Bears Unrest

Heading up the driveway in my truck this afternoon, the folks who live at the bottom of the gravel road came out with some news.

“They brought down two bears this morning,” said Bill.

I knew what he meant. “They” referred to hunters with packs of hound dogs and 4x4 ATV’s. “Brought down” meant the bears were shot dead, then brought down Fork Mountain, their wide torsos limp across the back of a vehicle, paws flopping over the sides.

“It’s that time of year again,” I told Bill.

“I know. I don’t approve of it. Not that way, at any rate, but the hunters said they found a few bears’ dens and ran them down the mountain. They shot two of them, but a few more hurried off and are likely roaming nearby.”

“Ok,” I told him. I said a silent prayer then that all the bears might find the 34 acres I live on and take refuge there until the end of hunting season. There are bobcat, black bear, deer, weasel, opossum, raccoon, birds of prey, and more up here. I see evidence of them increasingly this time of year.

“They always seem to forget that it’s the bears’ territory up there,” said Bill, waving his hand up the mountain. “Go messing around enough and you can bet the bears are going to get wrassled up, come down the mountain to get away from all the dogs…trouble is, it’s not going to be any better for them once they get down here.”

I nodded, then headed up the mountain with a honk and wave, leaving Bill in an unfortunate cloud of fumes from my, oops, really old truck. I don’t judge those who hunt deer to feed their families, but killing a bear has always felt sacreligious to me. I think of Old Ben in William Faulkner’s “The Bear,” which I could not find to quote for tonight’s post, but those who have read the famous story know what I mean.

In anticipation of tomorrow’s Halloween, may it be Night of the Living Bears, rather than a continuation of today’s deaths.

*            *            *

Searching for “The Bear,” I came across two provocative quotes from William Faulkner:

In an interview with The Paris Review in 1956, Faulkner remarked, "Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut. The young writer would be a fool to follow a theory. Teach yourself by your own mistakes; people learn only by error. The good artist believes that nobody is good enough to give him advice. He has supreme vanity. No matter how much he admires the old writer, he wants to beat him."

And another quote: “My own experience has been that the tools I need for my trade are paper, tobacco, food, and a little whisky.” [What about a pen?]

Linda Flowers Literary Award Night: Photos and Update

Two weeks ago, I was privileged enough to be recognized at an awards reception sponsored by the North Carolina Humanities Council. I received the Linda Flowers Literary Award for fiction and was honored on stage before the keynote award recipient, Marsha White Warren, was honored as this year’s Caldwell Laureate. As promised at the time, here are the press photos I received today that I would like to share.

Many talented artists made offerings that evening as a part of the reception, including poet Jaki Shelton Green, actress Joyce Grear, U.S. Congressman David Price, Professor Reginald Hildebrand, and humanities guru Doris Betts.

[Group photo]

The 2007 Caldwell Laureate, Emily Herring Wilson, honored me by describing Linda Flowers’ vision and inspiration and making special mention of the ways in which my fiction echoes that vision.

[Emily and myself on stage]

Next to graduation from my MFA in Writing at Pacific University, this very special evening marked one of the most supportive moments of my life as a writer. I found myself in an auditorium full of people who care about, invest in, and contribute to the humanities in an engaged way—many of them for a lifetime. Of course, the only people happier than me were my parents, posing here as the photographer asked us for a family photo:

[Schultz family]

As an endnote to the award, the local paper ran a lovely article about it this week. Likewise, I had a phone conference this afternoon with the executive director of NCHC, who explained the details of the residency I am given as a part of the award. In addition to the award cash prize and publication, the council has offered me $250 in gas and food expenses to cover the costs of a one-week residency at Weymouth Center for the Arts & Humanities in Southern Pines. I learned today that I can actually stay at this residency for up to one month free of cost (supporting my own food needs beyond the $250) if I schedule in advance. I couldn't be happier!

Morning Light

[Sorry my posts have been in the morning rather than the night I compose them. I have had internet connection problems all week.]

This time of year, I wake to the sunrise. With floor-to-ceiling south-facing windows in my bedroom, I shut the alarm off, sit up in bed, and spend the first few minutes of my day watching the world wake up.

Some mornings, it’s still a hushed gray along the horizon. Others, full pinks spread across the rim of mountains. But always, there is a moment of metamorphosis between night and day. Like a flower slowly opening its petals, it happens step by step yet—all of the sudden—it appears in full bloom. So it is that the morning’s light finds its way into the lower field…

…then up the steep sides of Fork Mountain…

…finally into the fullness of another fall day.

Story of the Sai

In preparation for my upcoming sankyu (brown belt) test, Hanshi introduced me to the sai last week. This ancient martial weapon takes after an agricultural tool used for planting seeds. The long, middle spear was pressed into the soft soil, allowing a farmer to easily deposit a seed where it needed to go. When the Japanese invaded Okinawa during feudal times, they not only made physical invasions but made thorough attempts to destroy Okinawan culture as well.

[Hanshi loaned me his personal set of sai this week, so that I can practice Taikyokyu Sai, an ancient martial weapons form.]

The first thing the Japanese did after gaining control in Okinawa was demand that everyone hand over their weapons. There remained only one communal knife in each village and it was chained in a public place where it was accounted for daily. This knife could be used by famers to slaughter animals but could never be removed from its central location.

As a means of continuing their martial arts, Okinawans began developing kobudo kata, or ancient martial weapon forms. What we call a bo staff today (looks like a broom handle without the broom head) was used to carry buckets of water and grain, as farmers slung the bo over their shoulders, a bucket dangling from either end. What we call the sai (or trident, though that’s not quite the same) was used for planting seeds. There are other agricultural tools adopted as martial weapons, each with its own story.

The Okinawans weren’t the only culture that had to adapt to invasions, preserving certain aspects of their culture in secret. As they trained in hidden meeting grounds, later other people such as the Maori and the Hawaiians adapted their martial arts to disguise intent. Study the Maori arts and you’ll see a lot of percussive slapping and shifting, making their forms look like a tribal dance. In fact, a slap was often an elbow break or a head slap into a knee. Study Hawaiian Lua (which evolved into the tame, touristy Hula) and you’ll find an ancient art of bone breaking so brutal that tribal members could sever every limb from an invader’s body without the use of a single weapon.

Taikyokyu kata is a basic form that can be practiced with or without weapons. It fends off 8 imaginary attackers in 22 moves with an embushen (blueprint) in the shape of the Roman numberal “I”. As I moved in crescent steps across the tatami (mat) tonight, charting my path along an imaginary “I” helped me remember where to place my feet next. Hanshi’s soft-toned coaching from the sides helped me remember the moves (“Furl, now theory. And step, jab, furl, yes…Repeat. Go back where you came…now furl, hold the crane stance…and theory…”).

I like thinking about the history of such a form as I make the movements. It’s not that I focus on the violence of it—hardly. But moving in such a precise, principled way across the mat in a series of movements 1,000 years old conjures its own sort of energy. When I work any karate form long enough, my mind and body become one and it’s at this juncture that I can understand why a culture might go to such extremes to preserve these ancient forms. The harmony of breath and movement does more than mimic spiritual ascendance, for brief moments it actually makes such ascension seem possible.

Pepito Vivant!

Pepito, the French feral King of Fork Mountain, survived the inhospitable gash behind his right ear in addition to hunkering down through our first snow of the season. While it’s true that I have seen him since the initial injury one week ago (Swooping barred owl? Rusty barbed wire? Mangy hound dog?), I was concerned that he would not be able to clean his own wound given its location. He presented himself today in full sunlight, fully preened and looking quite healthy if I do say so myself.

I suppose by now I shouldn’t be surprised by this cat’s vitality. He survived a year on the mountain without human assistance. At some point during that year, his ear was mauled and is now folded in half with an awkward seam of skin. Last week’s mauling was another one of his nine lives, as they say, but I can tell Pepito has a lot left in him.

[In a rare moment of immodesty, Pepito poses on Fork Mountain.]

Let this blog post serve as an official call for adoption. To all my local readers: I will be moving in January and fear that leaving Pepito on Fork Mountain at the peak of winter will be unfair, to say the least. If you need a low-maintenance barn cat, Pepito is your…man. If you adopt this cat, I’ll even deliver him to your barn door with a full-sized bag of cat food.

Advantages to adoption:

1.      Mouse and squirrel population control. (Crawl space, barn, wood shed, tool shed.)

2.      Cultural diversity. (Pepito, like all cats, is French. We don’t get enough culture around here.)

3.      Good karma.

4.      Cost-free other than food. (Pepito is wild and self-sustaining. I have him hooked on cat food, sure, but he’s made it perfectly clear that his ultimate preference is to remain unseen and do the quiet, wild work of cats with as little human interference as possible. In other words: No trips to the vet required.)

If I can find a willing adoptee now, I will begin putting his food in a cat kennel so that he has to enter the kennel in order to eat. When it comes time for me to leave in January, I’ll feed him one day and then close the door. Then I’ll drive him to his new home—a scary venture for him, I’m sure, but better than being inexplicably cut off from your food supply at the peak of winter.

My only other option is the animal shelter, which I find perfectly suitable except for the fact that Pepito’s deformed ear would probably prevent him from being adopted. Please leave a comment here if you would like more information about Pepito, the King of Fork Mountain.

Sweet, Salty, 'n' Spicy Harvest Bake

Sweet, Salty, ‘n’ Spicy Harvest Bake

Today I baked one of my favorite fall feasts that also happens to be just about the easiest thing to throw together on a lazy Sunday afternoon. Using all local, organic root veggies and squash, this year’s version of my Harvest Bake included the following (in rough estimates):

1 purple potato

1 jewel sweet potato

1 delicata squash

2 gold potatoes

6 cloves garlic

2 golden delicious apples

1 large handful chopped walnuts

Chopping each of these into pieces no larger than the size of a caramel chew, I then tossed them into a bowl with the following additions to taste:

Canola oil

Real maple syrup

Cayenne pepper

Sea salt

Cloves

Cinnamon

Before everything went into the oven, the ingredients presented themselves as a perfect array of fall colors:

[Harvest Bake, 2010]

The results were tasty, to say the least, but if any readers feel inspired to try this at home, here are a few suggestions: Cut the apples largest because they cook fastest. Use fewer cloves of garlic. Add beets and/or turnips. And for the truly decadent, instead of walnuts use pecans and pumpkin seeds.

Bake in uncovered glass pan at 350 degrees for 40-55 minutes, stirring every 20 minutes. Enjoy!

Bird Attack: Follow Up Letter

Dear Andrew Bird fans,

I relatively new Writing Life reader recently contacted me about the my post the day after I saw Mr. Bird perform live in Asheville, North Carolina. After a week of posts about his music, including a countdown to the actual performance, I then failed to put words to the experience and left a number of you hanging. Since then, I have only been able to ask myself “Why?”

Two reasons: One, I had a difficult time with the audience at that particular show, many of whom were underage, chatty, and (god help them all) TEXTING each other during the show. One girl stared at her boyfriend the entire time with her back to the stage. I won’t tell you what that made me want to do…Second, and most importantly, I have now accepted my own deep level of obsession with the evolution of Mr. Bird’s music and will settle for nothing less than a perfect essay portraying the experience of seeing him live.

I need more psychological distance from the live experience and I need more facts. In short, I’d like to go on the road with him for a show or two before really feeling like I could write such an essay. To that end, I wrote to his manager this afternoon in what may have been either a) the most foolish move of my freelance career or b) the most brilliant. I am fully aware of my own ridiculousness and have decided that I have nothing to lose. Here’s an excerpt of what I had to say:

“First, I'd like to send Mr. Bird a pair of socks His sock had a hole in it during the show at The Orange Peel and it kept snagging on the pedals as he was performing. What is a current address for such an on-the-road gift?

Second, and quite seriously, I would like to speak with you about writing an essay about the evolution of Andrew's music. I am, to put it mildly, obsessed. One example: After the release of The Mysterious Production of Eggs, I studied it so intensely that the characters in my dreams only spoke to each other in Andrew Bird lyrics for two weeks straight. I realize this is over the top, but I can't think of a more revealing example to demonstrate the level of my interest in this man's work.

I further realize that obsession is not a qualifying factor to write such an essay, so perhaps it would help to explain that in addition to being an Andrew Bird fan, I am a professional writer. I write essays about the creative process for national magazines, specializing in contemporary American craft. For literary journals, I write personal essays and short stories. As someone who putzes around with music, I came from a Suzuki background and have therefore been enjoying and studying Andrew's music through that lens since I first heard him in 2005...

It's difficult to explain in an informal email why I think I could write a killer essay about Andrew's music, but at the heart of the matter is this: I want to see a well-written, well-researched, relatable, informative essay out there on the creative genius of Andrew Bird and I want to be the one to write it. Period.

Considering this is perhaps the first query letter I have ever sent to a musician's manager, and definitely the first query letter I have ever sent that also included an offer for a pair of socks, I can only hope to get a reply and embark on a more specific conversation…”

Here’s hoping for a reply, my friends, and thanks—as always—for reading these forays from the Blue Ridge to the odd inner workings of my brain. I’ll keep you posted.

Chirp Chirp,

Katey

Helping Hands

The Blue Ridge may not be the best place for me to meet like-minds when it comes to politics and religion, but it sure is the place to have your vehicle break down. Two days ago, the harmonizing cap on my Volvo went (an easy fix but a hassle at the time). As dad and I wrestled with the belts and tried the tricks we knew, at least half a dozen cars must have stopped to see if we needed help.

Just yesterday on my way to nannying, the morning fog and sunlight were so beautiful I pulled over to take a picture. High enough up on Roan, and a clear day with enough leaves off the trees affords a perfect view of the Black Mountains, which are 30 miles away. I used to live around 3,000 feet in that range and it’s where my parents live now.

[The Black Mountains are the highest range east of the Mississippi, with Mount Mitchell (to the very far left) being the highest.]

In the short time it took me to walk up the road and snap a few pictures, two people stopped to ask if I was having car trouble. One woman, a nurse in white scrubs on her way to the hospital, smiled when I told her why I stopped.

“Yes M’am,” she said. “It’s just the most beautiful morning. My husband and I had to walk down to the creek this morning just to get enough of the fog and light.”

That afternoon, I arrived home to a busy driveway—quite uncommon since my closest neighbor is a beagle named Little Sam who lives ½ a mile away. But there at the end of the road were two cars, a truck, and my own car and truck. Then Pennie the mail carrier showed up and we had what might have constituted a quorum of Cook Town Road (Little Sam included).

Apparently sometime that morning, a perfectly healthy locust tree threw itself across the road, nearly taking out the neighbor’s tool shed. If their extra car had been parked in its usual spot, the branches would have snapped right over its roof. Nobody was hurt and my arrival coincided with the precise moment a local lumberman was bucking through the last rounds with his chainsaw.

[Photo from bottom of my driveway.]

I hopped out of my truck and helped him roll the rounds aside, then we stacked some of the wood he had already split. With a honk and a wave, I rattled up the rest of the road, thankful for the 4x4 wheels beneath me. It’s nice to live in a place where strangers help each other without fear or mistrust, where “M’am” and “Sir” are respectful terms rather than titles specific to an older generation, and where when it’s all said and done, there’s enough peace and quiet for everyone one of us up in these hollers at the close of the day.

The Yellow Brick Road

For the past several days, I have been pondering the symbol of the yellow brick road. I finish nannying about the time the sun is straight overhead. On a clear day, the sunlight is buttery yellow and the forest is aflame with yellow tulip poplars. I drive to the end of my road, park my car beneath a towering oak tree, and hop in my old Ford truck for the rest of the trek.

It’s that final ½ mile on the rugged road that’s got me humming from the Wizard of Oz: Follow the Yellow Brick Road. Follow the Yellow Brick Road. 
Follow, follow, follow, follow, 
Follow the Yellow Brick Road. Days like today, the yellow leaf road of Fork Mountain seems a symbol of hope and inspiration.

But this golden vein has also been notarized as a symbol of capitalism, as per Elton John’s top hit written by Bernie Taupin. Here, the road leads to a society that misunderstands the well-intentioned, hard-working farmer. The golden lure of the moneyed life is presented as something to overcome in his simple tale:

So goodbye yellow brick road

Where the dogs of society howl

You can't plant me in your penthouse

I'm going back to my plough

Back to the howling old owl in the woods

Hunting the horny back toad

Oh I've finally decided my future lies

Beyond the yellow brick road

[cue falsetto…]

Later, rap star Eminem gave us his own interpretation, in his song titled “Yellow Brick Road”:

So lets go back

Follow the yellow brick road as we go on another episode

Journey with me as I take you through this nifty little place

I once used to call home sweet home

The verses are teen memoir, as Eminem recounts throwing away perfectly good shoes when they weren’t in style, being picked on for dressing like a gangster, and being chased across the tracks out of the “wrong” side of Detroit. He presents the yellow brick road as a path to nostalgia, but it’s laced with irony as he didn’t have many hopeful experiences to guide him when he was growing up.

All of which is to say I suppose it’s simply how you look at it. The yellow brick road is undeniable as a symbol in our culture, but the metaphor can be catered to various lifestyles. I suppose it all depends which way the leaf falls.

Rooting for Pepito

It’s difficult to go more than a few days here on Fork Mountain without a reminder of its wildness. This morning I stepped out the back door to feed Pepito, the ferel cat that I speak to solely in French. I found him hiding in his usual spot beneath the porch and his look can only be described as nonchalant. For him, I am just one food source among many he can choose from in these wilds (the difference being that hand-served cat food comes easiest).

When Pepito turned his head to watch me pour food into the dish, I noticed a gash on the side of his neck. Pink flesh and a light trickle of blood were visible and the wound looked several inches long. As always, he waited until I ascended the stairs and was safely behind the door before he ventured to the food dish for breakfast. He’s been living on Fork Mountain for more than 16 months, gotten within two inches of my fingertips on only one occasion, and been taking food from a dish for just four short months.

I peered through the glass door and noticed a small, dark pile of scat a few feet away beneath the bird feeder. It was the right color and texture to belong to a black bear, but not quite the right size and shape. Still, a likely location for any bear, especially after the winter weather we had this weekend.

“Pepito,” I called through the door, struggling for translation. “Comment ca va? Vous est d’accord?”

A jawful of silence.

“Un baissier noir?” I asked. “A black bear?”

Hearing my voice again, he scurried around the house, too timid to finish eating en public.

Whether Pepito will greet me for breakfast tomorrow morning is debatable, as he may be digging a slow grave. Whether he would want veterinary attention is an undeniable negative, not to mention the fact that is he unattainable. Pepito, le Roi du Forchette Montagne, the King of Fork Mountain. Negotiator between the wild and domesticated spaces. Bon chance, as they say. Would that he could tell me the truer stories of these mountains…

An Open Letter from Winter

[The awards ceremony was incredible. I was seated with my parents, front row, between U.S. Congressman Price on the right and Caldwell Laureate recipient Marsha White Warren on the left (she earned the highest award for humanities in the state). More about the evening when I get press pictures from NCHC…]

Dear Fall,

I’m sorry I stole your show this weekend, what with half your leaves still on the trees and all the colors of autumn waving their attention-grabbing hands across the mountains. But as you can see from this photo, we do make a rather nice arrangement together, don’t we?

The head postmaster in Bakersville, who was born and raised in these mountains, says this is the earliest he’s ever seen me blow in. Indeed, I’ve stretched gusts of wind and dustings of snow as far south as Mt. Pisgah and as far north as Roan Mountain this weekend. It’s been a joyride, but rest assured that by Tuesday it’ll be all yours again. I heard you’re shooting for a high of 68 degrees!

At the risk of meddling, don’t you think that’s overdoing it a bit? You’ve got to pass the baton to me at some point. A moderate 56, for instance, might be more appropriate. Even that would be high enough to melt all this snow I’ve given you. I can see it now: the creeks will be humming, the leaves shuffling their percussive beats. You’ll have entire mountain ranges worked up into a frenzied Appalachian choir, just singing your praises.

We’ll meet again, I’m certain of that much. Meantime, I’ve got work to do up north.

“Warm” regards,

Winter

First Fire of the Season

Exciting news, folks: Today is the day I get to publicly announce the literary prize that I won. I have updated my website—the resume, all the downloadable clips, the links, the current projects…and the main page, which announces the details of the award. If you’re curious, please take a moment to check out the changes I have made and join me in the celebration. This prize is a first for me and I am very humbled. Follow this link to my website for more info. Hooray!

I built my first fire of the season in the woodstove this afternoon. The house was holding steady at 54 degrees and had been for about 24 hours. With snow forecasted for this weekend and dense fog rolling in, I knew there was no chance of much passive solar gain so late in the day.

This year, my woodpile is smaller than any of the past seven winters I’ve prepared for in these mountains. A humble cord of red oak partly fills the woodshed. Since I know I’ll be leaving in January, that’s all I’ve split.

[‘Tis the season for splitting, stacking, and hauling…]

The kerosene tank has been empty for six months and is going to stay that way. Likewise, the propane is down to 8% of 500 gallons. That’s enough to fuel my oven until January. I’m hoping it will also be enough for some extended hours in the meditation hut as well.

So, wood it is and wood it will be for this mountain mama for my remaining months here. I’ve always been taught that the best way to feed a fire is the same way we feed ourselves. It starts with something simple like a piece of fruit that is quickly digested and put to use. This is the newspaper we first light when building a fire. Not too much, though, as we all know how quickly sugars are burned through and then feel sort of suffocating afterwards. Next, we might go for some whole grain toast. This is the kindling for the fire, dry sticks about the width of your thumb or less. Next, we might go for a hard-boiled egg (6g of protein per egg!) or a glass of soy milk (10g per glass!). These are the forearm sized small logs that go on after the kindling. For a longer fire, we’d conclude with a fat locust or oak log atop the burning fire just so. I suppose this would be like adding more protein to the meal, something that keeps you going like a Boca burger or handful of almonds.

The end result? Like a well-balanced meal, if you wait a while the fire will do its slow and steady work, warming from the inside out. And like any meal, there’s always a little pang for something more once it’s over. Maybe that’s why it seems so absolutely fitting to want to drink a dessert of hot cocoa while gazing into a fireplace that’s simmered down to a hot bed of coals.

High Waters

Today’s rainy weather must have been sponsored by the Pacific Northwest. Although this stretch of the Southern Appalachians receives the exact same annual precipitation as my hometown of Portland, Oregon, the method of delivery is drastically different. In North Carolina, “raining buckets” is no exaggeration. In Oregon, “raining until I want to shoot my face off” is no exaggeration, either. The former happens in a flash, the latter drags on for weeks. Sadly, people actually do kill themselves over the weather back home.

But here, I live at 4,200 feet on the face of Fork Mountain, a broad arm that descends from the higher, more-famed Roan Mountain (6,200 feet). As the crow flies, Roan High Bluff is just a mile and a half from my doorstep. Life near the top of this watershed is rich with sound on days like today, the springs and creeks tumbling their abundant songs down the mountain into raging broader creeks and even broader rivers. The rain hasn’t let up for 20 hours and counting and you can bet that tomorrow a handful of brave kayaker’s will hit the water at first light.

Heading out for a day of errands, I noticed that Little Rock Creek surged and spread across Old Hobson Road near my mailbox. Although the out-dated Mapquest data still directs my visitors to take this road, anyone who lives here knows that the only person to drive that stretch of Old Hobson Road is Penny, my trusty rural mail carrier. Come high water or high rocks, she guns her Jeep Ranger across Little Rock Creek every day because my mailbox waits on the far side at the creek’s northern-most point. Nevermind the fact that the road is where the creek is, or the creek is where the road is (depending on how you look at it)—mail must be delivered and if ever there was a mail carrier to do it, it was Penny.

One mile down the mountain, the creek spills into Big Rock Creek and flows west along the base of Fork Mountain. About the width of a double-wide trailer, Big Rock nearly burst its banks by mid-afternoon, the water a deep, chocolate brown with brightly-colored fall leaves for decoration. I didn’t make it down to the North Toe this afternoon, but I can venture a guess that the class 1’s are now class 3’s. If it weren’t for the cold spell (in the thirties tonight on Fork Mountain!), I might dip a paddle tomorrow myself just for the thrill of it.

Setting the Tone

It’s a new layout at The Writing Life blog and turning over a new leaf. This blog was founded on the principles of living a present life and recording anecdotes from that life in draft form on these pages. The early drafts posted in 2005 developed into essays that got me into grad school. Ironically, it was during grad school that these pages shifted dramatically away from anecdotes in favor of news and happenings, albeit with a writer’s twist.

With the recent news that I will be leaving one ecosystem—the southern Appalachian Mountains—and moving to another—the far north upper peninsula of Michigan, I am geared up to get back to the old, faithful style of writing I first engaged in at this blog’s inception. My nonfiction has always been tied to the land and in order to fully comprehend what leaving these mountains will mean, I intend to engage more deeply with the land in these final months. Likewise, when I arrive at Interlochen for my Writer-in-Residence position, the ground will be covered in several feet of snow that won’t let up for four months. The only way I know how to fully live such enriching experiences is to write my way through them, so here goes…

Some days, these mountains intend to break my heart right open. Red, waving maples and yellow-flagged tulip poplars lit Fork Mountain on fire in the afternoon sunlight, beckoning me to play hooky from the writer’s desk.

[View of Roan High Bluff in the clouds, my road trailing up the distance, and the broad face of Fork Mountain in the foreground]

I spend 20 hours a week nannying a now-14-month old beautiful baby girl. Our mornings are spent primarily outdoors, sometimes in the stroller and more and more often one toddling step at a time. On this morning’s walk, a great gust of wind teased the trees and leaves fell into C’s lap to her delight. She picked up an oak leaf and held it out to me, then made her sweet sound that means “How did that happen?”

Good question. How did that happen? Such a gift, this bright-colored leaf, and of all the places to fall it lands in her lap. We could have kept on, our walk only halfway over, but instead we stopped and examined the leaf. She fingered its tough stem and then spotted some acorn tops that had also fallen with the wind. Her deft hands clasped as many as they could, and we toddled further down the trail, C’s special tokens held tightly to her chest.

Later, she would abandon the leaf and acorn tops for a mica-flecked rock the size of her fist. Holding it up to me, her rock-filled fist punching into the sunlight, she made her sweet sound again: “How did that happen?”

What a wonderful way to discover the world, taking time for the most basic explorations. A simple rock—sure. But rocks are the very foundation we walk upon. A simple leaf—sure. But leaves are the stuff of life, composting beneath our toddling toes until they’re returned to the Earth once again.

Lost Crossings: Letters from the Family

Katey and Shane,

I just read your book, "Lost Crossings." I truly enjoyed it. You brought to light the significance those bridges had long ago and created a new interest in them. Everyone I speak to about it has a story pertaining to a certain bridge. My uncle used to cross the Roses Branch Bridge to visit my aunt when they were "courting." I live in New Jersey but am very familiar with Mitchell and Yancey Counties. I felt I was riding along with you two while you were searching for the bridges. I could picture it all in my mind. What a great escape for me! What an adventure for you!

I'd also like to thank you for preserving in some way my grandfather's legacy. George Canipe was a wonderful man and a most loving and fun grandfather. He was a great storyteller who loved people and liked to stay busy. He never bragged or sought special recognition for his hard work. The work itself was his reward. It means so much to me and my entire family to have him recognized in such a meaningful way. After he died my mother tried to get a bridge named after him but was turned down. George always kidded, " What's a decent, taxpaying Democrat have to do around here to get some action!" Turned out he was right. We would all like to sincerely thank you for your work and for being so kind to my grandmother, Corinne. I read your blog about meeting her and you did the right thing by picking out a scarf.

Sincerely,
[family member’s name]


Katey and Shane,

Thank you for writing the story of my hero, my dad, George Canipe. Last year when my mother told me about your visit to her house, I never imagined that you would write such a wonderful account of my father and his work.

As a child, you dad is always bigger than life, a mystery who leaves every morning then comes home in the evening with a shirt stained white with salt from prespiring so much during those hot summer days or in the winter with hands chapped and cracked from working out in the cold. A soft spoken man who holds you on his lap even when he is so very tired from his labors. As you grow older and too big to sit in his lap, you sit on the floor at his feet and bask in his love.

My father was a simple man, not very well educated, but able to do everything. he could build anything, our house, furniture and bridges. I loved to go with him and see his bridges. I will admit I was often afraid to walk over most of those swinging bridges, well at least by myself. I remember helping my father master multiplication and division, yet he could design and draw a bridge to scale and tell you exactly how many pieces of lumber and nails it would take to build that bridge.

My father had a big heart and liked to help people in need. And he cared about his community. he served as fire chief of Bakersville for many years. During his tenure as chief, everyone received formal training and the department received its accreditation. He served as an alderman for Bakersville as well. He always had a smile, a wave or a handshake ready for everyone he met.

My children have wonderful memories of their Pa, who took them fishing, let them drive his truck and who introduced them to his bridges. They have seen your book and will be ordering some of Shane's magnificent photos as a memorial to their Pa.

Thank you again. I would like to meet you both sometime .

Warmly,
[family member’s name]

Bird Attack

[ S p e e c h l e s s ]

countdown to Andrew Bird: One Day

Dear Andrew Bird fans,

Can you believe it? We're in the home stretch.

As a point of ritual, I began my fast of Mr. Bird's music last night, 48 hours before the live performance. I will follow this with 48 hours of additional fasting post-performance. What I find most important is not listening to ANY music, recorded or otherwise, for at least 12 hours following the show.

But to the point: I recently drove from Amherst, Virginia back home and had occasion to study Mr. Bird's discography in chronological order during a compact amount of time. Did you know that 514 MB of music is equivalent to a 286 mile drive from Virginia Center for the Creative Arts to Bakersville, North Carolina? Likewise, said sound files amount to 92 songs, chronicling Mr. Bird's discography in the following order:

1. Music of Hair (1997)
2. The Swimming Hour (2001)
3. Weather Systems (2003)
4. Andrew Bird and the Mysterious Production of Eggs (2005)
5. Armchair Apocrypha (2007)
6. Soldier On (2008)
7. Noble Beast and Useless Creatures (2009)

Note I did not include any of Mr. Bird's "Bowl of Fire" work and I skipped the album w/ the girl and the dress on the cover because it didn't have new work on it. Likewise, I skipped Live in Montreal (2008) for the same reason.

I began by asking the following questions:
1. How does Mr. Bird's use of the "I" pronoun evolve over the course of time?

While I initially supposed that the I pronoun would dissolve the more famous Mr. Bird became, as happens with many musicians, this theory was quickly disproved. The I is still there on Noble Beast, loud and clear as ever. Where with Music of Hair the "I" literally doesn't sound *like* Mr. Bird nor does his voice sound like one he truly feels on a personal level, by Weather Systems (which also carried the debut of his famous WHISTLING) we hear Mr. Bird's voice come more into it's own. He ditches the lower ranges of the earlier albums and ventures into a more audible, strongly felt and heard middle range. By Noble Beast we get falsettos and some high, long, tremellos. All of this is to say that as Mr. Bird's use of the I pronoun matured through refined, image-filled lyrics over time, so, too, the unwritten "I" of the actual sound of his voice matured as the singer literally "found*his* voice," as they say. Note: One test of a truly unique musician is often whether or not his music can be covered. Who covers Andrew Bird? Um. Nobody. But if you listen to Music of Hair, he covers some things and could be covered himself. Not so with Noble Beast and a handful of the more recent albums.

2. What are the most striking (to my ear) improvements in Mr. Bird's musical craft over time?
Hands down, the most noticeably improved element of musical craft that I noticed when listening to this much of Mr. Bird's music in quick succession is the refinement of layers. If you know Mr. Bird's music, you know how he builds each song and that he layers many instruments over the top of another, looping back soundbytes and harmonizing with himself. Indulge me for a moment here and take this very fitting example under consideration: Listen to the opening track on Armchair Apocrypha, "Fiery Crash." There is a dramatic musical marking of the line "...something apropos, I don't know..." at 1:35. Notice how that commands our attention and is followed by immediate and intense layering. But listen closely and you will hear a bit of sloppiness. Is this the fact of the production or the producer? Was it Mr. Bird's preference that these layers be somewhat indistinct? I like to think not but that reveals my bias. Now, compare that musical moment to the opening song of his next full length EP, Noble Beast. The first song is "Oh No" and focus on the lyrics around 1:32. Again, we reach a distinct place in the content of the narrative and in the musical experience followed by immediate and intense layering. But notice how much more distinct Mr. Bird's vocals are this time, and then notice how clearly you can hear the various layers afterwards.

I know that Mr. Bird did some work with Wilco and their recording studio for Noble Beast. And I don't know if he had a different producer for Noble Beast than his other albums, but without a doubt, this singer has filtered a mountain's worth of snow through a sifter and let each delicate flake fall with distinct, crafted intention. It feels as though suddenly he is absolutely positive that he wants to be heard. Not just heard, but *understood*. There's no hiding on Noble Beast, despite all the musical layers and lyrical metaphors, each track is very present and direct. It's hard to pull off simplicity without sounding simplistic.

Ok, I'm starting to get abstract which means I have to stop myself.

This time two years ago I was dreaming in Andrew Bird lyrics. I can't say the same has happened to me this go-round, but we still have one night till showtime...

Until then,
Katey

Countdown to Andrew Bird: Two Days

Dear Andrew Bird fans,

I’ve recently learned there is a possibility that Annie Clark (“St. Vincent”) will "join" Mr. Bird on stage at his upcoming show in Asheville, North Carolina. I have not been able to confirm this, but nothing directly disproves it either. It is my express desire that the only person to "join" Mr. Bird in any fashion be, well...ME. But that’s obvious by now, isn’t it?

I did some research on Ms. Clark and see that, like me, she grew up in a state that starts with the letter O. Also like me, she has pale skin, good hips, and curly brown hair. She's a bit on the young side, however, so if it is her "origins" and her "look" that Mr. Bird likes, perhaps I can provide something similar but then offer four more years "life experience" above and beyond Ms. Clark's. Additionally, she's named herself after a saint, which is rather prudish if you ask me.

All of that being said...

1. Consider the 20-second instrumental track "Ouo" on Noble Beast. It's the only instrumental on this album and it comes after his most aggressive, technological song on the album, "Not a Robot, But a Ghost." Was the placement of this Mr. Bird's way of acknowledging the distinctly different sound-experience this song creates for his listeners? Or does it serve more as a preamble to the song that comes next, "Nomenclature"...a song that declares "our nomenclature is washing away"? Nomenclature is the devising and choosing of names for things, an act Mr. Bird engages in ferociously. And finally, what is an "ouo," anyway? (Not to be confused with an "ou," which is a fruit-eating Hawaiian honeycreeper with a stout bill.) Cheers to anyone who knows, unless of course Mr. Bird has made up yet another word.

2. The track title "Masterswarm" reminds me of "Masterfade" (from The Mysterious Production of Eggs, 2007 release) not just in title but in the way Mr. Bird uses the violin to add to the narrative in places where his words leave off. As a writer, I find this juncture really interesting. In the violin in "Masterswarm" you can hear the swarming and the fluttering and flying - the writhing larva, for instance. Also, the high-pitched violin resonance over the top of the Kafka-esque scene implies an out of body experience, which Mr. Bird's lyrics imply but don't directly state. In "Masterfade," the opening violin half-chords and plucks are like the small pads of children's feet walking barefoot across a kitchen floor. Children, in fact, make up the entire narrative of this piece (which I believe is an ode to the loss of innocence and a preamble to adolescence) although Mr. Bird never mentions ages or children directly.

Looking even closer at these works, perhaps we have the evolution of Mr. Bird from child to teen. In fact..."Masterfade" and "Darkmatter" capture the early years. The teen years we hear demonstrated in songs such as "Measuring Cups" and "Imitosis." Which makes me think "Masterswarm" is the next chronological addition to the memoir-in-progress.

3. I would like to appreciate the proper use of a comma in the song titled "Not a Robot, But a Ghost."

That ought to do it for now...Meantime, I have begun a 48 hour fast (no Andrew Bird music AT ALL) until the live gig begins Friday night!

Cheers ‘n’ Chirps,
Katey

Countdown to Andrew Bird: Three Days

Dear Andrew Bird fans,

Continuing the tradition of obsession...

A. I am wondering:

1. Will Mr. Bird have a "band" and if so, how much autonomy will the band have?

2. How does Mr. Bird express anger? I've seen humor and confusion transformed from anger, as in "Why?" And I've seen lament over the loss of innocence, as in "Masterfade." But what of anger? He went through a serious breakup during the recording of Noble Beast. I think that "The Privateers" might come close to his "angriest" or most "accusatory" song in the past few albums. Eh?

B. Mathematics:

1. Noble Beast offers many fragmented equations: "Ten-u-ous-ness-less-seven comes to three" and "Them-you-us-plus eleven, thank Heaven." "That's for those who live and die, for numerology." Also, repeated mention of the "calcified arithmetics." But Mr. Bird was originally a student of the Suzuki method (on violin), which begins at a very early age and with instruction by ear. Suzuki students do not read or look at sheet music for many years, and "theory" is the last thing on their minds in the early teachings. (I can attest to this, as I was trained in the Suzuki method as a child as well.) What is the source of this math obsession? And how does said obsession relate to Mr. Bird's tautologies of language, such as "Souverion" = "So Very Young," etc.?

C. Musical Genealogy:

1. This is a fancy way of saying that one musician sounds like and/or influences another. "Not a Robot, But A Ghost" has Radiohead all over it. The repeated clapping-as-percussion used in many songs on Noble Beast, as well as the background almost-falsetto-male-vocals, are reminiscent of...dare I say it?...Belle & Sebastian. Thoughts?

Chirp-Chirp!

Countdown to Andrew Bird: Four Days

Dear Fellow Andrew Bird fans,

This is the first of four posts in anticipation of Andrew Bird's upcoming performance at The Orange Peel on 10/9 in Asheville, North Carolina.

In the spirit of making up words, as Mr. Bird so keenly does on Noble Beast, I have coined the term "reversary." The root of "reversary" stems from anniversary and reverse, suggesting that one ought to celebrate any number of days before an anticipated event, with the intention of stockpiling enthusiasm and random trivia. The idea here is to reverse the notion that special events are special on their anniversary alone, as we all know that things such as Mr. Bird's performances leave a lasting impression--an impression worth celebrating at any time of year.

With that, I offer the following food for thought:

1. I have been thinking about what kind of song Mr. Bird might choose
to open with. My first instinct is "Fitz and Dizzyspells" and my
second instinct is a slower, sly entry with an instrumental from
Useless Creatures (dim lights on stage). Instincts aside, this has
lead me to the following query: How does Mr. Bird, or any musician for
that matter, go about selecting the opening song on such an
anticipated tour? And are there aspects of Mr. Bird's music, such as
his live mixing and looping, that narrow his selection of songs to
open with because of technicalities?

2. I am especially taken with Mr. Bird's lyrics in "Masterswarm" that
seem to be a direct, modern interpretation of Franz Kafka's classic
novel, The Metamorphosis. Specifically, the verse that proceeds: "So
they took me to the hospital / they put my body through a scan / What
they saw there would impress them all / For inside me grows a man /
Who speaks with perfect diction / As he orders my eviction / As he
acts with more conviction / Than I .. I .. I // Oh burrow into me /
This is sure to misspell disaster / Oh burrow into me / You’re feedin'
from the arms of the master..." Thoughts?

3. Useless Fact: Andrew Bird does not use a pick. Ever.

Yours in the bird-o-sphere,
Katey (the avid fan)

On Retreat

I will be doing a meditation retreat Friday through Sunday evening this weekend and not posting.

Really. Good. News.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I have won a literary prize for fiction!

[Deep breath, jump for joy, scream out the car sunroof]

Cash award, publication, recognition at a dinner banquet, and one-week residency are all part of the prize, the name of which I cannot publicly announce until October 16th.

Also, Lost Crossings orders are now up to 250 books!

It just keeps getting better and better! Yeehaw!

Meantime, Here is the course description that I sent to Interlochen. I will have one fiction workshop with 9 students and one "elective" with 9 students. The elective is my creation and described below. All the rest of my time it is my "job" as Writer-in-Residence to model the life of a working writer. In other words, Interlochen gives me room and board and a hefty stipend so that I may use the rest of my time to WRITE.

Course:
Brief Infatuations: An Exploration of the Sub-genres of Nonfiction (Katey Schultz, 2nd Semester WIR, 2009-2010)

In this course, students will devote several weeks to each of the following sub-genres of nonfiction: memoir, the personal essay, the lyric essay, immersion/obsession writing, and the meditative essay. Students will read and critically discuss works by authors such as Alexandra Fuller, Judy Blunt, Virginia Wolf, Linda Hogan, Barbara Kingsolver, Judith Kitchen, John D'Agata, Asne Seierstad, Robert Vivian, Annie Dillard, and more, exploring and discussing some of the following questions: What are the strengths and limitations of each sub-genre? How does each sub-genre work in favor of its content? Which sub-genres allow for the most play, convey the most information, or afford the most poetic license? Creative written assignments will be given on a regular basis and a portion of class time will be devoted to sharing and discussing students' own experimentation with these sub-genres.