake. 

She loves her Mica

Cabin

It's finally finished! What was supposed to be just a little ol' tiny house became a local contractor's project and we have one solid little cabin!
Fully insulated, better shower than the one in the house, a comfy chair and a full table to write on, a kitchen and fridge and best of all, a lovely front porch!

Before

During

I should have stood someone next to this unearthed stone. It's huge and can only be moved with a bulldozer. 

Big damage to the lodge space, very disheartening.
So Ann painstakingly reseeded it and slathered on hay.

Ready for you to come visit! 

Hay!

I never understood the expression "Make hay while the sun shines" but they ain't kidding. All summer long it has been raining heavily and we have been waiting for the mysterious Mr. Burke to come hay our four acres.





So you do this cool trade, where the whole thing that's as high as an elephant's eye is suddenly mowed down, baled, stacked, and carted off, all for free. Their part is they get to go sell it. Any farmer will tell you they get the sweeter deal but if you don't have any animals to feed, not enough brawn to stack and no hay mows to fill hay is just hay, and there's a lot of it. [That's pronounced maow.]

So every day it was dry we'd hope Mr. Burke was coming, and then he never would. Finally when Ann called again she got his wife who was very very polite but assured us he would come. As in, stop calling us. 
Finally, out of the blue on the first dry morning of four days of no rain, up the driveway came a tractor with an umbrella over it!

And: 92-year old Mr. Burke!
First thing he said when I went out to meet him was: Do you want me to do this every year?
He's been mowing here for 50 years but he just wanted to check.

So he took his little tractor and cut the whole field into furrows.
And then he went away.
And the next day he showed up again with another attachment, which turns out is the bailer. This machine is all the more impressive because all around us are farms with giant attachments that bale up the hay and put plastic around it while the driver is watching TV or something. No shade to those farmers but old school doesn't even begin to describe Mr. Burke's operation.


He scoops up the hay, it turns into rectangles, the baling twine whisks around it and out comes a stack, one at a time, chug chug all day until you got many square piles of hay.

He put them into long piles...

...then ran over them with the bailer and magically, they turned into rectangles!

Watch!

Shoot, I can't get it to rotate so you'll have to turn your computer... (Dana?!)

First thing I did was go check: yep, you sure can't find a needle in one of these.

Then some strong young men appeared out of nowhere and threw the bundles into piles. Turns out they were his grandsons.

I kept three of these to put around the firepit. Not too close though. 

Then two huge flatbed trailers arrived, hitched up to the trucks and then the guys stacked the bales about a story and a half high, lashing them down from the top and then they wobbled off into the sunset.

Cat with sunset and mowed field.

If you don't think that's cool well then I don't know what.

Two holes, which later spread to three. Then four.

Bees

In other news, some of you may know that yellow jackets are not bees. They're wasps. And apparently have no real value. They have had a heyday this season and everyone's complaining about them.
In more pangs of guilt I must add that they were right by the door and when we stopped to greet people or say goodbye we were right under them.

Cowboy hat, balaclava, goggles, long-sleeve shirt and pants in 85-degree heat, snow boots, and gloves.

So after much contemplation guilt, frustration and more contemplation and asking a vegetarian friend (Thanks Diane!) I decided to "eradicate" them. I bought a seriously poisonous pesticide, suited up and sprayed 'em at dusk.

The next day they were in my office. Dying. We still don't know how they got in, the window was closed. I spent the day moving slowly, especially when I got up or down, or moved my mouse. It seemed only fair. 

Don't look at the barn, look at the screen.

The thing about deciding to kill something is you think that's it. But when they don't die you have to kill them again.

And again.

And again.

I sprayed them every night for four nights. Then, in a salute to their perseverance and the fear of creating radioactive bees (I also tried peppermint and dish soap), I stopped spraying them.

They seem calmer. I prefer to think of them as deciding to share the space quietly with us but they're probably drunk or completely intellectually impaired now.

More evidence of letting things go: Ektomi (the spider) snared two bees within ten minutes. Around my Buddha statue. 

There are at least four other nests in the ground, which we have allowed to stay.

This morning we found a giant wasp hole that had been unearthed by something. I say anteater, Ann says bear. We have fun here in the country. 

New gig

This is about all I saw of them. They said nary a word the whole trip. 

I uttered a desire to help with animal rescue and suddenly found myself transporting young cats who were scheduled to be put down that day if someone didn't come get them. I love to drive, the cause was just, and it was beautiful. But it was 2.5 hours each way (look up Hagerstown, MD) so perhaps a bit of a long day. And they weren't friendly, as I learned when I absent-mindedly stuck my finger into one of the air holes like I do with Sailor.

Lessee what else... I cannot seem to get a good sunset but this is pretty good. 

I know you're wondering about Bodie so here's a pic. No, he's not dead, just rolling in the grass after taking an illicit mudbath. 

Found us a bbq place. Ann ate all of this and some of mine... Another Appalachian said, Now that's how you make beans! (boiled within an inch of their life in bacon grease).

The Pride

Nope, it's not a GLBT thing, it's what they call the WVU Marching Band, of which Ann was a proud member while a student there. She was first trumpet. So we just had to watch them practice.

Happy girl 

Okay, thanks for reading all the way through. I know I was a bit chatty. Hope you enjoyed it, and keep them emails coming!
Love,
The Sullicakes