Letters from Memphis

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Fri, 11 Dec 2009 14:00:00 +0000

I woke up early this morning to bake bread. The clouds cast a gray pall over the dark earth. I had an appointment for PT at 9 o'clock but the minute I saw the clouds and the chair in front of the fire in the living room I new I had to call my physical therapists office and make the appointment for later in the day. This cold quiet winter morning was calling me to sit and stay.

Yesterday I had to get a shot. I hate shots. I used to run out of the health department in Covington and try to reach home. I escaped once and got caught making a mad dash down Main Street. My mother caught me and dragged me back to the awaiting nurses.

My husband Billy always gets his flu shots and his doctors recommend that I get them, too. I hate shots.

I was all excited because the swine flu shot wasn't a shot at all but something you can inhale. But Billy called our pharmacist and she told him that only people 49 and younger can get the inhaler. BOO! HOO!!

I could pass for 49 in some foreign country where all the people who are 30 look 60. But that didn't count.

Billy and I went together to Kroger to get my shot. I told him that I was definitely going to need a present for this. "Of course, of course you need a present when you have to get a shot. You, Melinda, shouldn't have to do anything you don't want to do,"
he said.

I think he's very well trained.

I bought a dozen yellow roses. They're in the picture there. They brighten my dining room and every time I come into the house they greet me. They're sensual and romantic. I'm enjoying every minute of them. They were almost worth getting a shot.

Here's another shot of the roses in the dining room. It's like they pull the room in toward them. I don't know. I needed them. Maybe it's the darkness and long nights.

There is something about blossoms, blooms, flowers that just captivates the soul. I took this Christmas Cactus outside for the summer. During a thunderstorm back in June, a limb fell on the pot and knocked off half the plant. Even so it's still luscious in its half self. Odd that the color of the flower almost matches Mamie's painting behind it.

And in about a month there will be amaryllis blooms. My son Sam will be coming home for Christmas in January. He's coming with his girlfriend Amanda. I'm hoping the amaryllis will be blooming then. Get to growing little fat bulbs!

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 14:14:00 +0000

To every thing there is a season.

I don't have many house plants. I have a beefsteak begonia in my bedroom. A friend of mine gave me a cutting 7 or 8 years ago. Now it's all beefed up, crawling out of the pot, dangling luxuriously in front of the bedroom window. I have a maidenhair fern in the dining room. It's on a pedestal and is temperamental in it's growing. Spurts. That's how it grows.

One Christmas, years ago, I went over to visit my Aunt Velma who lives in Covington. She is the quintessential plantswoman inside and out. On her coffee table in the living room was a tangerine colored Christmas cactus in full bloom. I don't know how old the plant was, but it was huge, robust and vibrant. It captivated all who entered the room. There was not a green stem on the plant that didn't have a long, lush ruffly flower on the end of it.

It is for this reason and this reason alone I keep my Christmas cacti on my window will all year long. I want a Christmas cactus that will captivate a room, my room.

I know it's too early for them to be blooming, but honestly it's ok with me.

I've been so busy these last few months I haven't had time to do a lot of the things I might have done last year. I probably would have see this coming last year and taken the pots to a dark room to delay the blooms.

Sarah is finishing painting her apartment today. She'll be moving in right down the street from me. She just called. She's on her way home and we'll have breakfast together and plan our day. We have a market tomorrow!

Here she is selling bread at the Farmer's Market.

We're coming in to our busiest season. For the story of Shoaf's Loaf Bakery just go to the website. www.shoafsloaf.com

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Tue, 17 Nov 2009 14:30:00 +0000

I think it was late in October. I'd been watching this vine for almost two years. In fact, I'd convinced Billy that we needed a tree professional to come and clean out some limbs of the birch tree that covers our front yard. To him I said, "that tree is messy and those limbs are dangerous. They could fall in our neighbors yard."

But in my heart I knew the real reason I wanted a tree pruner to come. I wanted more sunlight for this vine.

My neighbor across the street had done what I've done many times before. She'd gone to a plant sale at the Botanic Garden and brought home things she'd never get into the ground. "Melinda," she said one afternoon after she'd gotten home from work, "do you want these things. I'm just not goint to have time to plant them."

I was thrilled. But frankly I don't remember what the other plants were. It was two summers ago. The only thing I remember is the vine.

I planted it at the base of the lamp post out front to grow along with the clematis that was there.

I must confess I have listened to this vine's pleas for more sunlight. That being said, the vine was not exactly suffering. At least, not this year, this summer. It totally obliterated the sight of the lamp post and the old clematis vine too for that matter. But it was all foliage. All talk. No action.

I thought it was a thunbergia, the black-eyed susan vine. You know what that means. I've been waiting for little gold and black daisy like blooms.

You can imagine my surprise, or maybe you can't. Not everybody rolls along in life in silent communication with various and sundry botanic specimens. I've been in a relationship with this vine. We've been communicating now for over two years!

I was getting in the car one morning when it shouted at my eyes. "Hey, human, look at me!"

And I looked.

I was stunned. I gazed into the incredible beauty. I thought to myself, "The very idea blooming in October! Nobody blooms in October." Well, almost nobody.

The vine is still at it deep into November. I don't even know her name. I stop my neighbors on the street and make them look. I say, "Have you ever seen such a flower? Do you know what the name of it is?"
So far no one knows. But I guess the name's not all that important. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
I think I'll call her Princess or maybe I'll call her Lush. But I have to call her something. A bloom like this certainly deserves a name.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 14:04:00 +0000

I'm on the porch this morning. For this moment the world seems silent. No cars are zooming by on their way to Southern or Central Avenue, no Fed Ex planes overhead.

The cricket's sounds are soothing as is the echoing bark of the distant dog. The heat is in a hurry today, in a hurry to burn off what little dew is left on the grass and get this place hot. I can feel it as it comes toward us in the form of light, dappling through the shutters.

The days are getting shorter. The nights little by little are longer.

It changes me the way it changes my plants. The surge, the growth surge is over. We're winding down. This season is changing into another season and we're being told about it by the leggy caladiums who prefer their nights to be above 70 degrees. They begin to lean, topple over. They know their days are numbered.

Lately I've felt a need for stillness. I have the need to quiet my mind. It dawned on me in my stillness that my days are numbered, too, here in this form. This is nothing new. My days have always been numbered, but in my youth those days seemed to be infinite.

As I approach 60 I can no longer delude myself. So I'll stop. Be still. I'll enjoy. As my summer comes to an end I can reflect on a few gifts the summer gave me.

My experiment with a vegetable garden this summer was successful inasmuch as I planted everything on top of an old -- and I mean old -- driveway. I had to dig through gravel to get the little tomato plants into the ground. But they thrived with the help of fish emulsion and worm castings and lots of organic matter. Next year should be even better.

A couple of weeks ago Gus and Sollie stopped by to visit. They're both in school now. I don't see them as much as I used to. But when I do see them I

enjoy every second of it.

On this visit my sister Susan happened to be here. She was just leaving to go home when I saw my friends walking by and called them over to the porch.

Sollie, who is still a baby, a toddler, happened to get his hands on a pair of my old glasses. Nothing would do but for him to try them on. My sister Susan, who loves fun as much as anybody ever could, took her glasses off and gave them to Gus. We snapped this picture. We laughed and laughed. It was a simple but wonderful gift.

Now I'm going in to get Blue's leash. I have to walk him before it gets too hot.

The sun has come into the porch so I know it's time to get going.

This week my friend Charlie is coming to build a garden shed so I'll have a place to store my gardening things.

I promise to use it and to quit being messy. Maybe in my stillness a miracle will take place and I'll no longer be a slob! I don't know. That would take a lot of stillness. I'm not sure I have that much time left. But on the other hand I can just imagine how much time I'd save just knowing where my pruners were at any given moment!

We shall see.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Sun, 26 Jul 2009 15:56:00 +0000

But on this Saturday morning I was feeling nothing other than peace and contentment to be where I was and to be doing what I was doing.

Well, here I am reinventing myself– again–. For anyone who hasn't heard, I've started my bread business. I'm getting a banner made for my little card table that I take to the Farmer's Market. I'm calling my business SHOAF'S LOAF ORGANIC.

I get a kick out of the people who come to my table at the Farmer's Market. Every now and then a quick witted soul will ask me about my name. "Now, are you Shoaf?"

I'll tell them that I am.

"Well, I guess you didn't have much choice in naming your bread business did you?"

How many people have a last name that rhymes with loaf?

I feel better about this business than any money making venture I've ever been involved in. In fact, I've been totally lousy at so many jobs I've had that I really don't want to think about it. I'm definitely not good at waiting tables. I really am not that good at landscaping and garden design. I'm ok, but I'm a one style kind of designer. If somebody wants something non-traditional I'm lost. Plus, most of my landscaping experience involves my own yard and I believe it was difficult for me to think big. I could have if I'd had the right mentor, but that didn't happen. I like to think I'm where I am and where I am is where I'm supposed to be.

I've put landscaping behind me.

Unlike certain aspects of landscaping, I'm very confident in my ability to bake bread. I've been doing it for over 30 years. I even underestimate the ability I have, I think. I have yet to teach anyone how to make a pan of rolls that suit me. They have to be uniform in size and folded just right. They need to be baked exactly the right length of time so that the tips are beginning to brown but not the whole roll.

It's very hard work. I saw a friend of mine down at the Market on Sat. He's a caterer. I was carrying on about how well he was doing in his business and he gave me this strange look. "What?" I asked him. "Aren't you doing well?"

"Yes, I guess, but man, it's such hard work. I mean, I work so hard."

And I could see it in his face. I could hear it in his voice. I knew exactly what he was saying. I could see him standing over a vast array of trays, intricate hand made appetizers, hundreds of them all needing to go out onto the floor at the same time and getting everybody organized not even to mention all the running around to grocery stores and markets before hand to get the ingredients all in the right proportions. Made me tired just to think about it.

I suppose everybody who owns their own business lives in parallel universes; one that cherishes independence, being her own boss, experiencing and nurturing the entrepenurial spirit, and the other, working long exhausting hours, aching bones, fear of failure and wanting to just draw a regular paycheck like everybody else.

Martha's such a hard worker. She'd finished an exhausting schedule at her job with television production. She got tot he kitchen a little after 4 am and had a job interview later on in the day.

I felt terrible about seeing my baby so tired, but she got through it with the help of Tamara who arrived at around 6:30am and helped clean the kitchen and slice the bread and bring the rest of the bread down to me at the Market.

I arrived at 7:30am. That's the earliest I've ever made it. When I pulled into the parking lot I looked up and saw the City of New Orleans was still in the station.

I opened the door to my car and stood staring at the silver train perched 20 or so feet above me. I could see heads at the windows but no faces. A strong, healthy breeze pushed against my skin, played with my skirt, reminded me through smells and speed that the Mississippi River was right over the bluff.

It isn't the same, the thought of getting onto a train and going down to New Orleans, but sameness is an illusion if you really stop to think about it. Everything is in flux, constantly changing, being born, dying, being built, decaying, and I tell my heart this when I think about New Orleans.

I'll be going down soon to see Sarah who's moved back and maybe I'll take the train.

I give a nod, a blessing of godspeed to the City of New Orleans and consider myself most fortunate to have glimpsed this quiet little reality the beats in our nation's heart and flows like blood from Chicago to the Gulf of Mexico every single day.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Mon, 13 Jul 2009 13:20:00 +0000

Squash borers:
Yesterday I checked on my tiny garden. I have 2 squash plants, three, if you count the one that doesn’t count. It's been stunted from its beginnings. I left it as a decoy, hoping the bugs would pick on it because it wasn't big enough to defend itself. Sounds cruel, doesn't it?

Long ago,waay back in the 70's, my mother gave me a book called Peacock Manure and Marigolds. It was a book about organic gardening. It was the beginning of the end for me. That book took me down the path where I now live. I'm a compulsive gardener. The book told of order, the system, the protective mechanisms of plants and animals, the cycle of the garden and its intelligence.
Somewhere I read about squash borers. I’ll never forget the thrill I experienced when I saved my first squash plant from the pernicious attacker. I inspired myself by becoming a plant rescuer and a squash borer murderer.

I haven’t grown my own squash in years. In fact, my little house in the city has a yard that’s mostly shade. But for a couple of years I’ve been longing for a few vegetable plants, especially tomatoes. I tried tomatoes in pots and I tried them in a small sunny spot next to my neighbor's clematis vines, but nothing happened. I guess I wasn’t serious enough about it. But last fall I had a revelation. I began watching the tilt and pattern of the sunlight in the narrow stretch of hedge that ran beside my house. It was almost full sun. The only problem was that there were 12-foot, 40-year-old overgrown hedges claiming that space, and I had to make my decision as to whether or not to go to war with them.
Go to war I did. I have a handsaw. One of these days I’m going to have my own chain saw, but for now my handsaw will have to do. Before it got too hot, sawing was my morning garden project. Let me tell you, a lumberjack has to be the strongest person in the world. Sawing is exhausting. But bit by bit I took down these overgrown hedges with trunks like trees that took hours to saw through. I hauled it all to the street and within a couple of weeks I could see the future garden site. In the early spring there was only full sun in one small strip, but as the sun’s elliptical path changed to its summer course, the patch became an ideal plot for tomatoes, eggplant, squash and peppers.
I check my vegetables every day for enemies. I found one tomato horned worm about a month ago. I took the big green worm off my plant and put it on a fence post hoping some bird might find him delectable. It worked. I checked back in a few minutes and the worm was nowhere to be seen and I thought I heard a bird saying "Yummy."
I hadn’t really checked on the squash plants until yesterday. I guess I was in denial.. I guess I was hoping there weren’t squash borers within Memphis city limits, but I'd noticed the leaves wilting even when I'd just watered. So I went out and got down on my knees and looked closely at the base of the plants. There it was. The trail of sawdust the books tell you to look for. The little varmints had bored into almost every single stem of both my plants. It was time to go to the kitchen and get my paring knife.
I don't know where I read about this type of plant surgery, but it's right up my alley. I don't want to use pesticides in my garden so I'm always looking for ways to keep plants healthy without them.
Step 1. I looked at the base of the squash plants and saw the gooey sawdust-like substance that is a dead giveaway. It's just like the sawdust a drill makes. It's the evidence that the worm has bored through the stem and is getting fat on the juices the squash plant is bringing up from its roots. These juices are supposed to be feeding the leaves and the blooms and ultimately the baby squash plants. I took my knife and cut open the stem right above the borer hole. Gotcha! There he was: fat, round, pale, slimy with a sinister black head. Boy, was that bug surprised. I had to kill it. I'll spare you the details.

After I checked each stem and killed about 4 more borers, I got a couple of buckets of dirt and reburied the stems and watered the plants.
I checked them again this morning and found two more borers. I think they're ok now.

As I'm getting older I find myself becoming more content with my eccentricity. I don't even call it that, but I'm pretty sure my neighbors do. I don't even think about it being odd that I wake up every morning and the first thing I do is get my coffee and go to the garden. I stay outside until the heat of the day. Late in the afternoons I'm back outside puttering, digging, planting, dreaming. In all the world it is where I'm most at home, most content, most carefree; here near my dirt, listening to my marigolds and wishing I had a peacock to go with it.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Thu, 04 Jun 2009 12:57:00 +0000

On Sunday afternoon I rested. I'd done two Farmer's Markets in a week. The Downtown Market is exhausting simply because I'm not used to getting up at 4am. I did well. And on Sunday I felt entitled to a long restful day.

I took a nap, but for some reason I woke up before I was through napping. I felt disoriented and enervated (Billy's big word; it means without the energy to move).

I grabbed a book and went out to the front porch to lie on the very uncomfortable wicker couch. The fan whirred and moved the hot afternoon air around, making me comfortable enough to want to close my eyes, in spite of the cushion springs' occasional jab.

I put my glasses on the little bench beside me and soon I was in a world of my own -- until the front door opened. It was Billy. He came out to check on me. He'd been in a world of his own in front of the television set watching the French Open. He sat for a minute and we talked. He went back inside and I tried to drift back into dreamland. To no avail.

And then I thought orange sherbet! I hoisted myself off the couch and began looking for my glasses. There they are! On the rug! OH NO!! Someone had stepped on them!! Again!!!! Just the way they did last Sunday afternoon! What a coincidence!

Only this time instead of one arm of the glasses being broken the big foot got both of them.

Glasses are a recent development for me. I've been wearing readers for some time, but have had 20/20 vision otherwise. Then, the last time I had them checked the eye doctor asked what kind of glasses I was wearing.

"Reading glasses," I told him, "they're 175."

He said, "According to your exam you need 300's."

No wonder my eyes were hurting.

FYI: gardening and glasses do not a happy marriage make. Don't get me wrong. I'm very grateful to be able to see. I love the soothing comfort of putting my glasses on and feeling my body relax from the strain of not being able to see. But composting, digging, mulching, building, weed-eating, grass cutting, none of those things lend themselves to wearing glasses. For two Monday mornings in a row I've been in my car on the way to LensCrafters to get my glasses replaced. Billy was thrilled, of course (not).

Echart Tolle says that in the West relationships are a "spiritual exercise." And Martin Luther said that marriage is a "school for character."

I tried valiantly to convince Billy that he'd been the one who stepped on my glasses. "You must have done it when you came out to check on me."

I was very convincing, but not convincing enough. He hadn't been anywhere near them. I honestly don't remember stepping on them and I didn't hear the awful crunch sound. Oh well, all done now.

I was just thinking about my Aunt Velma who's 90 years old. Her eyes are better than mine. Speaking of whom:

Here's the feverfew in bloom. She gave me a very small plant from her garden back in the early spring. I have a new sunny spot in my front yard. It was all very odd. I wrote a blog piece about "The Canopy." That's what I call the shade we have here on my street. I love the beautiful ancient trees, but I'm human. I must find things to complain about, so I wrote about the lack of sun in my front yard and my neighbor's growing young oak tree.
That very day I came home and saw tree trimmers. They'd removed a huge oak from her back yard and cut lots of branches from the young oak in her front yard, the young oak that was blocking all my sunlight.
Here's a delicate little daisy I got the same day I got the feverfew. The plant had a bud on it when I put it in the ground back in early April. It bloomed a few days later and has been blooming ever since.

This is the seed pod of a poppy. Aunt Velma has poppies in her garden and I think they are so beautiful. They're like upside down ballerinas dancing high above the other flowers, catching every breeze, showing off their lovely soft red skirts. After they bloom she harvests the seed pods and puts them in a ziplock bag. In the fall she sows them again in her garden and is always pleasantly surprised to see who germinates and flourishes.
Poppies hate to be transplanted, but I got this one very early and on a nice cool day. We'll just have to see how things work out. Maybe next year I'll have poppies in my garden.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Mon, 25 May 2009 13:28:00 +0000

It's Memorial Day morning. I've gotten up early. Billy is enjoying sleeping late. He told me last night that he was going to treat this day like a holiday by just doing nothing except catching up on reading the paper, maybe working at his desk a little.

What a week I had! I've finally gotten my permit from the State and now I can officially sell bread at the Farmer's Markets at the Botanic Garden and Downtown.

This week was a learning experience. Here I am with my lifelong friend Molly Turner. Her grandmother and my grandmother played canasta together a million years ago. Her mother, Mary Anne, and my mother went to high school together. Molly's father, Pop Turner, was in the military and when he brought his family back home to Covington they stayed in the big old two story house where Mary Anne grew up. I always loved that house with the huge front porch on College Street.

When Molly visited during the summers she and I would play together.

We reconnected after years of not seeing each other. When she found out that I was starting this business she invited me to lunch and let me know that she would help me any way she could.

When my permit came through I sent her an email and collected on her promise. She was as good as her word and better. She showed up at my house on Wednesday afternoon at 1:30 to help load things into the car. The Market at the Botanic Gardens starts at 2 pm. Molly and I loaded tables, bread, money box, price list and ten tons of other stuff into the trunk of her mother's car and off she went to set up while I got myself dressed.

The first day of the season is always a test. We got off to a slow start, but quickly recovered. I went on to sell everything I had except the one box of sticky buns that the little black ants got in to. We gave them to a friend of hers who works at the Gardens after carefully shooing off the ants.

But the Saturday morning Farmer's Market Downtown is a very different experience from the Botanic Gardens. It's a much bigger operation. I had no idea what to expect. I had friends who'd told me I'd do very well, but that wasn't enough information about how much bread to bake. Not only that but it starts at 7 am which meant I needed to be Downtown, dressed and ready to sell by opening. Makes me tired just to think about it.
I failed.
I was 7:30 getting there. Tamara Jeanes is in the picture. Here she is learning the process of mixing the dough for the whole wheat loaf. I used this black and white picture because that's the way the world looked at 4:30 am. Tamara is a real trouper. She helped me on Saturday morning. She came by my house at 4 o'clock in the morning and we went over to St. Anne's on Highland to their little commercial kitchen. I'm renting that kitchen because I can't bake at my house because of the health code. They don't seem to want dog hair in the dinner rolls. Go figure.

Tamara and I went straight to the kitchen, but it's so easy to forget things when you move one kitchen to another. I had to haul my mixer, my wheat grinder, honey, oil, sugar, filling for the sticky buns, loaf pans, bread flour, rolling pin, bread pans, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I forgot a couple of essentials and Tamara had to drive back to my house to get them. Time is money when you're baking bread.

All of it should have been taken on Friday night, but, you know what Billy says. "You live. You learn." Except he says it with a heavy New York accent and learn is pronounced "lue' ween." As in: You live. You lue' ween. You have to shrug your shoulders when you say it. But it's a simple but true statement.

I really just tried to do the best I could and to stay present with what I was doing, and to

"lue' ween."

The guy next to us at the Farmer's Market Downtown sold essential oils. I'm so glad he's right next to us. I'm looking forward to learning more about oils and how to use them. In the picture above I'm taking a whiff of an essential oil blend that is designed for sleep. I haven't been sleeping well lately so I traded Craig a box of sticky buns for the little jar of sleep oil. I used it last night and it worked. I slept better than I have in a while.
I thought a picture sniffing the bottle was in order. Molly laughs at my jokes. Therefore I shall have to insist that she volunteer every week.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 22:03:00 +0000

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Mon, 20 Apr 2009 13:25:00 +0000

Saturday morning I slept until 11am. That told me my body was needing rest. I'm a morning person. By Saturday night I knew I was heading into a sinus infection. Last year I was in bed for 8 days! 8 DAYS IN THE SPRING!!! I couldn't work in the yard, I couldn't enjoy my flowers or the beautiful warm days of early May. All because of that sinus infection.

I've gone holistic. I was ready for this. I've studied essential oils and what to use when. I put my eucalyptus and my lemon scented tea tree oil in my humidifier and went to the guest room to sleep.

I stayed in bed all day Sunday. I used grapefruit seed spray for my nose and the Neti pot with salt and soda. I drank apple cider vinegar in water and felt terrible all day long. Until about 5 o'clock.

Something broke up inside of me. I took a sudden turn for the better. YEAH! I don't have to be sick!!!

I'm still congested a little, but I know what I'm doing is working.

Whenever I get sick the minute I start feeling better I immediately think of something strenuous to do so that I can over-do-it and maybe get sick all over again. All these things come into my mind that I didn't do while I was in bed and I think, well, here's an hour of daylight, why don't I go out in the yard and dig, plant, clean up, take the recycle to the curb, walk the dogs and deadhead the pansies and pull a few weeds.

So, that's what I did.

I go out almost every evening at about 6 o'clock to play in my flower bed. I listen to the robins and doves calling to each other from the giant oak tree that looms over my street.

Last night was different. It had rained Saturday night and most of Sunday. Martha and I had baked bread on Friday until late afternoon and when I got home I was too exhausted to do anything except cook a little supper and watch a movie with Billy.

I'm figuring I lost about 48 hours of observing of light, leaves, shadows, the wind. I guess that explains why I was a little stunned last night when I went out in my front yard. The canopy had returned.

I've been working in the late afternoons in sunlight. All winter I've done a few things here and there in the yard. I put tulips out after Thanksgiving. I raked leaves, mulched. I planted pansies. And since March, since the first inklings of spring, I've gone out to the yard in the evenings and enjoyed the sunlight. What a gentle time, what a gentle light it is and how precious it was to me. The canopy of thick dense leaves that covers my yard had been pulled back, the trees have been naked, and I've allowed myself to enjoy it, to treasure it to bask in it even though I knew darn well what lay ahead.

And last night was the night. It was all over. No more sunlight for my little garden.

The trees are flapping at me now. There's a cool spring wind blowing this morning and from where I sit the show is spectacular and alive and full of movement and newness. The leaves are back. And they are dancing. The leaves are back and they are dictating to me what will grow in my front yard. The canopy has returned.

It was only yesterday when the shadows on my street were thin spindly pitiful specimens of shadows. But look! Now they are large and smooth, cool and dark and they will remain with us until November.

I have all these problems. My neighbor has planted an oak tree in her front yard. I can't believe how much the former sapling has grown since we moved in 3 years ago. By next year the tree will loom over the little strip of dirt where I grow basil, chives and marigolds.

Yesterday morning when the rain was coming down in buckets this same neighbor was out in my front yard, umbrella in hand, bending over to get my New York Times out of a mud puddle. She sloshed to my front porch and tossed it in out of the rain. What a kind gesture! And yet her graceful little oak tree plots evil against my stubby, desperate marigolds.

Things are out of control. The world is doing its thing. Grackles and sparrows are eating my bird seed. My neighbor's oak tree is stealing my sunlight. My face has wrinkles. And I myself am a mere form, and all this work that I do is just like me. It is being born so that it can die. The transmutation of forms, from one form to another; that is all I see.

I went to Covington a couple of weeks ago to do some work in my Aunt Velma's garden. If obsessions can be inherited then I guess that's where I got mine. Her perennial bed was born about 60 years ago.
When I first got interested in gardening, I was in my twenties and I was crazy about growing vegetables. She said, "Melinda, that's exactly how I got started. But watch out for flowers. Once you grow a flower you won't want to grow anything else."
I'll never forget those words. They were so true!
And her flower garden is her passion and has been low these 60 years. Now she's 90 years old and there so much she simply can't do any more.
As I was leaving she spoke. Her brow strained, she peered into the rich composted soil, into her garden, seeing but not seeing. She said– not to me, not to anybody–she just said, "When I die and Davie get's this place he'll probably just mow all of this down." She extended her arm out over the beautiful garden, her blood, her sweat, her vision, the journal of her life.
It was as if she spoke to test the waters, to brace herself for the inevitable.

I don't know why, but I guess I got scared. I laughed and said, "The good thing about that is that you won't be here to see it."

And we paused together in silence. A ninety year old gardener has learned the lessons of the garden. The grass withers. The flower fades.

I recently read Eckhart Tolle's book, THE POWER OF NOW. It was a tremendous spiritual experience for me. The now is liberation from the ghosts of the past and freedom from anxiety about the future. Now is all we have.
So now, really now, I am watching the dappling light and shadows dancing outside my window and listening to the deep hollow music of the windchime that hangs at the corner eave. And I accept. I accept. I accept.

It is what it is.

Grackles, sparrows, and all.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 19:03:00 +0000

(click here to watch my slide show. that's me singing in the background, my favorite melancholy melody Sao Gan.)

I took these pictures over a period of weeks beginning with that wonderful early March snow. I think they tell the tale of spring unfolding in my neighborhood and in Shelby Forest where Blue and I take our walks.

Last week I took Blue out to Shelby Forest. We took a walk down to Pioneer Spring which is about a mile and a half into the woods. I'm learning to be alone. I'm learning to be silent. I'm learning the wisdom of stillness finally. I love the woods in the early, early spring when only the early early plants are coming up. Nothing compares with the cold beauty of the deep red flower of the trillium. They're so plentiful in the unspoiled woods here in West Tennessee, but wild places are rarer an rarer.

Blue ran up and down the bluffs. Occasionally I'd lose sight of him, not for long. He watches me the way I watch him. He may be high up on the bluff almost hidden behind a tree, but he hears my steps and senses my direction. It's clear to me that his primary purpose is walking with me, following me, being my companion, and exploring the forest floor and the clear running creek beds are pure ecstasy for him, but they are also secondary.

It's been a long time since I've written here on my blog. I started to post that I was on a sabbatical of sorts and that I'd be back in a few months, but that didn't happen. So, I have no idea if people have just given up on me, lost interest, figured I'd just run out of things to say.

But this winter has been the longest winter of my life. That sounds negative, but for me at this stage in my life it's been anything but negative. I'll post the story later in the week, but for now, I feel like spring myself. I was asleep, dormant, but now it's time for another season.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 15:23:00 +0000

(click the picture to enlarge the image)

Billy and I had agreed we'd get up and go to church this morning, but when the alarm went off an apathy set in, a familiar fog. We'll be Downtown at our church twice in the coming week. Lord, make me holy, but just not right now, not this morning.
We've also been at church several times all ready this week attending functions with the PB. For anyone who might be reading this a PB is a Presiding Bishop. Our Presiding Bishop is Katherine Jeffers Schori who was elected in 2006. She is the first woman to hold the position. She has a Phd in oceanography and is a pilot herself. Her daughter is an Air Force Pilot! She's been here in Memphis this week. It's all been very exciting. She and Obama represent the new world order, an order that gives voice to all people and doesn't dismiss the voice of the poor, the powerless and the disenfranchised. They are the very beginning, I believe, of a new consciousness, a healthier consciousness that may heal the wounds of this earth, this broken planet.

I shook myself out of bed and tried to remember my dream. There was something about Sam as a baby. I held him in my arms and in my dream I experienced all the joy of the moment, the joy of holding my son in my arms. He was such an adorable baby, as most babies are, but Sam had a sweetness as an infant that was unusual; a tenderness that came with a power of observation, curiousity and fascination with the world.All of that came to me in my dream.

And in my dream there was a huge maple tree and the children were playing in it. One morning they went to play in it and it was broken off at the trunk. I knew it was irreplacable; that in their lifetimes I wouldn't be able to give them another tree to play in. I was sad. Later there was another scene that had to do with an abandoned town, an ocean, a mountain, Gertie falling into the water and having to be saved. My goodness! I was a busy bee last night.

I put the coffee water on and opened the back door to let the dogs out. It was so nice and warm that I walked out into the back yard with them.

My eyes are on the ground these days whenever I'm in my yard. I'm ever vigilant for signs of spring, little shoots peeking up through the ground. My tulips are visible and I've removed the little markers I put down last winter, markers to keep me from stepping on them. My wild phlox have buds on them, my clematis is climbing out of the dirt and up the light pole, my lenten roses are in full bloom and the gold mound spirea is full of tiny golden leaf buds waiting to unfurl.

I stood in the yard and listened to the chinking windchime in my neighbor's yard and the robin chattering above me. I was absorbed in the moment when my eye caught sight of something on the ground.

(click the picture to enlarge the image)

It is a gift. I don't know where it came from. The wind woke up early this morning and scoured the treetops looking for seeds that were ready to fly. This brave little volunteer surrendered to the call and swirled through the air on the invisible wing of the morning wind. I have no idea how far away the seed pod's mother tree is. I don't know what kind of tree it might become if I pressed it into the ground, put a few bricks around it and waited until summer to check the shape of the leaves.

The color! chartreuse? lime green? It is the color of alive; the color of life. I picked it up and held it in the palm of my hand. I thought about the biology of it all–how the tree is full of all of this information, how it doesn't think about reproduction, life, death or growing. The tree just is and somehow knows how to cooperate with the wind in the spring to spead her seeds abroad knowing that some will land on the street and get brushed aside by traffic, never to see a bit of soft earth. Most of the seeds will land in yards or parks. They'll land in places that will keep them just far enough away from what they need to germinate that they'll rot and go back to the dust from whence we all came. Ocassionally a little seed pod will find it's way to safety and sprout in a flower bed underneath some azaleas and the owner of the flower bed won't even know the little tree is there until the tree is 2 or 3 feet tall. Then a decision will have to be made. I don't even like to think about it.
Occasionally a seed pod is immortalized in photography as this one was. I wonder how her mother and the wind will feel about that–––

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Fri, 27 Feb 2009 15:48:00 +0000

Yesterday my daughter Martha came over to help me bake bread. There's a little wintertime farmer's market. I found out about it through my buying club group. The group is memphis.locallygrown.net and it's sole purpose is to give gardeners and farmers in the area a little market in the winter where they can sell winter crops: lettuce, mizuna, arugula, turnip greens, eggs, etc.

They agreed to sell my bread in their little market.

Martha and I spent the day together baking.

We delivered the bread to a little bungalow on the other side of town where the members meet to pick up their orders. As we were pulling out of the driveway to return home, Martha said, "What is that? We used to have one in the yard. What's it called?"

"It's a spirea," I said looking at the soft thin branches clumped together filled with tiny white flowers.

"No, it's called something else."

"Bridal veil," I replied.

"Yeah, we used to pull the flowers off and throw the pedals up in the air like confetti. I love that bush, so much confetti, it's so pretty," she said with what I recognized as just a bit of wistfulness in her voice.

When I was a child, growing up in Covington, I had the same kind of experience with flowers. There was a quince, a flowering quince, in our back yard. When that shrub bloomed I was captivated by the beauty of it. Not consciously, I don't think. But it was the beginning of a long relationship I was to have with flowers.

Such a simple thing, looking at a flower, gazing, getting lost in its beauty. I don't understand it, but I knew even as a child that I was being invited by flowers. Invited? That's an odd way to put it, but I think that is the only word I can think of to express what I felt, what I feel.

There are quince in my neighborhood here in Memphis. They've been blooming for nearly two weeks now. Unfortunately they have stickers on them. I don't know that I want one in my yard, but I'm glad I get to enjoy them in other yards.

Has this been a long winter for you?

Last Sunday I awoke to the sound of a bird singing outside my window. I heard a voice inside me say, "Stay. Be still. Listen."
Breathing, I listened to the pronouncements of the bird. The wise old tree outside the window sighed with relief that I'd decided to join them. I pulled the covers around me and sunlight filtered in softly and pulled up a chair. Together we heard the earth sing.

Spring. Spring is here. Spring.

Ask the quince what winter is.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 15:17:00 +0000

I took this picture of Blue last Fourth of July. I was working in the yard and Blue was at his post watching me. He's built for this porch. He can stand all day watching squirrels. It's truly his favorite place to be other than walking the sidewalks of our neighborhood.

Here he is in the daytime vigorously staring out at the birch tree in the front yard; the tree teeming with squirrels.

I haven't been writing much lately. Well,that's not entirely true. I've been working on the eternal book, that book destined to be forever in its infancy, swaddled tightly within the arms of my little laptop, never to see the light of publishing. It's there. It's written. I just have to take the months and months to lay it out like a quilt and piece it together.

But in the meantime, I do write little things from time to time. I wrote this one last summer. It's a dog story, a true dog story.

The Attack

I love to walk with Blue. I rescued him from the pound. Ole Blue’s about the most earnest and best dog friend I’ve ever had. We have a connection. We need each other. Blue and I live in a 1925 bungalow with Billy, my husband, and his dog Gertie. Gertie's a yip-yip dog. Blue's a manly dog.
Our house is a typical old fashioned porch enclosed by a low brick wall and three brick pillars. Blue will stand all day at the porch wall. Its just about his height. He puts his chin on the white concrete ledge that runs along the top of it and stares out into the street or up into the birch tree looking for squirrels.
When I wash my face in the mornings, it’s a sign to Blue that we’re going for a walk. He rushes from where I stand at the lavatory to the front door then back to me then back to the front door. When I grab the towel to dry my face it's a sign to him. His 60 pound body floats straight up into the air like genie being let out of a bottle. His body lifts in exultation as if to say, "At last we’re headed for our sidewalks!"
Yesterday when Blue and I went for our usual morning walk in the much cooler Memphis air we’d just turned onto a busy street when Blue was attacked by two large dogs that came from a partially fenced in yard.
I held on tightly to his leash, fearing that if he got out of his collar he’d be forced into the mindless speeding traffic, yet I feared what these dogs might do to him if he wasn’t able to fully defend himself or flee.
I screamed, “Please someone help me!” I kicked at the dogs and continued to scream. Miraculously they stopped and ran off behind the house where they had been before the attack. I shook with terror as we ran toward home, a terror that soon turned to anger. How could anyone be so irresponsible with their animals?
Billy and I discussed the incident when I got home. We decided I should drive over to the house where the dogs were and see if I could find their owner.
“I’m going to give him a piece of my mind,” I said as I stormed toward the car. My husband followed and offered this as I opened the door of the car, “Melinda, I know you’re upset, but trust me, don’t approach with anger you’ll only make the person defensive. Try starting off with a question, like –– “Excuse me, did you know your dogs were loose?’”
Good idea. scheesch.
As I pulled into the driveway I spotted the dogs. I drove slowly around to the back of the house where I noticed in the distance a woman, alone, pushing a lawnmower. I waved. She turned off the mower and walked toward me.
“Excuse me,” (a hem) “did you know your dogs have been out?”
“Really?”
“They attacked my dog, they ganged up on him and attacked him in front of your house.”
“Oh no,” she said as she pulled her hands to her flushed cheeks.
I carefully recounted the incident so that she could be properly horrified and hopefully repentant.
“I am so sorry. I am so very sorry.”
The dogs in question were by now lying in the driveway like wet rags wagging tired friendly tails. I got out my car. They came toward me wanting to be petted. I petted each head then turned to the young woman. We began to talk. I noticed toys in the yard but saw no children.
“Do you have children?” I asked. She nodded and tears came into her eyes.
“They’re with their father,” she explained, “they’re afraid to stay with me right now.”
And she began to recount her own tale of terror from only a few days before. She’d been standing in her kitchen she told me when she heard a huge crash. Two men had broken through a heavy side door and were standing in her living room. She screamed, grabbed her children and ran out the back door where two more buglars were waiting. Hysterical, she continued to scream while her two frightened dogs, chained and in the back yard, barked furiously and helplessly looking on as their owner tried to protect herself and her children.
Thankfully, the burglars fled. I guess they were frightened too, but the damage had been done. She and her children had been invaded, violated. They no longer felt safe in their own home.
She told me she’d just let her dogs out for a moment as she was preparing to cut the yard. She was afraid to be out in the yard without them. Apparently the dogs felt they were defending their home when they jumped on Blue.
I reached out and hugged her. We talked. I told her if she wanted I’d help her build a fence. I ached. I cried, too and later I even dreamed about her in the night.
You know I have to say, I was ready to let that woman have it with both barrels and the last thing I expected was this: to hurt for her, to understand her, to want to do something, anything to make her day, her life, better.
She’ll figure things out, I’m sure. She’ll build a security fence or sell the house. She’ll find a place of safety for her and for her children.
And as for me? I’m going to try to remember one thing.
What’s that you ask?
* * * *
You just never know. You just never, never know.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Sun, 18 Jan 2009 13:32:00 +0000

I wanted to stay in a place where I could see water. If I close my eyes when I'm alone, I can imagine that I'm near a lake or a quiet river; that's on the rare occasion when I can quiet the din of noise, the memories, the responsibilities, the anxieties that bubble up like a spring inside of me. This noise, these things to do, these defense arguments I have with myself are hard to smother, but sometimes, sometimes when I'm quiet and alone I can imagine being by the water.

When we got to the little cabin late in the day I went straight down to the dock. The water was still and dark. I relished the silence. Occasionally a fish would flap in the water. Across the little river and up on a hill were houses, cabins. Some of them looked like they were permanent residences; some were deserted and appeared to be strictly summer cottages.

I love staring at water. This river is so different from THE river. There's no roar, no mud, no mythical great-grandaddy catfish trolling its innards.

I heard a strange noise. It was coming toward me. It sounded like someone swinging a giant slingshot whish whish whish. Suddenly ducks, maybe 20 of them were heading toward me, the whish of their wings against the air lifting them off the water grew louder until they were right over my head flying in a V. I remained still as they rose gradually off the water. They quickly disappeared around the bend hoovering above the river and heading home to roost.

In the distance, no telling how far away it was, I heard a weedeater or a tiller or some small motor buzzing away; just loud enough to prick the bubble of solitude. I waited until that motor stopped then listened again. I heard an owl and it was dark so I went inside where it was warm.

We arrived on Thursday afternoon, late. On Friday morning we drove into Heber Springs to get groceries at the local Walmart.

Oh, you who shop at Walmart, how do you hold onto your moneys?

Billy and I were entranced with the vast all-inclusive store. We had a list of things we wanted and quickly gathered those things in the grocery area, but the store seduced us.

"I'm going to electronics," Billy declared.

"I'm going to housewares," I said, "See you later."

I bought a fabulous ceramic dutch oven. It's a LeCrueset wannabe, enameled cast iron and perfect for soups which I make a lot.

We stopped at a little park beside the water on the way in. I could hear the voices of the men in the boat echoing as they spoke almost reverently to each other there on the water.

I understand why this country is in the trouble it's in. Everything in Walmart was so affordable and shiny I wanted one of each. Our basket was filling up.

We shopped for supper and I bought a bag of Great Northern beans to put in my new soup pot. I could have stayed in Walmart all day just piddling around looking at what's new; remembering all the things in my kitchen that I've been living without. So, that's sort of weird. We went on vacation to the mountains and spent our first morning shopping at Walmart.

Here's Billy at the little cabin by the river not long after we arrived. He's pushing the ottoman out of his way and getting our luggage into the room. After Walmart I dropped Billy back at the cabin and went exploring by myself. He doesn't like mountain roads or the way I drive.

"No, you go ahead," he said, "I have a movie I want to watch."

That suited me fine. I don't like the way he slams his feet into the floor board putting on his pretend brakes.

It was very very cold. The town is at the edge of the Ozarks and I experienced the cold as mountain chill, a penetrating cold that comes from wind combined with elevation.

My friend Regina had told me about the cabin as well as the migrating swans. The swans were the first thing on my to do list on Saturday.

In 1992 trumpet swans appeared on this lake. They were apparently blown off their migratory path. There are several families and 137 swans in all. 137 out of about 20,000 in existence. Trumpeter swans were hunted to near extinction back in the 30's. A few men and woman got together and decided they wanted to save them. They got legislation passed and began incubating eggs, and it worked.
What is it that would make someone kill a beautiful bird like this for no reason other than to watch it die? Who are we? Where are we in our evolution as human beings and when will we stop killing animals just to have something to kill? It's hard for me to understand why these birds were slaughtered. I don't even think they're edible are they?
Well, now that I have that out of my system I can go on with my story.

When I got to the lake there were maybe 20 or 30 people standing on the other side of a wire fence. It was a delight to see how proud these Arkansans were of their swans. There were parents and grandparents, children the whole community turned out to spend the afternoon at the lake watching the swans.

They arrive at the lake in late November and stay until February.

Some of the people brought containers of cracked corn. The swans were used to the people and came right up to the fence to peer with one suspicious eye at these strange creatures. I know it's corny, but I just think these graceful swans look like fat little old ladies when they turn on their heads and stick their behinds in the air with their little black feet dangling uselessly. It always gets a laugh out of me when I see it.

How's this for a suspicious expression? I got as close as I could, but the swan made certain I knew it was time to quit creeping closer. hmmpf! the big baby..
On second thought maybe it's programed into the collective memory of this group of swans that they were nearly hunted to extinction by people like me, people with guns instead of cameras who needed target practice. Oh, for a new day when spears are hammered into ploughshares. I know I'm preachy, but it does seem to me there is way too much violence in this world: people to people violence and people to animal violence, just plain violence.

OK that's our 3 day excursion to the little Red River in Arkansas.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Mon, 05 Jan 2009 13:21:00 +0000

Sometimes I totally forget that I'm not still in my twenties. My body reminds me. The baking I did before Christmas was so exhausting, but it was exhausting in a good way. Nevertheless my body is finally telling me I need some rest. I went to bed at 8:30 last night.
And on Christmas Eve, whew! I fell apart. I had mistakenly agreed to bake cinnamon rolls for a neighbor. I thought to myself, "That won't take long. I'll just make one batch." It was too much. I found myself at 4 o'clock in the afternoon with a messy kitchen and tons of work still left to do before dinner. We'd made plans. We were going to go to a party at my friend Nancy's house then go the late Christmas Eve service downtown at Calvary. We'd planned to have dinner after the 10 o'clock service. But as the time grew closer this didn't seem like such a good idea and things went by the wayside.
Mamie and Sam came back to Memphis from visiting in Brighton with Jimmy, Mamie's father. They arrived around 4:30 and I'd just gotten off my feet. I heard Mamie knock. I went to the front door and I think she was a little alarmed. I looked bent over, slow, hobbling. I was stiff from having lain down.
She came right in and told me to lie down again and that she'd clean up the kitchen.
I was so mad at myself for not planning better. I had a fresh spinach casserole to fix and I hadn't stemmed the spinach. I rested a few minutes then got up to do that while Mamie helped by wrapping last minute presents. One of these days I'll learn how to be prepared for a Christmas Eve Dinner!
We had to cancel my friend Nancy's party.
It all worked out.
I think it was 8 o'clock by the time we sat down for dinner. My nephew, Will helped me in the kitchen and everybody else helped by being of good cheer. Here we are at the table. Martha's friend, Sean took this picture of us. He's a photographer can't you tell?

Here I am in the kitchen with my nephew Will. He's living in Memphis now. I'm so proud of him. He's doing so well. He's a real joy in my life. In fact, I call him my Christmas miracle at Christmas. ( I called him my Thanksgiving miracle on Thanksgiving). I'll probably call him my MLK miracle on MLK day.
After Christmas I was taking my dog Blue for a walk. I started thinking about the money I'd made over the holidays. It was a sizable sum for my little pocketbook. Like a bolt out of the blue I realized that this was the time for me to have my piano.
I grew up with a piano. I learned to play on the piano my mother had inherited from her grandmother. When I married my first husband and moved to Brighton out on the farm, I took that piano with me.
My children learned to play on it and I continued to play. That piano burned in the house fire in 1997.
I inherited a little money right before we moved into the new house and with that money I bought a baby grand. I LOVED my piano and played every day. I even started taking lessons and occasionally played for my church on Sundays when our organist was out of town.
When I left and moved to Memphis I had that piano moved into my little tiny duplex here in Midtown.
Then I met and married Billy and moved the piano to a condo we bought over on McClean. It looked beautiful in that upstairs space. It was a very neat place to live, but it was really too small for us.
We moved to Virginia for a year and a half for Billy to serve as interim rector for a large parish in Virgina Beach. While we were there we decided to sell the condo and look for a house when we got back. The condo sold on the day we put in on the market. The people who bought it wanted the piano.
I said, "Billy, I'll sell that piano, but you have to promise that you'll buy me another one when we get our house."
He promised.
But we moved into this house and things just came up. The floors had to be refinished. We took out a plaster wall in the kitchen that ended up costing $5000.00. We put a closet in the bedroom. We pulled up carpet that had been in the house since 1979. There were so many expenses that I just didn't want to insist on a piano. But I longed for it. I longed for a piano.
I bought a guitar, but that didn't fill my longings.

I came home from my walk with Blue that day after Christmas and I started thinking about where to put my new piano that I didn't yet have. When I found the right place the dream became not a dream but something tangible.
A few days later I mentioned my tangible to Billy. To my surprise he heartily agreed. He hates for me to want anything I can't have.
I just left it up to him after that. He's much better at those details than I am. He looked in the paper and found a classified ad for a baby grand.

He called the number and the voice on the answering machine said, "Hey this is Jim, leave your me a message and if I like you I'll call you back."

Billy had a set price in his head that he wanted us to pay. He's much better at bargaining than I am so I left the poor piano man at Billy's mercy.
I had an address and a phone number so I called and made an appointment to go and see what the piano looked like.
I talked with Margaret, Jim's wife. She gave me directions to the house which is over on Jackson near the Raleigh Springs Mall. It was a warm afternoon, cloudy and almost muggy. It reminded me of a New Orleans day. Everything was gray and brown, the streets, the yards, even the little houses seemed to blend into the winter afternoon landscape.
I pulled up into the driveway and went up to the porch to knock on the door. Margaret quickly answered. She opened the door and the first thing I saw was the piano. It was love at first sight. It was smaller than the piano I had before and the finish on it was in much better condition. I played a few songs on it to see how it sounded, told Margaret that I wanted it then drove home dreaming of the day when they'd deliver it.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Thu, 01 Jan 2009 17:53:00 +0000

A couple of years ago I went to visit my Aunt Velma during the Christmas holidays and she had the most gorgeous Christmas cactus on her coffee table. I vowed that I too would have a Christmas cactus -- not just one I picked up in the grocery store on my way out, thrown in with the milk and eggs, wrapped in bright green foil -- but a Christmas cactus I'd nurtured all summer long from the year before, nurtured by ignoring it.

I had it on a table outside all summer and somewhere in September we had a fierce thunderstorm. A small branch fell from a tree and knocked half my Christmas cactus to the ground. That's why there's only one side to my beautiful flowering cactus, but one side is better by far than no side at all.
The Sunday before Christmas Billy was preaching at Emmanuel Church here in Memphis. He is there every other week and has grown so fond of the congregation. They're struggling financially so they use "supplies (Sunday substitutes)." Billy is their "Supply priest" on the first and third Sunday of each month. I stay home on Sunday mornings because I LOVE my solitude. I've said it before I'm sure, but with Billy retired he's under my feet a lot. Shooo!!! I say. Go play! Go away!

I know some Sunday mornings are for my solitude, but on the Sunday morning before Christmas I was lonely for my young friend Gus. We haven't been together much lately. He has so many activities and so do I. I called his house to see if he'd like to take a walk with Blue and me. His Daddy, Josh, talked it over with him and wrapped Gus up from head to toe. I think it must have been the coldest morning we've had all season.

We walked around the block and I asked Gus if he was ready to go home or if he'd like to walk some more. "Why don't we go to your house? I'd like that." "Me too," I said.

Gus never comes to my house that we don't read one of his favorite books, Eloise at Christmas
This is his favorite page. It's where Eloise is running through the Plaza Hotel. The page is a detailed map with dots, when E is skibbling, and dashes to show when she's running. Gus carefully studies it and always asks me what I think skibbling is. I skibble through my kitchen demonstrating the skibble.
"And Nanny do, oh do let's make cookies for Christmas! I simply ADORE making cookies with Nanny."And Gus and I have our own little version of Eloise right in my kitchen.

Ouch! Just looking at this picture makes me tired. It was taken on one of those exhausting baking days right before Christmas. The house is dark and I'm finishing up the cinnamon rolls and getting ready to deliver them. Martha helped me all week long. I couldn't have done it without her. We worked very hard and definitely got better at what we were doing with every order -- hitting a good working rhythm.

Tomorrow I'll tell the story of my Christmas present!

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Sat, 20 Dec 2008 18:34:00 +0000

My oh my. What was I thinking? I guess I was thinking I'd like to have my own business. Now I do have my own business and it's going so well. I'm a little embarrassed about Thanksgiving. I didn't do such a great job. I mean my bread was really good, but I worked so hard and was so unorganized and so stressed that I didn't enjoy anything. It was just stressful.
But, I guess work is stressful when you're under pressure of a holiday deadline.
Fortunately my daughter Martha was able to help be all week! We've had such a great time. She's gotten here early and left late in the afternoons. We've carefully planned our strategies each day according to the orders we've gotten. She knows how to do that stuff. I'm just really not designed for the organizational part. I do love baking bread and as the week has gone on I've gotten better and better. We've learned how to get the kitchen just the right temperature. We've learned how to get the bread to rise just right. We've learned to make the roll dough early and let it rise then start of the bread and get it finished while the roll dough is rising.
She's been taking care of the books and the orders, the labeling, the packaging. There's a lot of work from start to finish and baking the bread and taking it out of the oven is really just the first half of the process. I'm much more sympathetic toward anyone in business. I see people driving a truck with their company's name on it and I think, "Wow, they make enough profit on their business to actually make payments on a truck." I imagine how many rolls I'd have to bake to buy a truck.
Last night at about 6 o'clock I baked my last batch of cinnamon rolls. Whew! I immediatly turned to cleaning up the mess I'd made. This has been one downside of the whole process. For the last 4 days I've baked bread in my own kitchen which means I've had a messy kitchen and a messy dinning room filled with bakery boxes, ribbon, scissors, zip lock bags, wax paper and other junk needed to package bread. So as I quietly cleaned,
Billy went to the grocery store to get some fish for supper; fish and a baked potato and asparagus.
I turned on Garisson Keiller and Prairie Home Companion and got busy locating my counter tops beneath all the clutter that had mounted up on top of them over the last week. It didn't take long. By the time he got back everything was the way I like it. I immediately felt better.
I'm tired. Sometimes I don't realize that I'm older than I used to be. Although, I remember when I did this bakery thing when my children were little. I was tired then. Martha was a baby. There's a picture somewhere of me with Martha on my hip standing in front of the Christmas tree in the old house. It was the Christmas I'd baked bread to pay for my Bosch mixer. Martha is bright eyed and a happy, chubby little cherub. I was wan. Dull looking. Not enough strength to get a smile to come across my face. My sister and I have laughed about that picture. Isn't it somehow strange that now, 25 years later Martha and I are together again at Christmas with the same mixer, the same baking bread, the same frenzied me and the same happy bright eyed Martha, my baby. We had such a great week together.
I have a feeling if someone had taken a picture of me yesterday afternoon I'd have had to track them down, wrestle them to the ground, steal the camera and smash it. I was not a pretty sight.
But I'm ready now to get to the business at hand. I'm ready to get the house ready for my daughter Mamie and her husband Sam who'll be arriving on Monday.
Friday afternoon I realized that Christmas was less than a week away. I also realized that I hadn't mailed Sarah's Christmas present. I'm not used to having to get packages in the mail because the children are almost always at home for the holidays.
I was so tired Friday night. Billy and I went to Pete and Sam's for supper and had the best time. We got home and I headed straight to bed. Then WHAM! I thought about Sarah's Christmas present.
Now, I don't know about you, but my experiences at the Memphis Post Offices are less than stellar. Our nearest PO is on Prescott near the Laurelwood shopping center. As with all post offices it's a dumpy, plain building and I've never been in it when there weren't people waiting in line.
I set my alarm for 7:30am so I could jump up and run over to the PO and be the first in line. I got there at about 8 and saw there were no cars. They don't open until 10am on Saturday.
I came home and got on line and ordered Sam's present from Macy's and paid a ridiculous amount for shipping because I'd not ordered it sooner. I ran back to the PO and got there at 15 minutes before 10. I was about the 5th person in a line that gradually grew to 20 or 30 just in the short time I was there.
When the door was finally unlocked and we snaked along the dingy narrow passage way with a mailing desk on one side and mailing junk on the other side, it was clear to see that only two clerks were available. 2? 2?2? Don't you think they could have hired an extra person to come in on the busiest day of the year?
The first guy in line was a musician/guitar sales person who was mailing about 3 guitars and about 10 little boxes of something else and needed to insure each item for a different amount and everything had to be weighed. His order alone probably took 30 minutes. I bet some of those people are still there waiting! arrrgh.
It took an hour to get my package in the mail.
Then I came home and started baking again. We had to do 10 orders of cinnamon rolls.
My paper whites are beginning to push up toward the light. I bet they'll be ready to bloom by Christmas or at least I hope they will.

On the front porch we have a chimnea. I haven't even turned it on this winter. It's propane and puts out a lot of heat. I'd told Billy that I'd grill the fish but when I went out to put charcoal on my cheap little Walmart grill I saw that alas, it's little legs were broken. To the trash heap with you little Cheap Chinese piece of tin!
Ah, I'd heard people cooked on their chimneas. I lit it and let it get good and hot. I came inside and put the potatoes in the oven and did a few things in the kitchen then Blue and I went out to the porch to grill the fish.
The air was crisp and cold and my porch was cool and fresh and quite comfortable near the chimnea. I removed the chimney and set a small grill on top above the fire then lay the fish on it. I sat and watched the fire and listened to the fish sizzle and pop, fat dripping into the flames. Blue put his head in my lap until the fish was done and it was time to come in. And I must say that was just about the tastiest piece of Salmon I ever ate.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 14:07:00 +0000

I have never been across the ocean. One day I will go. I'm planning in my head where I will start. My sister went to Greece and brought back pictures of the little towns she visited, towns nestled in the rocks of a mountainside. The pictures were evocative, alluring and filled me with longings and restless feet and heart.

That was 10 years ago or more. What struck me most in the photo she brought back was the color of blue painted on the window and door frames. I found a picture on line similar to the one my sister took. This one has the color, the unforgettable color blue that I love, but the other thing was the yellow they used with it; a flower pot with a red geranium set upon a yellow table.

Selling one loaf at a time I will see the world or I will see some of the world. I know as just part of an education I should go to Europe. I will. I know I will. But my heart longs for the exoctic far away places, places I've never even heard of.

How can I find this lake?

How is it I long for thing I know nothing about? Languages, villages, people with faces lined with the creases of working the earth and sea in order to eat.

Yet, sometimes I think the deepest travel is done without moving. My herb garden, the one that's in my head, the one that's under leaves right now. I've all ready mulched the spot with my neighbor's leaves, raking his front yard for him, loading tarp after tarp of his maple leaves and dragging them to my side yard. I said, "Henry, do you mind if I rake your front yard? I want your leaves for compost for a little garden over here on my side yard."
I think Henry may have secretly thought I was just pushing him, trying to make him clean up his yard. Oh, Henry, ye of little faith.
So my herb garden is like a vacation, a journey, a fantasy, I'll start with Jean Anthony, an herbalist out in the country, out where I used to live. I'll ask her what kind of lavender grows well here. I'll find out about some of the different varieties of thyme. Maybe that day will be in February, a sunny winter day. I won't be rushed at all, I'll take my time and visit with my Aunt Velma, too. I'll spend the time and I'll spend the money I've set aside from my business just for this.

Billy and I have a trip planned. We're going over to Arkansas for 3 days after Christmas. I'm yearning to get away and I'm yearning for these paper white narcissus here on my window sill to grow. I'm yearning for the smell of lavender, for fresh cotton sheets, for a winter afternoon, sun filtering through the shudders and that novel I've been looking for,hoping for, the one I can't wait to get lost in; and yet, I'm not. Not yearning, because this day, this rainy, dark winter morning here in my little room with Blue at my feet and a cinnamon roll waiting for me in the oven, this is enough, it's a journey in and of itself.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 15:52:00 +0000

When Billy and I first moved into our house 4 years ago I realized that neither one of us had much stuff. He'd given away lots of his furniture and stuff when Sunny, his late wife died.

And, of course, when I left Jimmy I left with nothing except a really nice piece of furniture my mother had given me. My daddy bought it at an auction back in the 40's. It had 8 coats of paint on it, but my mother knew it had to be something special if my father had paid good money for it. I remember her working on it. Paint remover, steel wool, scraper, over and over she'd say, "I just know there's something under all this paint, C.L. wouldn't have bought it if it wasn't valuable."

She eventually uncovered a walnut burl(I gotta check the spelling). A burl is that pretty part of walnut that's black and brown intertwined and very rich looking. It is a fine piece and it's in my living room.

So in order to replenish our stock of stuff we started going to estate sales. That's where I got this Santa. I think it was probably made in the 40's or 50's when ceramic Santa's were all the rage. I paid $20.00 for it and it has been worth every single penny.

Well, I got the Santa out yesterday when I was doing a "photo shoot" for my new bread company. I did one for Thanksgiving with a cinnamon roll. But yesterday when I got the camera out and started taking pictures everything was wrong.

I couldn't get the lighting right. I couldn't find a way to capture the soft aromatic goodness of hot cinnamon rolls coming right from the oven.

I was trying to get a really good picture in order to make cards for my business. I want post card size business cards, something that will give people a visual idea of what my business is all about and hopefully lure them to the web site which, thank you for asking, is www.melindshoaf.com

I just couldn't pull things together. For one thing, a friend of mine, Karen Roberts, who owns Somanest over on Highland, invited a man named David Crow, to come to her store and give a seminar. She is very persuasive. When she gave me his information she said, "You have to come, he's amazing, you can't miss this. It's important."

Well, the two day seminar cost $125.00 and I didn't really know what the heck it was about, but something told me I needed to make the effort. Something is stirring in me that's been dormant for several years. I'm going to follow it.

Karen and I made an arrangement. I'd cater the lunches so I could make a little money and promote my business.

This meant that I was to be at her shop listening to lectures about plants and healing from 10 o'clock in the morning until 6 o'clock at night. Ughh. Nothing in me wanted to do this. I was busy with other things. I needed rest. I had other commitments. I had to miss my singing group that meets on Sunday afternoons.

Not only that, but I have an aversion to sitting still and listening to someone else lecture.

But I made myself go. I don't know exactly why, but I knew there was something for me there, something important.

I'm still processing it. I'm still trying to let it all soak in. I'm still trying to find out how this information relates to me and how it will affect my life.

I hardly know where to start, except to say that this was a crash coarse on the history of essential oils. I didn't really know what essential oils were until I went to this seminar. Briefly, about 10 percent of all plants create essential oils. Within these oils, it has long been known, are microbial anitbodies that fight diseases, pests and toxins from the atmosphere. In other words, a spruce tree that lives to be 100 years old, must develop adaptive ways to survive against diseases and pests, to bolster their immune system. When we take this tree and distill these oils, we inhale or ingest microbes that also help us to bolster our own immune system.

I don't know if this makes sense or not as I'm writing it, but it made me want to get back, to go back, to learn more of ancient ways of healing.

I've hit a brick wall. I don't ever want to hurt the way I hurt the week before Thanksgiving when I woke up one morning and couldn't move my neck without excruciating, excruciating pain. I don't want that ever again. I don't want to be on modern medicines and steroids for the rest of my life. I don't a debilitating disease that keeps me from doing the things I enjoy. So I'm rethinking. I'm hoping. I'm going to try to control my arthritis with natural medicines, with acupuncture and massages, with exercise and herbal medicines. I'm getting back to the garden and it's where I belong. The website for this vast amount of information is www.floracopeia.com

It's one of the most beautiful websites I've ever seen. The whole purpose of this entire concept and undertaking is to make farming sustainable throughout the world. These essential oils are very very valuable cash crops, second only to drug crops. The oils are extremely valuable and their byproducts are all natural and are used to improve the soil as compost etc. Sustainable agriculture, community gardens, natural healing, education, purpose, just check it out. I'm going outside to rake leaves so I can compose my herb garden that I'm putting in next spring!

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 16:34:00 +0000

Last Thursday I went to the Dixon Gallery to hear a lecture by Thomas Hobbs, a famous plant person. He has an incredible eye. His latest book is Shocking Beauty. I don't even remember where I first saw the book, but I know I've seen it and studied the pictures in it. Amazing. He created something new in the world of plant design. His lecture was very funny and the slides were gorgeous, but the projectionist up in the far reaches of darkness seemed to go to sleep from time to time, nodding off at the wheel; creating blurry images in the vast black auditorium.
I was so glad I went. I offered the man some real Southern homemade Thanksgiving rolls to take back to Canada with him, but he refused, saying, "No, thank you. We have our Thanksgiving a week early in Canada. We've already had our Thanksgiving, so I really wouldn't have any use for them."

"Hmmmpf." I said, burning with shame at having offered such a gift to a stranger and at having been rejected in front of several well heeled Memphis ladies.

So I took a long cold walk through the gardens. They call them the most beautiful 17 acres in Memphis. It was cold that day and the garden reminded me of something, maybe visits to my friend Lucy's house, old house out in the country. The brick walks, ancient boxwoods, a cedar tree here and there. I can't say.
It was a good walk, a healthy walk. I shoved my hands into my pockets and pulled my shoulders in toward my chin and brooded about embarassing myself in front of the "President" of the garden club by asking the speaker if he'd like to have some of my dinner rolls as a gift. Why do I do such stupid things?
So I forgave myself on the walk and moved on. Left it. Acted all grown up. I decided I was too old to be embarassed about being myself.

And anyway, Friday was coming and I had baking to do.

That's another story-this little bread business I started. Somehow things got out of hand. I began to get stressed. I made it through the Saturday deliveries with the help of my daughter Sarah's best friend, Valerie, who not only volunteered to come and help, but insisted. She arrived at around 8:30am and stayed until it was time for her to go to the U of M game. She understands business. In fact, her mother and I were doing Christmas Bazaars in Covington way back in the 70's. I was selling my rolls then. Her mother Rosalyn went on to become extremely successful in her business and that's one reason Val understands holiday rush, packaging, deadlines and other things. Val came and understood much better than I did exactly what I was staring in the face. I finished around 5:30. I went to bed with a lot of pain in my shoulders and back. Sunday morning I woke up and tried to get out of bed. I wondered who could have put knife into my spine while I was sleeping. I couldn't move. I couldn't do anything except cry. I didn't want to go to the emergency room for obvious reasons.I didn't want to stay for hours in a cold spare room with a hard table to lie on. Plus, what were they going to do for me? I don't think they'd have given me a nerve block then and there. At least, not like the expert, renown Dr. Schnapp. But then, I worried that my doctor wouldn't see me on Monday.He runs a very tight ship and his nurses close ranks around him. I didn't know how in the world I could finish all I had to do. Sunday was a very, very bad day.
A long day too.

Monday morning I called Dr. Schnapp's office. I talke to the nurse and fortunately she discerned the terror and hopelessness in my voice. She put me on hold for a moment then returned to the line and said, "All right, Mrs. Kolb, we'll work you in." I started crying again, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."
Billy helped me to the car and off we went.

Dr. Schnapp gave me several injections and told me to quit baking. "Melinda," he said in his Brazillian accent, "why do you do this? What does this baking bread do for you? You don't have to work so hard do you?" So I told him what it did for me, what joy it gives me, and why it was important. I explained to him how strongly I feel about this little business I've started. "OK,OK,OK," he said, "it's ok, you just try not to get so stressed, ok?"

He told me to go to bed for the day and I did. On Tuesday morning I started my baking feeling much better. Because I'd felt so bad on Saturday I called most of my bread delivery people and asked if I could deliver their bread on Tuesday. But when Tuesday came I was overwhelmed. I'd been in bed for two days. I was behind. My helper Tamara wasn't able to stay the whole day and I was left with a ridiculous amount of bread to bake and deliver. I put off as much of the work as I could to Wednesday, hoping Tamara would be able to help me then.

Tamara's organizational skills at work. Label packaging ahead of time, Melinda. That will make things much easier and quicker.

She wasn't able to come until 1 o'clock and by that time I'd been baking for hours. But it was too much. I'd gotten calls late in the week and accepted orders I never should have agreed to, which put the early customers, the people I really OWED, at risk.
Tamara saved me.
Here she is late Wednesday afternoon packaging the rolls. It was a grueling day. We got into the car at about 6:30 Wednesday night to do the deliveries. She'd done all the paper work and had each person's order stacked together with their name and what they owed. When we got toward the end I asked her about my friend Kyle's order. I'd put it under her neighbor's name Charlotte. They are both dear friends from Covington. Charlotte's husband Sam was supposed to pick up the order but I didn't have it ready early enough.
I made the mistake of having Charlotte and Kyle in my head and not on the paper! I totally panicked. Then I called my friend Karen and told her what had happened. I told her I needed her order. I'd made a mistake. She laughed, just as I expected her to. "Come and get it," she said, laughing, I hope you live through this week! I'll leave it on the porch." SO! I typed her address into my GPS and off we went to her house to pick up the "goods." With the rolls and the cinnamon rolls to make the order complete I took Charlotte and Kyle's order to my nephew Will who was going to Union City for Thanksgiving and passing right through Covington. WHEW! He agreed to drop it off on his way!
But I still got the order wrong. Charlotte didn't get her Shoaf's Loaf! Sorry Charlotte!

So, I'm up this morning rehashing all the bad things about last week, all the mistakes. I'm figuring out what I want this business to be. I'm realizing that I need help. Tamara was just amazing in her ability to keep the day from falling apart.
But as my husband, the wise, Father Kolb always says: You live, you learn. And it's true. If you're gonna' move in any new direction you're gonna make mistakes.
As far as I know everyone received what they were meant to receive. Karen and Charlotte being obvious exceptions.(and Dana, my dear Dana. I gave one of her pans to someone else because I knew she'd love me anyway and understand. I owe you my friend)!

Gertie jumped up on the guest bed this morning and surveyed the damage. Plastic cinnamon roll containers left over from the Great Bread Storm of '08 were on her sleeping spot. She turned her back on me when I got the camera out. The dogs don't like this business at all. But they should be patient. They may get extra special kibbles or a trip to the dog spa if I get rich and famous.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 20:55:00 +0000

THE CAR THAT GOT AWAY

Well, some of you may realize that my last post about the car was an old one. My husband Billy knows nothing about cars except that he tries not to drive old ones.
We drive a high end Honda Accord. He paid cash for it. It's a really reliable car and has lots of power. He's had it since we met so I'd say it's about 6 years old.

From what I understand the Hondas are really long lived cars and they hardly ever break down.

I feel really bad saying it, but I don't like our car very much. It's just not me. I would never have picked it out or even looked twice at it. And the truth of the matter is, I'm not that much a car person. Or at least I don't think of myself as a car person.

I haven't even thought about cars since we married–until–last Saturday. A lady from our church was leaving. She's moving to Washington DC to live in an assisted living facility and to be near her son. She held an open house to have all her friends stop in and to say good bye. I was late getting there. Only her son and daughter remained. I was getting ready to leave after a brief visit when the daughter began talking about selling her mom's car.

OMG can you hear me say it?

Can you hear me sayin' I WANT THAT CAR!!!

Ever since Billy and I moved into our house I've been watching Margie, who lives close by, drive by our house in her shiny black Audi wagon. Margie is a classy looking lady. She's artsy, wears huge round tortoise shell glasses and sheik clothes. Her house before she moved was full of beautiful art. The car suited her. It was a perfect fit. As we were talking she told me about buying the car 10 years ago. She was driving down the street and saw it on display in the car lot and made a u-turn and bought it!

"It was love at first sight," she told me.

"I understand," I said. I did understand. That's exactly the way I felt about it.

So I was surprised when they began talking about selling it for 5 or 6 thousand dollars. Five or six thousand dollars for that beautiful car!! Just because it's 10 years old doesn't mean it's not worth more than that! (a little anthropomorphic of me isn't it)?

What I was really thinking was that I was only 6 thousand dollars away from paradise. I began calculating in my head how many Shoaf's Loaf organic freshly ground wheat berries I'd have to grind to pay for it. I tried to use caution but it was useless. I couldn't fight the little photographic demons who pasted me in the driver's seat with the sun roof back and me on a good hair day, sunglasses, lipstick, maybe even nail polish. The image was burned into my head. Now what would my bread clients think when I pulled up in their driveway in that car. They'd think, "Well she doesn't really need to be selling bread, obviously. She must be doing this because she's bored playing bridge at the Country Club or traveling to Egypt and India all the time. Aren't we lucky to have such a refined, wealthy person baking our bread." That's what they'd be saying about me delivering loaves of bread in such a car.

And it wouldn't just be the people I deliver bread to who would think such things about me. I bet some of the people at the grocery store would think similar things. Especially if I wore makeup and my one pair of expensive shoes(It's the shoes that give you away, cheap shoes, no. no.no).

I don't know what took hold of me but I must say I probably shouldn't write about it because I seem to be conjuring the same spirits up again.

When I came home to tell Billy about the car and what a great deal it was and how much I wanted it he said, "What? We don't have 7 thousand dollars right now to buy a car we don't need. We're in the middle of a depression. Do you know the stock market closed down 300 points today? We don't need to be spending that kind of money now. Do you know what could happen if we had an emergency?" He said other things but I'll spare you. You can figure them out if you try. I have my own tape of them I keep with me all the time just in case I see something ridiculous I simply have to have. Slip the tape in, listen to it a few times then no more demonic possession! Well, I'm just kidding about taping Billy talk about money. Obviously I haven't done it, but I could save both of us a lot of hot air exchanges if I did.

In all honesty I have a confession to make.
That 1980 yellow Mercedes I bought 10 years ago? ouch. No, that's OUCH!

I can hardly bring myself to think about it. It still hurts. I should have known better. The guy I bought it from was the neighbor of a woman I was doing some landscaping for. As I look back on it I should have know he was "dumping" the car on me. He was the kind of guy who'd ask me to come over and look at his back yard and talk. He was constantly talking about how he could do things on the cheap, how he was going to make his back yard into all these rooms and how much money he made as an executive out in California and other things that should have made me pause. He was a DIY guy who was never going to hire anyone to work in his yard unless he was getting a "deal." I couldn't afford to be anybody's "good deal."

But I remember the day I was working there in his neighborhood and I saw that yellow mercedes station wagon pull into his driveway it was as if I'd been hit by a thunderbolt. "Oh, man, what a car!"

Even now, from time to time I see a vintage Mercedes station wagon and long for it. There was just something about it.

In fact, I was stuck in traffic yesterday, that long train that takes a nap a couple of times a day right at the Highland and Southern crossing and a yellow Mercedes wagon zoomed right by me. It was close to a 1980 model. There were a couple of faded peace stickers on the back window and a young hippie at the wheel. I STILL want that car. It rides close to the ground and the windows are big and there are lots of them.

Now that I look back on it, the guy talked a lot about the Mercedes station wagon and what a great car it was and they he hated to get rid of it but he just didn't have room for it any more. He told me his wife complained about it being in the garage that it was in perfect condition.

Well, I bought the car. I went to the bank and they loaned me the money because they knew who I was and knew I had a landscaping business and they knew I was buying a car that was worth what I was paying for it.

I was so happy.

If you read the article about it you know how happy I was with that car.

After I'd driven it for a few weeks I started noticing a little pull in the transmission. I ignored it, of course.

When the children were home for Christmas we had a great time driving it. They loved it too. Mamie was still in college in New York, Sarah had moved back to Tennessee. Martha was still in high school. In fact, on New Year's eve she used the car to go and visit some friends. I go a call at about 8 o'clock. She said she'd started the car, put it in drive but it wouldn't go into gear.

I almost threw up. I knew it was bad news.

After the holidays and everyone went back to school I put the car on my 16 ft. trailer and hauled it down to Memphis Motor Werks where they looked at it then looked at me and said, "Why in the world did you buy this car without having us look at it first? We would have told you the transmission was going out."

That was one of the hardest lessons I've ever learned. I had to pay for a car I couldn't drive. I finally sold the car for parts for $500.00 and bought a Volvo station wagon. Those were lean times, my friends. Lean times.

A lot of things went through my mind when I was yearning for the Audi station wagon. Naturally the disaster of the yellow Mercedes was one of them. I thought about the political capital I'd be spending in my marriage if I somehow wrangled Billy into saying, "yes." I wouldn't be able to say, "You know, we need a new front door. That door is so shabby and a storm door/security door would save in the long run." or "I haven't bought a really nice skirt in three years. I just happened to see this one at Banana Republic."

I would have strapped our budget. I would have put myself in debt and under pressure to sell how many loaves of bread? How many loaves of bread would it take to buy a new car?

I stuck my lip out. I slammed cabinet doors. I with drew my affection and became silent and sullen just like I used to do when I was 6. It drove my mother crazy. But it usually worked.

Finally Billy and I had to talk about it. I didn't like the way he said "we can't afford it right now." He didn't like the fact that I wanted something and he couldn't buy it for me. His feelings were hurt. So were mine.

I had to let it go.

I've been wandering in magic land for a couple of days. I love what baking bread and starting a small business has done for my soul. All ready I feel launched. Strange. I've been earth bound.

Earlier in the week my son Sam called me from Savannah where he and Sarah live. "Mom," he said, "Uh, I've been looking at your web site. It's looks really good."

His words meant so much to me. I'm always amazed when my children pat me on the back. Not amazed at them, they're people who know how to encourage others. I'm amazed because

I know they really mean it and if Sam says my web site looks really good then, hey, I just have to take that and believe it. Like the late Vince Lombardy said, "If it's true–it ain't braggin.' "

Then he said, "I'd like to place an order. I want a loaf of bread, cinnamon rolls and some of Aunt Velma's rolls."

He even wanted to pay me!

We worked it out. He paid for the shipping(he gets a discount because he's a fedex courier).

So last night I went into the attic and got a box that had come to us recently. It was full of those awful squiggly things that are perfect for shipping frozen bread. I carefully packed the bread into the box and taped it and took it right around the corner to the fedex store on Poplar and Greer. And right about now somewhere up in the skies over America a simple little box is packed onto a plane. It's roaring through the clouds.

And this afternoon when my two Savannah children get home from work they'll have a package to open and yummy memories will overtake them. Memories of me in the kitchen and hot bread coming out of the oven.

Makes me happy, even if I don't have a very cool car.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 14:12:00 +0000

I'm a person with a rather sordid past when it comes to cars. I come from a long line of people who know nothing about automobiles. I'm reminded of Scarlett O'hara's mule when I think of my cars. I just whip, refuse to give them oil or water until finally they keel over on the side of the road.

We had an old brown Mercury. When we bought it a few years back, it was still in good shape. It was an old luxury car that was actually made in the same decade we were driving it. The Mercury soon developed a wide array of problems. The windows wouldn't go down anymore when you pushed the little buttons. The oil leaked and dripped on the engine, and smoke came into the car through the air conditioning vents. When you're choking and coughing on the fumes, it would be a perfect time to roll the windows down, that is, if the little buttons worked.

I bought a new car. Well, it's not really new. It's –how shall we say it– previously owned? For 20 years? Yes. It's a 1980 Mercedes station wagon, a diesel. I just happened to run across it in the used car section of the paper. I was looking for another Mercury when MERCEDES caught my eye in the M's.

It was one of those "must see to believe" and "mint condition" things. The minute I sat behind the wheel and heard the engine purr, I knew I had to have it.

When I'm driving in my Mercedes wagon, I can't believe my good fortune. I have a car that runs. The windows go up and down. The radio works. When I park in someone's driveway, I don't have to put cardboard under the motor to keep oil from leaking onto their nice clean concrete. I can stop at red lights or eek along in bumper-to-bumper traffic, and I don't see smoke billowing out from under my hood. Plus, the interior doesn't smell like dirty socks.

I like to think people believe I bought this car new and have just taken good care of it. They might just think that too because when I'm driving it, I assume a certain posture. My chin is up just a bit.

I've begun to see myself in a different light. In fact, I've begun to think I'm just like other people. No, I'm serious, really, no kidding.

I can walk into a bank and borrow money, eek past a credit check at Macy's, access my email and drive a car that doesn't leak oil, I must be almost normal.

I'm changing my ways. I'm changing my oil. I have my very own used car that suits me to a tee and I'm hittin' the roads. Remember, it's a yellow Mercedes station wagon. Honk if you see me. You'll recognize me. I'm the little blonde driving with my nose just a bit in the air. I'm the one who's smiling and, for a change, not blowin' smoke.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 20:20:00 +0000

When Billy and I were looking for a house we saw this one on Prescott. It's just a few doors down from where we live now. I wanted this house, but it only had one bathroom. I'd pull up into the driveway and feel so at home. I know now why I love this house so much. I mean, it's adorable and charming, but it reminds me of my friend Kyle's house. I spent so much of my childhood at Kyle's house in Covington. So, I was drawn to more than just the house. I was drawn to my own memories and longings. I was ready to be home and I couldn't find it. But driving up is this driveway made me know that home existed, that home was possible, and that I was eventually going to find it.

Gertie sometimes manages to sneak off our porch. She's deceitful and she tells stories(she's a liar). We have a gate, but if I'm not extra careful Gertie will stick her fat little nose through the corner of it and wiggle:wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, until there's just enough room for her to squeeze through. Thankfully, she never goes far away. She's only out because she likes to forage. Food is her obsession. It's all she thinks about. During the summer Angie kept a little bowl of cat food on her porch for a black cat she was trying to tame. Gertie had this little bowl of cat food in her mind always. Day and night. One day she managed to get through the gate. I don't know how long it was before I noticed she wasn't with Billy in the house.
I was frantic, running up and down the street calling her name: Gertie! Gertie!!!
After 5 minutes of total freaking out here came Gertie, calm as a cucumber and fat as a pig out of Angie's yard where she at last had gotten to eat her fill of cat food. I couldn't spank her. I had to pick her up and love on her for coming to me. But I wanted to wring her little neck. She smiled at me and licked my nose. hmmmmpf!
You can see her here with her head low trying to get to the porch before I stop her. Sorry Gertie! Not this time!

When I get the camera out the dogs scatter. They think the camera is some kind of voodoo magic machine that will turn them into a cat. Every time I try to take a picture of them it's like,"Oooh Mama's getting out the voodoo machine out again we'd better go hide."
I can't understand how that little click of the camera makes them feel so uncomfortable, but really maybe that's one way they're like us. We all change in front of a camera, we all feel exposed. Gee, I didn't realize my dogs were so intelligent! Or maybe they're just dumb.

Here is Gertie on the couch. Tell me how you really feel, Gertie. Do you like having your picture taken?

I did manage to coax Blue into standing still for just a second. You can see by his face how happy he is about it.
Blue is my dog. Gertie is Billy's dog. Isn't that strange how a dog will bond with one person and not the other?

Maybe it's us, not them. Sometimes I wonder why it is that I feel so close to Blue. He's kind of a manly dog, a mutty kind of long time ago huntin' dog. He's always hunting. He stares out the window these days, watching squirrels jumping from limb to limb in the front yard. Last week when it was still warm, I let him out the front door and he ran to his place in the corner of the porch where he puts his chin on the ledge to begin his squirrel watching. He was moving so fast and he was so fixated on a squirrel he had spotted that he jumped over the ledge and out into the front yard.

I was terrified.!! I'm always afraid he's going to forget the hard lesson he learned when he ran out across Prescott Street dashing from huge old oak tree to huge old oak tree scratching up the sides of the great trunks treeing squirrels then dashing out into the street and smashing into an on-coming truck.

He didn't forget. He remembered. I screamed, "BLUE!"

He tucked his tail between his legs and ran around to the side of the porch and back to me. Finally, this wild man knows where home is.

Blue and I take walks every day. Usually twice a day. One reason we take walks is that he follows me around in the morning staring at me, watching every move I make then cocking his head toward the door as if to say, "Isn't it time for our walk?"

I was a good mother, I guess, but I always let my children guilt trip me. I always felt guilty if I was having fun and they weren't. That just doesn't make sense if you want to have strong children.

I do have strong children but I think that's because I got pushed into a corner and had no choice but to let them go through some suffering.

I can't figure out how to do the same thing with my dogs, though.

I'm not sure I want to.

noreply@blogger.com (Melinda Shoaf) — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 16:51:00 +0000

In these troubling times I've found it necessary.....no. That's not it at all. I want to make a little money. That's all. I want to have a part time job that I enjoy and I want the satisfaction of having my own income. I've tried several directions. I actuall got hired by a landscaping firm, but just when I was supposed to start doing the design work this recession hit full steam and things have really slowed down. I'll be doing some work for that company next spring, for sure.

I had this idea about baking bread. You can read all about it. I've been working on my web site for a whole week now.

Building the site was the easy part. It's a lot like a blog. The hard part has been getting the dang thing launched onto the world wide web. First of all I went out to Apple for a one hour tutoring session on how to build a web site with their iweb program. I love my Macbook computer. I love Apple! Things are so easy. I printed my own business cards last week and I've done all my bread labels.

Anyway, my tutoring session went great. I realized that I had to buy my domain name. I went to a place called godaddy.com and typed in melindashoaf.com. Fortunately for me no one had bought my name! Isn't that amazing? No one in all these billions and billions of people on this planet wanted a website named www.melindashoaf.com. I bought that name and I bought shoafsloaf.com but I haven't activated that domain yet. (ain't I somethin' talking about domain, internet provider, sites, CNAME, and all that stuff). I won't know what half of it means in two weeks from now, but I sure know what they mean now. whew! This has been a project!

I've decided to name my bakery Shoaf's Loaf. That's what you gotta do, right? If your name rhymes with loaf, right?

This is the way I figure it. I can sell bread at the Farmer's Market once a week. I can make as much money doing that as I could with a part time job working 20 hours a week. I don't have to buy new clothes or have a car and I'll be doing my baking at a commercial kitchen right down the street from me.

I dont' have to invest any money in it except for the 50 lbs of wheat and labels and bags and stuff. I all ready have my equipment.

I'm planning on sending out emails, emails to everybody I have an address for to let them know about the site. I'm planning on baking bread for the holidays and delivering it. You can order it on line and have it delivered just in time for the holidays! Even gift baskets!

It beats sitting at a desk. I'll keep you posted. In the mean time check it out. www.melindashoaf.com

And don't worry about my blog. It won't turn into an advertisement. I'll be back, writing about how depressed I am in no time.