Home Beckons

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“You should be calling your old friends,” my husband reminded me a couple of times in the days before we loaded up the Buick for a trip south to Fredericksburg. He was right, but procrastination, or maybe premonition, prevailed, and after seven hours on the road, we pulled into the Fredericksburg Hospitality House unannounced and unexpected, except by the front desk clerk.

“I can’t believe that you came down here all by yourself back then!” Gary said after we got settled. By ‘back then’, he’s talking about my decision in 1974 to move three hundred miles from home, leaving family, friends, and familiar surroundings far behind. “You know, I look back and can’t believe it either. It’s not like I was self-confident – pretty naïve and scared actually. I was just really determined to strike out on my own.” I closed my eyes and drifted back thirty-some years.

Three job offers came my way back then from Virginia – hospitals in Staunton, Culpeper, and Fredericksburg all needed a registered x-ray technician. Staunton tempted me with the sweet smell of honeysuckle wafting through much of the area, and small-town Culpeper called out to my farm-girl comfort zone. It was Mary Washington though who closed the deal, the hospital providing me the backdrop for two exciting, first-job, out-on-my-own memorable years. Scenes from those years tumbled around in my mind…

Helping the eighty-year-old woman in the dressing room remove her falsies for a chest x-ray… Buying my first car, a Toyota Corolla and almost crashing through the dealer’s picture window after the test drive… Holding hands with a Route US-1 accident victim who would die before morning from burns too severe to treat… Driving a total stranger home after he crashed into a telephone pole right in front of me because I didn’t want to miss the only horse show I’d ever ridden in… Lecturing the drunken barroom brawler on Christmas Eve about peace on earth as I x-rayed his banged-up body… Holding the money from my first income tax rebate for just a magic moment before giving it up for a friend to get her car out of hock… The ridiculously short white uniforms we wore… The wonderfully mixed-up lives I shared with Beverly, Beulah, Judy, Puggie, Kevin, Hugh, Roger, Miss Redd, Marsha, Linda…

I pulled out my cell phone and dialed Linda. We talked for a few minutes, catching up quickly on what the years have brought our ways. We laughed and swapped memories of long-ago chest x-rays, barium enemas, and hip replacements. “What ever happened to Tommy?” I asked, thinking of our boss at the hospital and a fellow horse lover. “Tommy died.” Linda said, sending a sharp, stabbing needle through my heart before I could even ask how and when. “You know she had those stomach problems…” My tears welled up in instant mourning for a friend, out of touch for years, but still very alive in my mind’s file drawer labeled, “Fredericksburg Adventure.” Ah, Tommy, if only we could talk just one more time, I’d say…

Thanks for taking a chance on a kid from Pennsylvania by hiring me. Please tell your dad that I appreciate his help the night he dug the grave in your hard-as-rocks lawn for my dog, Roentgen, after she was hit by a truck. Remember that trip we took to the horse show at the Meadville Fairgrounds when we slept in the stall and had to use the 16-hole outhouse – wasn’t that great fun? Thanks for taking care of Kapoka for three months after I moved back to PA. I probably still owe you for hay and feed. Do you know that I will miss you, old friend?

Bringing someone special back into our lives isn’t always possible to do, so I will cry for Tommy and honor her by treating others more thoughtfully and with greater care. On the way back to Pennsylvania, Gary and I each made a list of people who are important to us, but who we’ve neglected to keep close. If you have a similar list – people to thank, to forgive, to ask forgiveness of, to reminisce with, to remind that they are important to you – call, write, email, visit. You may not get that chance if you wait too long!

With love and appreciation for the life of Thomas Ann Chapman 1946-1992.

Image by Patrick Gage

In 1907, my great-grandma and her six young daughters departed from the western port of Glasgow, Scotland bound for the U.S. in the dirty, stinking, rocking, noisy, damp belly of the S.S. Columbia. Pinned inside her dress was enough money to deliver them all to Ohio where her husband anxiously waited. Unfortunately, after nine difficult days at sea, her kind, caring heart kept them stranded on Ellis Island, just short of mainland America.

“Someone stole all my money!” a fellow lady in steerage cried out. “If you give me yours so that I can get off the Island, I’ll get money from my husband and bring it back to you.” Reluctantly, my great-grandma handed over her savings and gathered her girls close to wait for the lady’s return. The hours slowly ticked by before desperation finally descended; her troubles, when viewed from today’s perspective seem bone crushing. No cell phone to call her husband. No debit card to replace the lost cash. No friend to call for help. No open border to slip through. No way off the island until help arrived from Ohio several days later.

I’ve heard this story many times since I was a child. My imagination always pictures the villainous women, laughing with evil delight as she leaves the island with her ill-gotten cash. Once on dry land, she disappears forever into the crowded streets of New York City, never looking back at or worrying about the seven sad souls left behind. She lives the rest of her life without guilt or regret, but surely someday pays for her dastardly deed. Or, so I chose to believe until recently…

“Did you ever think that maybe she tried to take the money back to your grandma?” my friend asked after hearing the story. “Maybe something or someone stopped her.” I started to protest, but stopped and looked at her with wide eyes, already beginning to create a new ending to an old story. “Wow, you’re right! What if her husband wouldn’t let her go back? What if she couldn’t get back to the island? What if she were just as frantic as my great-grandma?

Perhaps this mystery woman lived the rest of her life with a heavy heart, wondering what happened to the kind, caring woman with the six little girls! Is there another great-granddaughter somewhere out there in America who also heard this same story, but from the other perspective? We’ll never know what really happened that April morning a century ago, but I’ve rewritten the storyline. The feud’s finally finished with no shots fired, and I feel better!

How often do we pass judgment on someone’s actions or words without knowing what truly happened or what is in the person’s heart? In being quick to judge, we take on and carry the heavy baggage of anger, resentment, and blame. I’m convinced that it’s never too late to lighten our emotional loads with a new, positive perspective. Letting go… Having a change of heart… Giving the benefit of the doubt… Forgiveness… It’s worth a try!

Image by Benimoto

“What kind do you want?” I ask, turning sideways from behind the booth counter so that I can point out the goods. “This apple with two crusts or Aunt Marie’s apple crumb? The fat blueberry or Suky’s fresh-off-the bush-today blackberry? Red cherry or that lemon with mountains of meringue? Fresh peach or Janet’s heavenly coconut cream? Allyson’s creamy peanut butter or the home-grown pumpkin? It’s the annual Wyalusing Volunteer Firemen’s Carnival, and I’m hawking the best deal on the grounds – homemade pie!

It’s summer 2008. In many restaurants around the country, three to four dollars buys a day-old, refrigerated, artificial-tasting, barely tolerable piece of pie. In contrast, our fair pies, all donated to the cause by individuals still versed in the noble art of pie baking, arrive freshly baked, sometimes still warm, and all mouth-watering good. Baking a real pie is time-consuming, kitchen cluttering, and sweaty-August hot, so at a dollar-fifty a piece, it’s a baker’s labor of love and a buyer’s bargain.

My aunts and cousins run the pie booth four of the five nights of the fair. Each year we have the same conversation following this typical exchange with a hungry customer. “I want a piece of coconut cream,” the man says. “Which one do you want,” I ask, pointing to pieces from three different coconut cream pies. “I don’t care, just pick one,” he answers, not even glancing at the table behind me. I choose the one that looks least tempting, guessing that he’ll never fully appreciate the finer nuances of pie excellence.

After he leaves, the conversation begins. “How could he let me pick without even looking? I ask, starting up where we left off a year ago. “Yeah, I can’t even imagine that,” my cousin adds. My aunts chime in with equal exasperation. “Not care? How can he not care whether the crust looks flaky or tough?! Doesn’t it matter to him whether the filling is fresh-cooked or second-rate instant?! Can’t his taste buds distinguish between real whipped meringue and artificial gunk from a can?!”

Homemade pie…so good, it’s a melt-in-your-mouth, blast-to-your-taste-buds, can-I-have-another-piece kind of sensation. I fear for the future of homemade pies. Even the definition of homemade is shifting as the fast-food frenzy wipes away memories of the how-to and the tastes-like. Many restaurants and bakeries claim they serve homemade pies when the only connection to the real deal is the oven temperature. Shame on these imposter pies and those who dare to serve them! Sympathy to those who eat them for they travel through life without true pie knowledge!

Fortunately, we can stop the impending demise of perfect pies. It’s a radical, but necessary solution: baking at home. Putting a store-bought frozen pie in the oven does not count! Imagine a pie world freed from high fructose corn syrup, food coloring, and preservatives. Envision a pie so good it sends shivers down you spine with the first amazing taste-jammed bite. You owe it to your family, to your community, and to your country to protect the future of real pie. Generations to come will thank you.

So, pie bakers of the world unite! Roll out those real crusts! Pick those berries! Cook that filling! Whip that meringue! Teach your pie-making secrets to your children, grandchildren, and friends and pass on your pie pans before it’s too late. Be proud. Be strong. Go forth and bake!

OK, so my family might be a bit radical when it comes to pie expectations. I even had to look at over 500 pictures of pies before finally choosing the one at the top of this post! If you know good pie, you already understand the seriousness of picking the perfect piece. If, on the other hand, you are pie-challenged, find someone in your community known for homemade pie and discover one of life’s small, but perfect pleasures. Now, let’s talk about that store-bought ice cream…

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“I like him.” my friend said, somewhat defensively, referring to the landsman who talked with him about signing a gas lease in the Marcellus Shale. “Well, I like him too,” I shot back, “but remember, he probably won’t be around here next year, and who knows what company you’ll be dealing with down the road…

Waste water, well spacing, fracing chemicals, wildlife habitats, lease assignments – all issues worth sparring about with my friend whose eyes are firmly focused on future fortunes to be made from the Marcellus Shale. Marcellus divides us like no other topic. He, the perpetual pessimist, and I, the eternal optimist, suddenly exchange places when debating this on-coming drill fest.

Consider lease assignments… You’ve carefully researched the gas companies before choosing your best deal, becoming comfortable with your landsman, his company’s history, and its financial situation. Now, you’re just marking time until your company’s rigs arrive. Unfortunately your carefully chosen company may abandon you before the ink is dry on your contract or any time business goals take them elsewhere. These multi-billion dollar gas and oil companies craft new deals often, buying and selling drilling rights as they manage their total portfolios.

Recent deals include XTO Energy’s who announced in April plans to acquire 152,000 net acres in the Appalachian basin from Linn Energy. Similarly, Dominion Resources plans to assign drilling rights on 205,000 Marcellus acres to Antero Resources. In cases like these, landowners signed leases with one company, but now, most without any input or choice, will have new partners who possess the legal power to impact their land usage.

Even the natural life cycle of a gas well could contribute to ownership shifts. The output of a typical well drops drastically after the first couple of years of operation and then gradually lessens over the full life. If the Marcellus Shale follows the path of other gas plays around the country, older wells may become candidates for sale to smaller, less financially stable gas companies.

In a standard lease agreement, the original lease follows the sale. You will be dealing with the new company, with few, if any rights to go after the original company should things go badly – capping of old wells, gas leaks, water issues, etc. Some contracts carry addendums stating that the gas company must notify you if they assign your lease to another company. An addendum declaring that the lease cannot be sold or assigned without your approval may offer a bit more protection.

But no matter how carefully you negotiate the terms of your lease agreement, the reality is sobering: you are no longer sole owner of your land. You are no longer lord or mistress of all you survey. You are no longer in total control of what happens to your little heaven on earth. Your newfound prosperity carries a hefty cost – a dramatic loss of ownership and independence.

Consider this extreme, but possible lease ownership shift. A short Reuters article from Hong Kong appeared on-line in July. “China National Petroleum Corp (CNPC), China’s top state oil firm, is thinking of bidding for minority stakes in shale gas assets of Chesapeake Energy Corp… Chesapeake is looking to raise as much as $5 billion this year from selling minority stakes in its Arkansas and Pennsylvania shale gas properties, the South China Morning Post reported.” Will this happen? I don’t know, but it’s enough to know that it’s possible.

“Well, maybe China National is a good company,” my friend offers. “Yeah, I did some research on it,” I replied, “and it looks like it is, but that’s not the point. We’re already drinking Belgian/Brazilian Budweiser, facing Korean- or Chinese-owned GE appliances, and getting used to the idea of Abu Dhabi owning the Chrysler building. What’s more difficult to imagine is that our neighbors’ private, personal properties could someday belong to China or any other country courted by the gas companies.”

“OK, I can see your point,” my friend said, as the sun slipped from view over the hilltop beyond the valley. As I looked out over the lush, green fields bordered by century-old stone walls, I spied a couple of deer stepping cautiously out from the wood’s edge. I made a mental note to take more pictures over the next few months, capturing on paper this beautiful land as it was before Marcellus awoke.

Image by Don Fulano

Tina Turner probably doesn’t need another back-up dancer anyway. Not that I had a real shot at it, since I never took dance lessons, and standing tall, I max out at five foot one inch and just a little bit more. “Man, I’d still love to dress my sturdy thighs in fishnet stockings and dance to “Private Dancer” behind Tina,” I thought when I read through the old list. Have you seen Tina sing and dance her way through that song in her video “One Last Time in Concert?” The super-slim back-up dancer, in the red dress slit way up the side, brings her long, lean leg straight up in front of her face. Well, I can’t get my face that close to my leg while sitting down and bending over, so that to-do will have to come off the list.

I found my things-to-do-before-I-die list stuck to the back of a catch-all drawer and hidden by receipts, buttons, paper clips, matches, rubber bands, pot holders, batteries, pens, markers, locks, candles, cards, incense sticks, keys, bubbles, rolls of tape, scissors, flea collars, flashlights, and stale gum. “GTE SYL” in blue lettering caught my eye on the top fold of the paper, opening out to “GTE SYLVANIA, Quality Through People and Technology” when unfolded to full page. Written in 1992 just before GTE pulled out of Towanda, my list lay hidden for sixteen years.

So, how’d I do? Cross-country ski? Yup. After the first grueling outing, my arms ached so much from uphill poling that for three days it hurt to push down the water fountain button. Buy a 65 Mustang? Check. Great time cruising – abruptly interrupted by brakes gone bad at the top of a hill. Win a tennis tournament? Yes. Small-town, small-time tournament, but hey, the first-place trophy sits on my bookcase!

I checked off three of the ten to-dos, but what about the rest? Backpack on horseback in the mountains? Never. Take a cruise? Nope. Shoot at the national field archery tournament? Never going to happen. Learn to read German? Nein. Go to Scotland? Not yet. Write a book? Not even one page. “Wow!” I thought. “What have I been doing all these years? The Tina gig was always a long shot, but all these other to-dos were reasonable. So, what went wrong?”

Maybe nothing went wrong… My cruise ship may still be dry-docked and bagpipes wail too far off in the highlands, but I’ve roamed the streets of Berlin, Taipei, Saltzburg, Kyoto, Daegu, Helsinki, and Lisbon. My German is still limited to ordering spaetzle or spargel, but in the meantime, I’ve tackled sign language and brushed up on Spanish. A tennis racquet now feels just as much at home in my hand as a compound bow did years ago, and a recent hour-long horseback ride reminded me that I’d rather watch, smell, and clean-up after horses than ride them! Fortunately, life quite often offers excellent unplanned adventures equally satisfying as those once imagined and anticipated.

“OK,” I thought, pulling out a clean piece of paper. “I’ll make out a new list just for the fun of it. “Write a book” goes back on the list, and I’ll add my grand schemes to save the world.” A few minutes later, nine to-dos looked back at me. “These are great, but what truly serious challenge can take the place of Tina?” I wondered. Just then, as if on cue, “Whiskey River” started playing on the radio. “Yeah, that’s a definite! ” I thought excitedly as I completed the list…

#10 BACK-UP SINGER FOR WILLIE NELSON (long legs not required)

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I promise to never again ask my husband why he is taking another picture out an airplane window! I finally realize that each time he flies; he recovers, at least for a few moments, a child-like curiosity and wide-eyed wonder of what he sees. You can’t always tell when those moments will find you.

Softball games, county fairs, picnics, berry picking, swimming in the creek, riding down hill on sleds, ice-skating on the pond, deer hunting, high-school plays…all scenes from my childhood in rural Pennsylvania. My grandparents, parents, other relatives, friends, and neighbors and I lived quiet lives revolving around family, home, and community. Trips to Florida and Canada were monumental adventures, exciting events celebrated with slide shows and stories of new sights seen. Only local service men experienced exotic lands across the oceans.

My limited knowledge of Japan followed me into adulthood: samurai, sumo, geisha in kimonos, rice, Mount Fuji, and green tea. As time passed, new images of Japan pushed their way forward – Japan as a powerhouse in technical innovations and top-notch manufacturing. And then, the real lessons began with my first flight west to the land in the east.

“I can’t believe I’m actually standing in Japan!” I thought, gazing out my high-rise window at the Keio Plaza. “It just doesn’t seem possible. Who would have ever believed that I would make it from the farm on Sugar Hill to Tokyo! I wish my Aunt Belle were still alive so that I could tell her I’m here doing business with…”

Japan! Where trains run on time and people politely wait their turn in line… Where taxis have pure-white starched headrest covers and people sensibly aren’t embarrassed to break into a run when late… Where simple lunches are served with care on real china and “set” meals are served without choices of side dishes… Where toilets make cheering noises and shoes are taken off in restaurants and placed in perfect alignment at the door… Where fish guts are actually listed on the menu and every meal challenges the I-don’t-like-seafood eaters of the world!

Japan! Where a westerner stands out like a red cherry in a bowl of bings and rules for bowing are somewhat baffling… Where clerks and waiters shout “welcome” and “thank-you” and wrapping up everyday packages is an art form… Where in business, a smile isn’t always a positive and a frown isn’t always a negative… Where centuries-old temples sit peacefully among high-rise office buildings and young people grow much taller than their elders… Where 3.5 million people pass through Shinjuku train station every day in such a rush of humanity that I have to look down at the floor to keep from getting motion sickness!

Japan! Where Mount Fuji looms off in the distance and bullet trains fly low through the countryside at 186 miles per hour… Where rice fields grow right up to back doors and no land is wasted on oversized lawns… Where the heaviest people would be among the thinnest at home… Where giants Sony, Panasonic, Hitachi, Mitsubishi, and Fujitsu develop the latest have-to-haves and massive electronics stores hawk these wares with a lights-flashing, beautiful-girls shouting, loud-speaker blasting, wonderfully-chaotic style!

Japan! Where…

Even after making several more business trips to Japan, that moment when I gazed out over the rooftops of Tokyo for the first time remains forever etched in my mind. In today’s fast-paced and over-exposed world, we’re lucky to find occasional spontaneous moments of joyful wonder. Take another picture out the window, Gary. I know how you feel.

Image by Nicholas_T

“You’re just being pessimistic. It won’t be that bad,” my friend said, referring to my concerns about the gas boom from the Marcellus Shale. “No,” I replied. “I’m just being cautious. We know the money will be good, but there’s a whole lot more to think about besides the money.”

A year ago, I refused to sign a gas lease. I didn’t want anyone walking on, driving on, drilling on, piping on, being on…you get the picture! And, at $100 an acre, my husband humored me. Now, money calls out a whole lot louder. “We can’t stop the drilling all around us, so we might as well sign,” my husband says, as he nudges me a little bit harder. We can sign a lease with a no-surface rights clause – drill horizontally under us, but don’t tread on me! It solves the “not on my land!” problem, but I’m still losing sleep thinking about the bigger picture.

Consider what we’ve learned so far. When representatives from Anadarko, Range, Chesapeake, Cabot, Chief, and others came into the area, they acted as their shareholders expected them to act:

• Pay as little as possible to the landowners.
• Don’t advise people about the sure-to-happen-soon price run-up.
• Offer contracts with legal protections only favoring the company.
• Don’t advise the landowners to seek legal help before signing.

Like it or not, these actions are typical and legal business strategies. So, keep in mind: the gas companies, with their big bucks and heavy political clout, will always approach the Marcellus strictly as a business. Just because they act legally, does not mean that they will act in the best interests of landowners or others who live in our communities. We must be vigilant and vocal in our call for responsible drilling.

“I’ve seen a few drill sites around here over the years and you hardly notice them,” my friend said, trying to put a positive spin on the subject. I shook my head. “Those were vertical wells, and they didn’t produce much. It’s a new ball game now. Energy costs are up, plus they’re pretty sure that they can get at the gas with horizontal drilling and fracing…

Consider just two causes for concern: the impact of well spacing and surface damage due to drilling sites. Landsmen from two companies spun the same story to me: “Horizontal drilling means that wells can be further apart than vertical wells. There could be one well drilled per square mile or per 640 acres.” What they hadn’t answered yet is my question about why Marcellus will be different than the horizontal drilling taking place in the Barnett Shale in Texas. Even horizontal drilling with fracing can not capture enough of the gas in shale, so companies are increasing their recovery in the Barnett by infill drilling their horizontal wells (drilling in between existing wells) with spacing as close as one well per 20 acres.

Let me repeat that…as close as one well per 20 acres! Apparently, Pennsylvania has lax rules on well spacing (please leave a comment if you have specifics). Will we see dense drilling in the Marcellus? Probably. How dense? I don’t know, but it’s an issue that should be discussed and researched by everyone living in the Marcellus play, landowner or not.

What about surface damage at the well sites? Horizontal wells require approximately four acres of land (versus 1 ½ for vertical wells) for the drilling pad, storage pit, equipment, etc. Each pad must be placed on a level surface, so excavation of hillsides is inevitable; especially as well spacing becomes denser. Add to that the access roads carved into the land to every drill site and the miles of pipelines. And, although companies are supposed to return drilling areas to a similar state as before drilling began, if Marcellus follows Barnett’s lead, many wells will be refraced several times over their lifetime. Surface destruction will happen more than once at each site.

My scenario may be the extreme, but even with regulations, gas companies in other states have easily received variances to allow them to reduce well spacing. Remember: the gas companies will be focused on recovering billions in lease investments and on maximizing their future profits. They won’t walk away from profitable gas extraction just because you don’t want to see a wellhead out every window. If you haven’t signed a lease yet, consider this issue. If you have signed, think about it the next time you negotiate. If you don’t own land, realize that this gas play impacts you too.

“OK, OK,” my friend said. I’ve heard enough for one day!” I took a long breath and said, “OK, I’ll stop, but someday soon I want to tell you about drilling mud and produced water and the Clean Air Act and compressing stations and pipelines and lease assignments and wild life and deer hunting and water supplies and…

I mentioned my concerns to someone else last week and felt my stomach churn with his reply. “I don’t care if they ruin this area,” he said. “I’ll just take my royalty checks and move somewhere else.” He left me momentarily speechless and deeply discouraged. Later, I reminded myself that many others also love the beautiful Appalachian Mountains region of Pennsylvania. Our challenge? To find a balance between our newfound prosperity and the natural surroundings that enrich our small-town and quiet country lives.

Image by chikache

The window fan merely moved the stifling July air around the living room as sweat gathered on my forehead, but I still considered fixing a cup of hot green tea.

A few minutes earlier, while searching for a photo of our new house shutters to send to my aunt in North Carolina, a stray picture fluttered to the floor. “How’d that get in there with these new pictures?” I wondered, staring at hundreds of rooftops spanning out as far as the edges of the photo would allow. Tokyo! Tokyo taken a few years before from the window of my room at the Royal Park Hotel in the southern Chuo-ku area of the city – ah yes, that was the day…

“Dang, I wish I could have scheduled my business meetings all in one week so that I didn’t have to stay the weekend,” I thought, on that hot, hazy July morning in Tokyo. Though tempted to stay in my room all day, I picked up my wallet, put a city map in my pocket, and started out the door.

This was my fourth trip to Japan, but the first traveling without a colleague from the U.S. The previous four days had flown by in a whirlwind of trains, planes, buses, and taxis as our agent and I visited customers from Tokushima in the south to Hakodate in the northern island of Hokkaido. Now, a long weekend in Tokyo yawned before me as my usual sense of adventure lost out to loneliness and a strong urge to go home.

I walked aimlessly down the busy sidewalk. Gray skies and monochrome buildings towered over hoards of black- and gray-clad strangers; colors to match my mood. Should I take the train to Shinjuku or Ginza to shop? Find a temple or museum? I stopped at a corner pastry shop, but the daifuku, with its azuki bean paste and sticky rice, while tasty, only reminded me of how much I wanted a Krispy Kreme. Turning around, I started to retrace my steps. “I’ll just go back to my room, work on the computer, and watch 12 hours of CNN,” I thought gloomily.

Halfway back to the hotel, I paused in front of a small pottery shop. The open doorway beckoned to me and two old women called out a welcome in unison. “Irashimase!” The beautiful Japanese handy work lining the walls and center table also drew me into the shop. I moved slowly around the small room admiring teacups, sake sets, rice and noodle bowls, teapots, chopstick holders, and sauce plates. The two women followed me with watchful eyes.

Without saying a word, I marveled at the rich colors, mainly in multiple browns and blues, with an occasional piece in deep blood red or moss green. I admired cups and bowls with traditional Japanese themes hand-painted on them, some boldly, others delicately – sailing ships, koi fish, cranes, cherry blossoms, dragonflies, and intriguing written characters whose meaning will always remain a mystery to me.

Circling the room again, I smiled at the animals etched into the children’s ware – cats, dogs, rabbits, and dragons; all recognizable, yet with a distinct Japanese artistic twist. Picking up several items, I fingered the different finishes of the pieces; the rough stoneware and the incredibly smooth porcelain, and wondered why typical American dinnerware is so predictably smooth and symmetrical. Why not uneven, and odd-shaped, and wonderfully unique like these?

My mood softened as an hour slipped away in quiet exploration. Finally, I pointed to four small blue and white bowls with a tiny painted dragonfly flitting across each center. The women prepared them in typical Japanese style – placed carefully in wooden boxes, and then beautifully wrapped, as though intended as a present especially for me.

I reached for the package, beginning to bow and back toward the door, but they motioned for me to sit. Confused, I nevertheless, sat down, while they disappeared into the back of the shop. Several moments passed, and I began to think that I had misunderstood. Just as I rose to leave, they returned with a tray and three rust-brown teacups filled with hot green tea! And so, with sweat on my forehead, I sat and drank hot tea in silence with these two old grandmotherly women…suddenly not so alone after all and not really so very far from home.

Unable to communicate through words, these two ladies touched me by sharing their tea time with me. After finding the photo of the Tokyo rooftops, I rummaged though the back of my cupboards, finding the bowls from this memorable day in Japan. They will reclaim a spot in the front of my cupboard again – ready reminders of a good day and a welcome cup of tea.

Image by Geek2Nurse

“What’s wrong?” I asked my mother when she told me that Lanny was coming home to stay. “I’m not sure,” she said. “They found him walking down the middle of the street in the cold with no shoes on.”

As I wrote in another post, my brother Lanny struggled with schizophrenia (see Saying Good-bye). His official diagnosis came in the mid-1970s, but putting a label on his state of mind didn’t help us to understand him or his illness. In those days, local libraries and bookstores carried little on the topic of mental illness, and most mental health professionals offered little or no information to the families. Forget finding support in the community; mental illness was locked in the closet with cancer – two illnesses kept within the privacy of home. It took people like Lance Armstrong and Susan Komen’s sister to break down the closet door for cancer; the door is still partially shut on mental illness.

Too often, caregivers to a loved one with mental illness feel isolated from their neighbors, friends, and even from their own family members who don’t understand the illness or who disagree on how to respond to the illness. Negative emotions abound: confusion, disbelief, fear, anger, frustration, embarrassment, sadness, despair, resignation, guilt, grief, regret, resentment, hopelessness… I don’t understand what his problem is. I can’t believe it happened to my daughter. What if he hurts himself? Why doesn’t he just get on with his life? What else can I do? I wish he wouldn’t act that way. I wish she could have a normal life. What will happen to him if something happens to me? I can’t do this any more. I should have done more for her. I shouldn’t have said that. My life is passing me by. He’s never going to get any better. Why her, why me?

Fortunately today, the Internet provides volumes of medical articles, scientific data and coping techniques to help families understand and interact with a loved one with major depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, or anxiety disorders. Support groups now also offer opportunities to discuss common concerns such as financial aid, housing possibilities, medication, treatment options, personal stories, and a sense of community. Despite these positive changes, the stigma of mental illness remains strong, and the road that family members travel is long and lonely.

Many people, so consumed by day-to-day care giving, find little time or energy to explore new information in books or on the Internet, to attend support group meetings, or to seek out other help. Do you know someone with a mentally ill loved one? If so, put aside your sense of uneasiness and discomfort, which is common, and do something positive! Read up on the illness. Ask them how their loved one is doing. Ask if they’d be interested in information you can gather about the illness. Offer to go to a support group meeting with them. Or, just lend a sympathetic ear to someone who doesn’t often find a willing listener.

You don’t need to become a mental illness expert to ease someone’s load. I’ve found over the years that people crave information and understanding. If you can offer either, you’ll help someone shift to a more positive outlook. You’ll be rewarded for your efforts…Now I understand why he acts that way. Wow, I didn’t know that organization could offer us help. It’s nice just to have someone to talk with about this; most people pretend there’s no problem. Maybe new drugs or treatment will be helpful. It’s good to hear that I’m not the only person who gets angry with this. Thanks for listening to my troubles; it makes me feel better.

As I wrote in the tribute for my brother: Very often, the little things that we do for others, out of love and compassion, not duty, are the very things that lighten our own spirits and refocus our lives. Let’s open that closet door on mental illness a little bit wider each day.

Image by ragesoss

“Marcellus, who’s she?” I asked. “It’s not Marcellus who,” my friend said. “It’s Marcellus what. It’s the Marcellus Shale and it’s going to make a lot of people around here really rich.” And so began my introduction to a potentially life-altering phenomenon…

The Marcellus Shale formation runs from the southern tier of New York, through central and western Pennsylvania, eastern Ohio, and through most of West Virginia. Hidden mainly 5,000 to 10,000 feet below ground level, the Marcellus slept relatively unnoticed for over 300 million years. Noticed and named just within the past two hundred years, geologists studied Marcellus and oilmen hungered after her. The rest of us unknowingly waited for an introduction.

The early ones heard a knock on the door. “Hi, my name’s Mr. Gasman, and I work for Range Resources (or Chief Oil & Gas or Chesapeake Energy or a number of other companies). There’s a possibility of getting natural gas from the Marcellus Shale that runs through this area. We’re interested in leasing your land for gas and oil drilling rights.” Many people approached in the past to sell rights for five dollars an acre or less were now drawn in by new offers of $20 or $30 an acre. Money enough to paint the barn… Money enough to catch up on mortgage payments… Money enough to buy a new truck… Money I didn’t expect… Where do I sign?

Gas. Natural gas. And lots of it. Known for years to contain natural gas deposits, Marcellus stubbornly refused to give up her stores until recently when technology and rising energy costs allied to work against her. New horizontal drilling, proven effective in the Barnett Shale in northern Texas, offered the promise of finally extracting the before-untouchable Marcellus riches. Friends and neighbors suddenly learned a new vocabulary – hydrofracing, drilling mud, coalbed methane, shut-in, pooling, blow outs, rule of capture, delay rental, sour gas, recompleting, plugging back. Offers climbed to $100, $500, $1,000, up to $2,500 per acre in a little over a year, with added incentive of future royalties from producing wells.

Good news, right? Well, maybe. Rather than a sense of excitement about the good fortunes coming to our country community, I feel a nagging sense of foreboding about this gas boom. The Beautiful Endless Mountains. The local Chamber of Commerce uses this phrase to snag tourists into our part of the Appalachians in northeastern Pennsylvania. Will that description still fit ten years from now? Besides the money, what will Marcellus bring to us and leave for us?

Will our beautiful landscape be scarred with drill sites even after the drilling is done? What is the risk for fouling our air with methane or the rotten-egg smells of H2S? How many water wells will be polluted? Will the quantity of water required for hydrofracing endanger our local rivers, streams, and ponds? What happens to the contaminated wastes generated by the drilling? How much noise do drilling and well operations create? What impact will the drilling and wells have on wildlife? What will the total price be for our new-found prosperity?

After refusing to sign last year, my husband and I will meet with Chesapeake Energy again next week to talk about our few acres. We’ll ask these questions, expecting to hear the upside and positive, while the real story plays out over the coming years. Will we sign a lease? I’m not sure, but whether we do or not, we’re sure going to get to know Marcellus.