Carolina Dogs

South Carolinians are partial to dogs as well as their lands.

A while back an enterprising Carolina hunter got interested in the fact he'd been seeing the same looking kind of wild dog all over the Carolina hunt country for as far back as he could remember. One thing led to another and now there is a "Carolina Dog" breed.

No lie, this new-old breed is also known as the American Dingo or the Dixie Dingo. In fact, that "dingo" label isn't just chat but scientific. Seems like the dna studies say this product of natural selection is a close relative to ancient dogs of Egypt and the Australian dingo species too. Down at the University of South Carolina they are researching to establish if this Carolina Dog is or isn't a true "biological breed".

This handsome dog is recognized by the UKC and the ARBA, but not, as yet, by the AKC. One of the more interesting things the breeders say about these dogs is they are well socialized to humans but maintain undomesticated behaviors of things like pack hierarchy, communal pup rearing, (including pre-digested foods for the weanlings), and they are neat for wild creatures cause they bury their output.

Some folks call these fine looking animals the "natural" dog cause it hasn't been messed around with. As a result of this "natural" state these dogs don't have skeletal malfunctions or problems with skin and coat. They are......I love this...."unnaturally healthy" !!!!

A while back I was visiting in Aiken, SC and met a lady from the Mane Chance horse farm who also is a registered breeder of these Carolina Dogs. She was one proud lady! Loves her dogs and is fiercely discrimatory about who gets to buy em. You can't just plop down your thousand bucks and walk off with one of her pups. No siree.... you got to get vetted to your character and purpose first.

At the moment, we've got all the dogs we need at our Pond, but if ever I go about needing another dog, I just might get me one of these ancient -natural-dingo-carolina-dogs!

NATCHEZ!

Your Favorite Frank?

I was out traveling the interstate pretty early this morning. It was raining so most of the traffic was going slower, except for the truckers of course. I was traveling slower than my norm, even in the right lane for God's sake, in an effort to avoid impending carnage from truckers who apparently believe their schedule is more important than my life. The benefit of this slow right lane travel was I could watch the panorama going by and not just the traffic. I enjoy the look of the world when vision is diffused by zillions of little water molecules. It's more like looking at photography than the real world. The light is different, the cast shadows are softer, less discernible, edges are blurred; the known can look surreal.

About half way to my destination I caught a fragmented glimpse of an under construction building peeping out from the mists. That diffused vision flipped my brain over to a memory of a photograph of a Frank Lloyd Wright building. I love the brilliance of Frank Lloyd Wright, and yes I do know many of his buildings have failed or been horrific maintenance nightmares. I don't care, I love this man's work. He so beautifully understood the need for light, sky, water, earth in the human psyche he seldom created a structure without incorporating these elements. He knew so well mankind needed more than shelter from a structure. He also understood form and function , although the famous quote of "form follows function" does not belong to FLW but to Louis Sullivan.

Frank was ...just magical in his ability to balance the right and left brain aspects of design and construction. He also, obviously , was quite the salesman. By all accounts he was irascible and a difficult personality and yet he could persuade , corporate boards, review boards, municipalities, universities, churches, individuals, banks, and contractors, to get on board and pay him to create, finance his visions, and erect his images into awesome realities. OMG!!!!!!!!

So, as a mini tribute to Frank, I invite you to send photos of your favorite Frank, or if you have them to share, your favorite Frank stories. I have added a few pics for your appetizer!

Fish Art

Hello!

Please send images of fish art you enjoy.

Mute Perfection

Southern Patch

Most everybody knows Southerners have a serious relationship with their plot of ground. The size of their patch has no relevance. If it belongs to them they will nurture their patch with absolute faith the patch will return the favor.

One of my friends is the 9th generation of her family to live in these parts. She didn't stray very far, bout 50 miles from "the family place". She and her husband went off to get educated she in Biology he in Business then, got jobs, "married up", and began their joint journey. They had identical ideas on how that was to be done. They used their "wedding money" for a down payment and bought 60 acres of rolling foothills with good water. They put in a three quarter mile long , wandering, two tread, packed clay driveway and lived in an old barn while they built their "homestead". As in, they built a room at a time with their own four hands. As they could afford it. As in no bank loan was ever secured to help them realize their dream. They "saved up" and added rooms that were paid for in full by the time they were finished. I'm told they built a bathroom before building the kitchen. (The stories of living in one room and visiting the outhouse in winter while pregnant are hilarious.)

Sounds like a long time past, but actually it was just the seventies. They were then, as they are now, utterly confident in their direction and their methodologies. I've heard her say more than once, "the land always comes first".

Before they started construction on the indoor plumbing, she started her garden.
Somewhere along the way she found her knowledge as a mere Master Gardener insufficient to her need so went back for a Masters in landscape design. Her garden is more inspiring than most public ones. Her daughter was married in that garden a few years back. Southern Living magazine sent there top photographic team. That wedding album is a visual feast.

Somewhere among the years they sectioned off a parcel of their land and got it approved as a cemetery . Her son is buried there. She is comforted by the knowledge that she, like her son, will become one with their patch of sacred Southern ground. To quote her, " I draw strength from my patch ".

Another of my friends is also a multi-generation "native" of these parts. She grew up in a family of eight kids. Her family over the years have given land grants to universities and had stadiums and other structures around the region named for them. She grew up spending summers at "the club" working on new dance steps and always pursuing her next tennis match. Her husband is one of the boys from the country club days who also prided himself on knowing all the new dances and was himself a fierce tennis player. They didn't date in high school or college. He came home after graduating and winning the state tennis championship to be beaten by her on the home court, at the club, in front of all their peers. What could they do but get married, produce four fine sons and live happily ever after?

She is a very lovely, extraordinarily gracious human being. She's traveled a good bit but proudly states she has never, ever, considered living anyplace other than "home". She's always worked because she enjoys doing so. She still plays fierce tennis. She has, and continues to this day, served on numerous boards for good causes both socially and professionally. I have never seen her be anything other than confident. Ever.

Her confidence does not stem from her financial security or her impeccable wardrobe or her successful marriage or her delightful sons or her wicked serve.
It comes from her sense of belonging to a place. That oneness with a place is her keystone. She is a person who will drive a good bit out of her way to visit a tree "she's known her whole life" so as to not miss seeing her friend, the tree , dressed out in full fall splendor.

I treasure these women and our friendships. I begrudge them not a single blessing but, truth to tell, I envy them. Well, to be accurate, I envy their sense of place.

I am one of those people who always thought I would belong to one place, but it wasn't to be. My family began moving when I was in elementary school. Before moving here, I had resided in one town for 17 years. That is the longest I've ever lived in one place. In that place I'd sunk my tap root pretty deep and the transplant to here didn't go very well.
My spirit nearly perished.

I was aided in this transition somewhat by my fine old house. It is situated in a very beautiful old Southern neighborhood with interesting architectural diversity. Grand ancient oaks, elms, and maples grace most of these properties. My views out the windows are of broad lawns, beautiful gardens and charming people walking their dogs. Our family is only the second to own this architect designed, war built house of 1943 vintage. The original owners hail from revered families in these parts with ancestors who served in the cabinets of various administrations and filled senate seats at state and national levels. Nice, give back to their community folks with a great sense of gratitude for their many blessings and much love for their fellow man. I still encounter people who say," Oh I know who you are, you live in the so and so's house." I like to think it's MY house, but around here it will always be known as the so and so's house.

I am grateful for my acre of so and so's Southern splendor.
I eventually learned to let go of the 17 year place and grab hold of this one. Which I now love. I have been claimed by the investment of self in this patch and I will hate the day I have to move away. I hope that day will never come.
My new fear is a changing America will also change my chances of ever having my forever place. That I will again be separated from my anchoring patch.
How am I to withstand the horrific changes to my country; to maintain perspective, if I have no sustaining retreat to buffer me from the bigger reality? If I have no place to claim me , to hold me securely, might I be redistributed?

El Dia De Los Artistas!

I spent the Day of the Dead with one of my favorite clients. I traveled to her city for an art event with more than a hundred regional artists opening up their studios to this tour co-ordinated by their arts council. We started down in a yet to be reclaimed "historic" district of this fine old Southern city. Artists brave the risks inherent to the location because studio space in these old buildings is cheaper. Some are large enough to be artist co-ops with a dozen or more artists sharing the building, each with their own little creative kingdom within. At the start of the day, I found the buildings more interesting than the art, so the tour, for me, was not about personal response.

Art is a messy business and my first impressions were not of the art but of the efforts many had put forth to make these work spaces a bit more presentable to the public. Again, I was focused on the space, rather that the contents of the spaces. Then, at the first painting studio we visited , I sniffed the air like a Bassett Hound...and was reminded of my student days in a fine Arts college where the pungent smells of creating art were dominant. Those scents ( aroma therapy?) triggered my brain away from my purpose of finding art for my client, away from thinking about the buildings, away from my current self of business and back to the self who pursued a path because of love of art.

Over the course of the day we found some great, good, mediocre, poor and pseudo art of all disciplines and mediums. I engaged in rewarding conversations with artists and overhead disturbing conversations wherin artists were forced to acknowledge, if not accept, the judgements of others. I found, as the day progressed I was just amazed by the incredible courage of artists. Imagine how difficult it must me to have THE PUBLIC! come into your heart, mind, soul and offer up their opinions of their findings! I quake at the thought!

There was no question hearts, minds, souls...the very core of these creative beings were on display.

One painting was of a fractured woman with her bits and pieces connected via random scripted words which ,when read in the correct order, told a heart wrenching tale of love betrayed. The artist of this work was not present, she had hung out her angst for viewing but declined to stand and face the public. How could she do this? My prayer for her is that in so doing she has lessened her grief.

In yet another gallery in a shabby back corner we encountered huge paintings of light and joy like I have never seen! I looked around at the studio itself with it's grimed windows of yesteryear and wondered HOW can someone paint light so beautifully when light is so spare here? The answer is of course the light source resides in the artist's soul. Bless him! Having met his proudly smiling wife and his tiny infant son, I think this artist has much to celebrate and much to share!

When I entered a studio where the official greeter was an aged yellow lab my expectations rose, and I was not disappointed. Here a person of amazing vision uses...bailing wire?...to create life sized sculptures of animals, birds, plants.
The centerpiece in the gallery was of a gracefully jumping horse, her expression eager, her form perfect , her mane and tail breezing from her gallant speed, her spread wings giving her the extra lift needed for the journey ahead. I fought hard to keep my legs beneath me and used every muscle possible to keep my face from squeezing into a fist of agony. My visceral response to this art was so huge, so sudden, so overwhelming I was a bit disoriented until the sweet, wise, gentle yellow lab came to help me though the moment. Once I was ...recovered?... I verbalized my admiration to the artist who said her work was much improved once she gave up trying to "make it" as an artist and began to create "what nurtured her".

The day, for me, was a present. A shining gift beyond measure. On this Day of the Dead, something important was awakened in me and so defied death.
I am awed by the personal bravery of artists. I marvel at the generosity of spirit of these creators of response. I am not sure it will remain true for all my years, but for this year, Novemer 1st will be remembered as El Dia De Los Artistas!