The Next Year People

Most often, I don't have a clue who reads my blog.  I am not tech-savvy or market-minded; I just write and post.  When I sign-in to compose a new post, I naturally take notice of blog views; however, I don't understand what makes one post really popular and another post less successful.  If I over-think the process, I start to second guess my purpose ~ which has always been to write today's big story for The Tomorrow Trunk.

Still, I do know the identities of a few of my readers; they are my friends and family. They are the followers who don't technically follow me at all.  They simply read my blog on occasion and then call me afterwards to ask a question, make a comment, give a compliment, or correct my punctuation. After my most recent post about My Last Best Nest, one question was on the minds of everyone who called:  When and where are you planning to build?  While I am still unsure about the where part of the question, I am hopeful that the when answer is next year.   "If everything goes as planned, we hope to start building next year," I replied again and again.

That post dated November 15th. Three days later, on November 18th and 19th, I watched the Ken Burns' documentary, The Dust Bowl, which aired on PBS.  To my knowledge, I have never missed a Ken Burns' documentary on PBS, and I have never been disappointed.  I am convinced that great storytelling is not just telling a great story.  To me, great storytelling is the ability to transfer ownership of the story so that a shift occurs.  Any storyteller can assimilate and deliver facts, interviews, and images through a  medium of choice; however, the great storyteller understands the conductivity of the story.  The great storyteller uses his medium as a conduit ~ a connective channel that harnesses the power and potentiality of the story and streams it through the corridors of time.  Ken Burns has an amazing ability to bring a present-day relevance to a historical past ~ at full strength.

I always watch a Ken Burns' documentary with a journal or notebook at hand, and I have pages of quotes from each one.  The Dust Bowl tells the story of great ambition, a great drought, and the great suffering that followed during the 1930's on the Southern Plains. So much of the story revolves around the unwillingness of the farmers to accept their situation as hopeless, even though their money-making wheat crops turned into monster-making dust clouds. In the first episode, these farmers referred to themselves as "next year people" ~ so nicknamed because they were steadfast in their belief that the rain would come next year.

In one interview, Ken Burns states that "next year people" portrays a sense of sort of stoic American frontierism.  It also represents a kind of stubborn resistance to change....I think "next year people" is a double-edged sword.  I like the ambiguity of  it. The hard-core "next year people" who stuck it out endured and survived a cataclysmic drought which lasted ten years and which also included plagues of rabbits, grasshoppers, black blizzards, and death.  Driven by a false assumption of plenty, the farmers held onto the belief of perpetual returns no matter how much they overworked the land. Ken Burns calls the dust bowl "the greatest man-made disaster in American history."

In a National Geographic interview, Burns addresses their denial mentality. We always think, "My house value will always increase. The stock market will always go up. If I just make this deal, if I just expand here, everything will work out fine."  And then we have this foolish thinking that "rain follows the plow" ~ that the act of cultivation actually increases rainfall or that (the climate) has undergone a permanent change ~ which is just insane. It's the same idiotic nonsense that we tell ourselves to convince ourselves that our hopes for the future are the same as the reality of the future.

I have never experienced a dust bowl; but I have endured many of my own man-made storms. I am one of those "next year people" who, at times, has "hoped against hope" ~ which is to hope for what we can not see. The philosopher Frederick Nietzche denounced  this kind of hope as a malady ~ an affliction of the worst kind.  According to Nietzche, "Those who suffer must be sustained by a hope that can never be contradicted by any reality or disposed by any fulfillment ~ a hope for the beyond."  He references a lesson from Greek mythology which teaches us that "hope is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of Man and because of its ability to keep the less fortunate in continual suspense."

And yet...I always have hope; I am afflicted to the core.  No matter what Herculean task I face, I do so with a Herculean hope.  Just this past weekend, I heard my Herculean husband express hope with one short phrase, "Maybe next year."

I understand the "next year people" and their denial mentality.  While Ken Burns calls it the "idiotic nonsense that we tell ourselves to convince ourselves that our hopes for the future are the same as the reality of the future", I tend to side with Merriam-Webster who defines hope as "to cherish a desire with anticipation; to expect a certain outcome with confidence."  Mr. Webster also reminds us that the antonym of hope is despair.

Dr. Barbara L. Fredrickson, a professor at the University of North Carolina, states that "hope literally opens us up...removes the blinders of fear and despair and allows us to see the big picture, thus allowing us to become creative and have belief in a better future."

That's exactly what happened to the "next year people" of the dust bowl. They survived because of fearless abandon, unrelenting tenacity, and creative solutions.  They experienced nature's harshest punishment upon this country, and they feared at times that God Himself had unleashed His judgement upon the entire Southern Plains.  As they waited for the rains to return, their losses were all-consuming.  Still, they did not lose hope. The Bible proverb states, "Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life."

One of the earliest references to hope is found in the story of Pandora's Box (or Pandora's Jar).  The story of Pandora is a fascinating Greek myth which tells of the "pithos" or box that contained all the punishment of mankind for stealing the fire of Zeus.  Even though she receives the box as a gift, Pandora is instructed to never open the box.  Unfortunately, her curiosity could not be tamed. In the end, she opens the box and unleashes great evil upon the world ~ hate, anger, poverty, sickness.  Yet, at the very bottom of the box, Zeus had placed a small hope.  Because Pandora hastened to close the box, hope remained trapped inside.

I have my own version of that tale.  I am confident that in years to come, my children or my children's children will also have the curiosity to open The Tomorrow Trunk.  In the trunk, they will find many stories of  struggle, survival, success, and selective insanity; however, if they look deep enough, at the very bottom of the trunk, they will find hope. Cartoonist Charles M. Schulz once wrote, "A whole stack of memories will never equal one little hope."

So...when do I plan to build My Last Best Nest?

Next year...I hope.

Dianne ; )

My Last Best Nest, Part Two

In all the places we lived, my husband cleared thousands of hedge bushes. While most men jumped on a big machine and leveled rows of unwanted hedge in an afternoon, he carefully removed them with his own sheer strength and determination ~ one by one ~ which usually took years.  On the Hundred Acre Farm, he cleared hedges for four years, until the property paralleled a manicured golf course.  He cut away hedges from around ponds, along fence lines, and underneath trees; but, the one thing I remember most about all that hedge labor was the gift of the bird nests.

After a long day of clearing hedge, David would always meet me at the campsite situated by one of the three ponds on the property.  On hot summer days, we sat underneath the shade trees and shared ice cold water, sweet tea, and big dreams.  On cold winter days, we warmed by a fire of hickory and oak with a cup of coffee and hot chocolate.  After a short break, he was anxious to show me what he had accomplished during the day.   Then he would say, almost as an afterthought, "Oh yeh, I found you something."

Sometimes he pulled it out of his coat, or laid it on the dashboard or tailgate of his truck, or left it on a fence post for me to find at the cleared area. The something was a bird's nest in perfect condition, completely unharmed by the removal process.  My husband knew that I embraced the fact that the even the smallest of homes was regarded during his painstaking enterprise.  The bird's nest was his way to impress...and it always worked ~ every single time.

Upon observation, I could tell that each nest was literally "a graphic mirror of the bird's mind."  No two nests were ever just alike.  The larger nests looked like baskets ~ crude, flat, and loosely woven with twigs. These nests barely held together once removed from the branches that supported them.  Other nests resembled tiny crocheted cup holders.  These detailed nests were composed of grasses, horse hair, feathers, mosses, lichen, and various gathered materials.  Each component was intertwined and fused together with such heart and soul, that the nest itself could not be torn apart.  The attention to detail and the appointed placement of each necessary furnishing rivaled any perfectly staged home.  These miniature prototypes set the standard for my last best nest.

So...my husband and I set out on a nest-making mission.  First, we made a list of the utilitarian must-haves for our last best nest.  We both wanted a cozy nest that's big enough for two with a wood-burning fireplace. We wanted three porches: a front porch for rocking, a screened-in or sleeping porch for reading and resting, and a back porch for reminiscing.  I requested a dedicated library for all my books, and David listed a separate tool shed/garage.  Neither of us wanted another two-story house with stairs to climb.  Perhaps, most importantly, we desired a natural habitat which provided concealment and privacy...just like the tiny bird nest hidden in the hedge.

After months of scavenging, we found our last best nest ~ Southern Living's Banning Court. The only missing component was the separate two-car garage/tool shed, which could be easily attached.

One, two, three porches...a fireplace...a library (now who can believe that!)...one story ~ room for two. Thanks to Pinterest, I have pinned 177 ideas on My Last Best Nest board to date.  Check it out!  

http://pinterest.com/dmclaurin59/my-last-best-nest/

As my husband and I looked at possibilities for the garage attachment, he could sense my excitement.  The male just knows that the female loves to build nests!  He smiled and said,"Well, maybe I can impress you one last time with a perfect little nest."

And to some good angel leave the rest ~ to be continued...

Dianne ; )

My Last Best Nest, Part One

TODAY'S BIG STORY:  Even if it is empty, your last nest should be your best nest! For the past few days, I have been studying the concept of an 'empty nest'.  My three small children are three grown adults, my house is empty, and my calendar is blank. Every member of my family is now gainfully employed, with one exception:  ME.  My hectic life that was filled with constant interruptions is now hushed, and the all-consuming days of continual sowing and gathering have, at last, yielded a grateful harvest and an empty nest. 

Caliology is the study of birds' nests, and the subject is fascinating! According to a book entitled Birds' Nests: An Introduction to the Science of Caliology, "the bird's nest is the most graphic mirror of a bird's mind."  What an amazing thought!  I have had an endearment for birds' nests since I was a little girl growing up in the country.  On Sunday afternoons after lunch, my aunt would take the nieces and nephews on a 'hike', as she termed it.  We would walk past my grandpa's sheds, which provided a craftsman's lesson in primitive and resourceful nest-building.  First we passed a combination wash house/smoke house.  Then we usually made a stop at Grandpa's tool shop and the feed crib. We also passed a potato bank, which was actually built on the side of an embankment and served as a storm pit during bad weather.  Behind the potato bank was a chicken house where the chickens roosted at night.

When we arrived at the bottom of the sloped pasture, we meandered around a huge oak tree onto a small cattle lane.  We walked over a shallow creek and around a densely wooded area ~ always watching for snakes.  The purpose of the expedition was to find something interesting to discuss and hopefully bring home.  I remember finding wild violets, fossilized rocks, and bird feathers.  We studied animal tracks, and we identified trees by their leaves; however, when we spotted a bird's nest, the trip was golden.  Of course, we were never allowed to touch a nest.  Aunt Hilda warned us that the mother bird would not return to a nest that had been touched by human hands; and, as young children, we believed every word Aunt Hilda said.

In the Birds' Nests book, written in 1902 by Charles Dixon, I discovered too many quotes to post; however, this quote is one of my favorites:  "There are, perhaps, few things in nature more exquisitely pretty than the nests of certain birds; not only do these structures appeal to us through their beauty, but still more so through the creative mind of the little architects that build them." 

And yet, despite all their beauty, birds' nests are built for utilitarian purposes only.  "When once these purposes are served, the nest, no matter how elaborate or beautiful it may be or the immense amount of labour it may have cost its owners, is forthwith deserted, either forever or only used again when the recurring necessities of reproduction require it."  How we humans identify with the patterns of our winged counterparts.  I have traveled so many rural highways which are dotted by architectural masterpieces ~ beautiful decaying family homes which have been deserted by their owners because the utilitarian purpose of child-rearing had passed. "Like the gaudy chrysalis or cocoon, and notwithstanding its beauty, which has served but a secondary and quite unappreciated purpose, it is discarded and left to inevitable decay, its owners taking no interest in it whatever."

I fully understand the portion of the quote, "only used again when the recurring necessities of reproduction require it."  When our son ~ the youngest of our three children ~ graduated from high school, my husband and I decided to sell the big house.  Right about the same time, Zoe, our corgi, had seven puppies.  The family that was interested in the big house had five small children under the age of nine. They had found their perfect nest.  Not only did the family want to buy our house, they also wanted Zoe's puppies.  By the time we closed on the sell of the house, the puppies were old enough to be separated from their mother.  Just days before we moved, we carried our corgi to the local vet to have her spayed.  On the morning of moving day, Zoe and I were watching the sunrise one last time from our front porch perch.  She was resting at my feet, and I noticed her scar.  All those "recurring necessities of reproduction" that had been required of us were passed, and we were both relaxed and relieved.

Birds' nests are usually built for two purposes:  laying eggs and raising young birds. The bird's nest is a place of incubation (warmth), protection, and instruction.  The momma bird in me is confident that each one of our many nests has provided some, if not all, of the above.  In our nesting attempts, we built brand new nests, refurbished the nests of others, and even returned to our old nests ~ twice.  But now, my nest is empty.  All of my little birds have nests of their own making in habitats of their own choosing.

According to Wikipedia, the ability to choose and maintain good nest sites and build high quality nests is a female thing among most bird species.  I know this is true for most humans as well.  My two daughters searched out their nesting sites and have taken great care in building their first nests.  They have chosen awesome paint colors, restored furniture, purchased just-the-right accessories, and created their very own HGTV-worthy nests; however, my son rents a third-floor nest which includes a couch that folds out into a bed, two stools at the bar (actually one is still in the box), a television stand, and a 42" plasma television.  In some species, the male helps with nest construction as part of the courtship display, but only for the attention of the female.  Where there is no courtship, the male bird is content with the most rudimentary nest, and in most cases, does not make even the slightest provision for nest building.  Sounds like a third-story Matt-cave!

But what's a momma bird to do with an empty nest? Finding the answer to that question was difficult.  Nests that are not specifically used for breeding are called 'dormitory nests or roost nests (winter-nest)' and are used 'only for roosting or resting'.  I think a know the human equivalent to dormitory nests, and I am not interested just yet.  I want a winter-nest ~ a roost nest ~ a nest for sitting, reading, resting, lodging, and sleeping.

In his poem It Is Not Always May, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote the following:

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth,

To some good angel leave the rest;

For Time will teach thee soon the truth,

There are no birds in last year's nest!

With the help of some good angel, I am ready to build my last best nest

 ~ to be continued...

Dianne ; )