Daylight Spending

This weekend the clocks will spring ahead (that's how I remember which way to turn them) and we will begin to gain daylight into the evening hours. The mercury has climbed out of the negative digits and I can feel the increased warmth from the sun. We have had evenings of rain instead of snow and patches of hopeful grass peek out from still mounded snow. I watch robins navigate from ice caps onto dry land like explorers in the Antarctic. The other day I saw a robin slip on the ice, catch herself, give a bit of a feather shake and move on. I think that if she could speak there would be a blue streak coming from her beak. Who can help but admire these stalwart adventurers taking the early-bird-getting-the-worm to new heights? I feel slightly embarrassed when I see the Robins arrive ahead of true spring, like there might have been something I could have done to forewarn them of what they were flying into.

Suddenly there is more bird chatter in the morning air as I head out to do chores and I can slip off my gloves for more than a few minutes without my fingers going numb. When I am finished I walk back into our hay storage to drop off my bag o' shavings and bucket and, without fail, find Muir lying next to the ATV looking up, hopefully, expectantly, his tail swishing back and forth like a windshield wiper. Now that he has recovered from his neutering procedure, we have returned to our morning routine.

My philosophy with my dogs, young and old, has always been that a tired dog is a good dog. Border collies require consistent work and exercise, including in the winters. Sam and Bronte, being older, are quite content with our hikes in the woods or playing ice hockey in the road. Muir, at just a year old, not so much. Each day, years ago when I was training Sam at a sheep farm in Virginia, the shepherd would ride around her farm on her ATV, a dog or two or three racing along beside, or more likely ahead of her. She told me that it was a great way to give her dogs some exercise while also getting some needed work done. I adopted this idea with Muir and he began running alongside us in our pasture as a pup in the summer and didn't see any reason why we should stop this just because there was a bit (or a foot) of snow on the ground. So, to keep both of us philosophically happy, I continued this routine into the frigid months of the winter. Each cold morning I don my red union suit, complete with flap, Buffalo check farm jacket, wool socks and Mucks. I jam a tight wool hat on my head and pull a neck warmer over it all. For the piece de resistance I grab my trusty Red Baron goggles and head out. When Muir sees me dressed like this, his ears go up, and when he sees the ATV key around my neck he begins to wail. It is a happy cry that begins with a bit of yapping and expands into full blown, open mouth howling. I stand and watch him and know that I could stop him, should stop him, but it is so damn cute and full of joy that I just can't bring myself to do much more than a good-natured grumble at him as I walk past.

I get onto the ATV and back out of the space. He lies still and eyeballs me. Once I am backed around and pointed in the right direction he begins to spin around in circles, think circus spins. I give him the command “Go” and he is off.

I have visions of neighbors down the road seeing a very brief flash of black and white, and in his wake me hanging onto the handle bars of the ATV, full-on goggled. “Come quick. You HAVE to see this...”

A lot of people can't wait for winter to be over and done with. Not me. I do love the cold and snow but it might be more about what I am most familiar with. In Vermont, winter can physically begin in late October and not end until mid-May. That is seven plus months of hunker-down. Our wood stove only sits silent for 2 months of the year. I like my flannel sheets and wool blankets. I prefer heavy socks to bare feet, icicles to black flies. When it gets dark earlier we settle in sooner and stop work earlier. There are soups to be made in the battered old crock pot and I like my tea hot versus iced.

Not to worry, I will enjoy the spring and the languid days of summer. But it won't be just Muir eyeballing the goggles and wool hat hanging on the coat rack.

Melissa Perley

Finding Your Farm

We climbed into the truck yesterday morning and headed north to Shelburne farms, one of my favorite places on earth. Before leaving we checked temperatures for the day and, knowing that we were going to be in a barn for about three hours, began layering up. There are odd little things that Vermonters take pride in; good manure, worst mud season, cheese, and layering abilities. You can be standing in a grocery store talking about the weather (of course) and somebody is likely to pull up their coat to show you just how many layers they needed to leave their house that morning. Forget high fashion, we go for the Michelin-Tire-Man look. Paul takes a great deal of pride in his layers. Before we left yesterday he paused, turned around with a big grin on his face and said, as if it was incredulous even to him, “I have on SIX layers!” and proceeded to both tell me about and show me the various layers. I, practicing deep listening, looked right at him and tried not to laugh as he deliberated with himself on whether or not his wool vest counts as a layer. (Apparently it does.)

Our destination was the dairy barn at Shelburne farms where we were participating in a lambing clinic. None of our ewes are pregnant but we figured the more we know the better, and that there would be cast-off info that we could pick up. And of course there would be newborn lambs. Enough said. We rolled out of our truck (I forgot to mention that layering is detrimental to the forward motion process) and proceeded into the beautiful dairy barn.

Presenting the program were: the president of the Vermont Sheep and Goat Association, a highly experienced commercial sheep farmer, the head shepherd of the Shelburne flock, and about one hundred pregnant or lambing ewes. We spent the morning into mid-afternoon talking about all things ovine. I raised my mitten to intubate a newborn ram-lamb as well as mitten up for ear tagging the little guy. There were also demonstrations on banding for castrating ram lambs. It was, at this point, Paul suddenly became involved in an intense conversation about hay on the other side of the barn..

At one point I was standing in front of one of the milk cows, back to her, when I felt a rough swat on the back of my wool coat. I turned and smiled at the cow licking my coat. For salt, I was pretty sure. (not as familiar with Bovines as Ovines.) However, the licking turned into tugging and I remembered that I had stuck a nut butter bar into my pocket for the just-in-case. Apparently hay and almond butter make a pretty good sandwich for a cow.

We had the chance to chat with people who had no sheep, people who were anticipating their first lambing, people who were experts in the process, and assorted pig and goat farmers. It was a wonderful day in a wonderful place with everyone wearing barn boots.

They varied in their methods but what struck me was that the two presenting farmers, one with a handmade wool hat pulled tightly over his ears and the other in well-worn coveralls, were both on the older side, yet each of them would be lambing between 65-100 ewes this year. They were honest about it being challenging, one admitted that he did not get up in the night anymore. Both expressed that lambing/April, was an exhausting season. Each had informative material organized, passed out and explained with a grin. You don't do this for over 30 years without loving it.

Deciding to start a farm, about five years ago now, meant a 365-days-a-year dedication to land and animals. Did we fully understand what we were undertaking? Heck no. Five weeks into the adventure one of our ewes was hit with fly-strike, and we spent the next hour shaving maggots off her wound. Each of us, including our vet, gagging. You can't make, explain or dream this stuff up. In the summer it is hot and sticky and you are still in Muck boots. (There are no flip flops in the barn..I found out the hard way). In the winter the metal buckets are freezing cold and it is dark at 4pm. If it has snowed heavily I often have to go and carry one chicken at a time back from the sheep barn to their coop for the night. They cluck indignantly when I scoop them up but I think I hear some laughter as they get a free lift home. Fall means spreading manure and spring means spreading seed. All flesh is grass. There is no break.

But the dedication is based on passion. Working 365 days a year gives our life purpose and I believe that we should be diligent in finding our passion and purpose. Because we might have a piece of paper that deems us proficient in one field does not, in any way, mean that we cannot be proficient in another, or several other areas. It changes and expands us as people to continue to grow our knowledge base. For some it is music and farming, for others it is boating and painting, or marketing and cross-fit.

As human beings we are, thankfully, becoming more accepting of our differences; our body shapes, our genders and skin color. Perhaps we can stretch this to become more accepting of the many differences living within ourselves. Understanding that we can be whatever we choose to be and can shift that at anytime

Is it time to pull on some Muck boots and find your farm?


Melissa Perley

Leaning In

Tuesday I pulled on mud boots to head to run errands. The temperature had climbed into the fifties and the warmer sun began to melt the skim off the top of the road, enough so that there were deep ruts to navigate. As I drove through downtown I noticed a few people wearing shorts, they were running to their destinations because it was fifty not eighty, but they looked pretty dang cool running. Being pretty cool myself, I had put on a vest instead of a full-on winter coat.

Thursday night the temperature dipped below zero: no more shorts (save those diehards and we all know them). Friday morning we woke to snow coming down hard. It continued throughout the day and only stopped that evening after we had received well over a foot. February.

Winter, especially the waning months of winter is, for many, the season of discontent. People begin to experience “cabin fever.” Which is exactly what it sounds like, people tired of their four walls. The isolation from Covid has not helped this phenomenon. Being an observer, I notice this playing out in several ways; my sheep, confined to a winter paddock and heavy with winter wool, begin to ram each other for space at the feeders, simply tired of vying for space They stand at the fence and look longingly toward freedom and greener, or any green, pastures. My chickens poke their heads out of the coop to see if they can gingerly step down their ladder to the snowy ground below. If that prospect doesn't look hopeful, they turn around and stay inside under the warmth of the heat lamps. However, once inside, everybody decides they want one nest and sometimes pile one on top of each other to lay their eggs in the most coveted spot. Often, while cleaning out shavings I will find an egg seemingly dropped on the floor as if it was just simply too hard to wait.

It is the time of year I hear cello students voicing their concern about the amount of time they have been working on a piece or how long they have been studying and wondering if they are making the progress they should be.

One of the greatest difficulties in learning something is having the patience to lean into the process, for as long as that take for each person or hen. I remember working on a movement of a cello sonata. I broke it apart; got the notes and rhythm but just could not make it say something. I couldn't explain why the soul of the piece was eluding me, but each time I would play it, there was nothing. This went on for months. And as hard as I was working on the music, I worked on being patient. I leaned my proverbial shoulder into the process and kept the pressure on. Nothing. I closed my eyes to the frustration and kept leaning. There were times when I would shake my fists, bang my music stand and swear like the sailor I am inside. Nothing. Then, on day two thousand and three, it happened. I sat down and something had changed, I moved my bow in a way that I hadn't before and suddenly the elusive part of the piece opened up for and to me.

In learning anything, there no shortcuts. The right kind and amount of effort is essential; but you cannot shortcut time by putting in even more effort. Our brains need the repetition and the time to digest and process information.

One of my tells in knowing if a student can go the distance is what happens when they hit their wall. And they will hit that wall. Some people listen, absorb and lean in: they respect and understand the process. Some people become frustrated, angry and try to muscle the process. And then the process muscles back and they quit. Soon they move on to the next challenge only to find themselves in the same loop of disappointment because there has been no learning.

Sitting next to the wood stove, three border collies splayed out on the rug near me in a sleeping pile, watching more snow fall as March roars in like the lion.

Patience and Perseverance- my second two favorite PP words.


Melissa Perley

C is for Cello, Chocolate and Comparison

My studio has two recitals a year, without fail. We have our winter recital after the holiday-hoopla and then spring recital in late May. Last year our two recitals were both virtual. This year, as did most people, we zoomed into the new in-person fall semester full of hope for a “normal” season. I don't need to tell you about the actual Zooming that we did.

As the winter recital approached so did a new Covid variant. Feeling the need to respect everyone's right to decide whether or not to play in-person, I sent out a poll to the studio. The results were a bit lackluster (it is a recital, after all) but leaned to another virtual [recital.] performance.

I once again asked people who felt willing, to record their recital work at their convenience and send it to me to share with the rest of the studio. In my mind this fostered a feeling of cello-community where there hasn't been able to be one.

Just before my face would freeze in that lovely way to end a lesson, I would screech, “Don't forget to record!!”. Amazingly I didn't get many enthusiastic responses before the screen went black, but that was easy enough to blame on Skype.

Each recital, people could, if they chose to, invite family or friends to join the call. I'd have Paul come in from the shop and we would all stare at each other on the screen waiting for the student to begin. There was, as you can imagine, a lot of hair adjusting going on.

As the curtain came down on the second full week of recitals, the recordings began to dribble in. Interestingly, an adult student, who has studied the least amount of time, sent her recording in first with a flush of bravado born to someone new to the terror of recording themselves. I applauded her bravery as did others. Then, feeling that the dam had been broken, they began to send in their own. I had told everybody that I didn't care if they recorded it fifty times before choosing the one to send in. If there is one good thing about virtual over live recital, it is that you get more than one shot at it.

I would receive the recordings and send [it] them out to the studio. Everyone began to respond to performers with cheers, bravos and clapping emojis. I watched it all with some trepidation; I had mentioned to Paul that my only concern with doing this was the big “C”. Comparison. He reminded me that they were given the opportunity to record or not and in a live recital, wasn't there even more of a chance for comparison?

Like many things, it all seemed good until it wasn't. There had been a few responses to an especially good recording, 'That is how I would like to play”, and “Man, I won't ever be able to sound like that.” I cringed a little from behind the screen.


One evening I received an email from a student who made a confession that I felt spoke for many people when they record themselves for the first few times. He said that he had really felt like he sounded like Yo Yo Ma when playing at home and when he clicked open their recording was devastated. He had been depressed for hours because there were students older, younger, less studied, more studied, all of whom that sounded “better” than him. Now if the recital had indeed been live, there would have been these same feelings but he wouldn't have felt that pain over and over again in the way he was sadistically able to experience with a recording.

I sat at the computer and stared at the screen for a long time. In the email he said that he had not been able to pick up the cello since hearing these recordings. He was, quite literally, crying for help.

In everything that we do, especially things that mean something to us, there is the danger of comparison. Without fail there will be someone who is better and someone who is worse than you. When someone is worse you can smile magnanimously and feel pretty darn good about dolling out advice on how to be you. When someone is better, we don’t feel quite so compelled to send congratulatory emojis or, for that matter, send in our own recording. The silence is visual and deafening.

What my student wanted was to have me say, in strict confidence, that he was just as good, or maybe even a bit better. That would have made everything OK again. But I could not. Not because it was or wasn't true but because it wasn't the important thing to do or to say. An unwritten rule of teaching is to never be comparative, even within yourself. When I am teaching Sam, it is Sam and how she learns that matters to me. She won't learn like anyone else and my job is to help her to see exactly how she learns and when to turn left instead of right. Nobody's anatomy is the same, nobody's brain works in the same way. We are not in any way homogenized.

Two pieces of wood, cut from the same tree, will not produce the same sounding cello. Two students playing the same Bach, will not tell the same story: because the story they are interpreting is unique to each of them.

What becomes important is to realize that where we are on our own paths is individual. I like to remind people not to fix their gaze to the end of the process, but to be right where they are and dig deep into their own process and enjoy it. When you listen to your best recording, smile and feel grateful that you are able to hear yourself smack dab in the middle of where you are right now. Yesterday you were different and tomorrow you will be different again. Change is the only constant.

My job, as I see it, is to walk beside each and every student along their path. I'm not there to judge but to help navigate the stones that inevitably get in our way as we walk. Someone else might be walking faster than you but you also might bump into someone who is sitting on the side of their path taking a break, intent on returning to the walk, but resting. What remains the same is that with each and every step that we take, we get closer to the top. All we have to do is to keep walking.

I wrote all of this and received an email telling me that he was going to begin practicing again and that he was happy to have company on his hike. It made me smile and I wrote back that I was delighted to walk beside him and that the only responsibility he had, other than to keep walking was, of course, to bring the snacks.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: Losing a Farm Hand

The year is brand new and, as we turn the page of the calendar, the cold arrives. There are two kinds of cold; December cold which is moist: you can smell the possibility of snow but that can, just as easily, foretell rain, The weekend before Christmas we had a rainstorm that, because the temperature was (oddly for rain), in the 20F region, it was a freezing rain storm. The holiday season almost in full swing and we were left with patchy grass spots and an overall brown pallor. However, Sunday morning of that very same weekend, we awoke to white. It was as if someone had shaken a blanket over our earth and covered it with almost eight inches of clean snow. And just like that, things changed.

January brings in the second kind of cold - the frigid cold. If you live in a climate that has distinct seasons you understand that difference. If you are dressed for it, working outside in December cold isn't bad. You are able to take off your gloves and carry a metal pail full of water to the animals without too much pain. When you take off your gloves in the January cold, it only takes a few minutes before your hands begin to tingle and then move quickly to a full-on throb. There is a Vermont “move” that we all recognize - somewhat like the universal sign for choking. It is the one glove-off -at a-time hand-whack. You are either whacking your exposed hand against your own body to bring warm blood to the appendage or you simply moving it back and forth at an accelerated rate, like a crazy wave hello. This phenomenon is not for lack of work gloves; we have a mound of them at our disposal and, if you are willing to play the find-the-glove-match game you should be set. It is just that there are basic truths; gloves or mittens, frigid is frigid and animals need to be fed and watered, twice daily.

This year we have had some change at our farm. Besides Omicron arriving in the area and the car-crushing tree episode, we are losing our farmhand.

By definition a farm hand is someone who works on your farm: who is around when you need wood cut, paddocks changed, sheep sheared or chickens let out in the wee early morning hours. And by that definition our farm hand has been our son, Joshua.

Josh has grown up here in our woods. He left only to head to college to study, surprise, wildlife, and was here in and out between internships and working gigs in Montana, Minnesota and Alaska. He came back to Vermont to enter the Masters program with the intention of living near campus. And then came Covid (how many sentences start or end with that statement?) and Josh moved back home to study virtually. It was then that his farm hand stint really began. Josh is about 6'3 and built like an oak tree. He can lift heavy bags of feed, wrestle resistant ewes and toss trees off flattened vehicles. He also happens to be smart and good natured as well. For the past five years the three of us were, self-appointed, three musketeers.

And then came love.

Paul and I work well together in both our cello business and on our small farm. But this winter, increasingly, Josh is staying warm elsewhere and it is Paul who hauls bales of straw into the barn and me who wakes the chickens a little later than they might like. Together we finagle the schedule of running the border collies that include the ten month old pup, Muir. We can do it. It’s just different.

There is more food in the fridge, less laundry in the basket, more silence in the house.

It is as is should be and as hard as it can be.

When you have a farm, you know the day will come when your farmhands will pack their things and set off. So you stand at the end of your driveway and wave, Border collies sitting at your feet. Like you, they are a little unsure as to why they aren't invited along but wish our farmhand all good things just the same.

Sometimes farmhands leave for another gig, sometimes for another adventure entirely. Ours won't be far away, a phone call and promise of food will, most likely, bring him back to lend a hand. But there is love on both sides of the leaving of our beloved farmhand: and just like that things have changed.


Bending Perspective

The wind began to pick up in the early evening: I went out, like I do every evening, to check animals: chickens were contentedly clucking on their nighttime roosts, slightly disgruntled at my turning on the light. The sheep, repeatedly chewing dinner, looked up at me, hope in their eyes that I might have come bearing gifts of more hay. As I opened the barn door to leave, the wind grabbed it from my hands and slammed it against the side of the building. I trudged across the road up toward the house and stopped, listening for a moment to the sound of the wind coming down the mountain: beginning with a quiet moan and accelerating to a threatening roar that seemed to emanate from an unseen animal in the forest, As I have responded many times, I turned my back to it quickly to head to the warmth and safety of the house.

Later that night I slept soundly under our own wool blanket, lulled to sleep by that same roar off the mountain, smug in the sanctity of the indoors. In the middle of the night Paul and I were awakened by a loud thud. Paul sat up and asked me if I'd heard it. I told him that I had but it had, as if in a dream, come and gone, so I suggested we tuck back into sleep. He was easily convinced.

In the morning I felt the squeak of the bed frame as Paul climbed out of the covers to head to the bathroom. As he passed the bedroom window he lifted the shutter a bit and I heard him exclaim “oh-oh” in a voice that you didn’t need to recognize to understand. I sat up and looked out to see the maple tree from the entrance of the driveway broken and laying across all three of the vehicles in our driveway. The back window of our small car smashed completely out, the trunk crushed. Our farm vehicle, next in line took a bash to the back almost folding the lifting door in half. Josh's truck, his pride and joy, was backed into the drive so his hood lay collapsed under the weight of the tree.

There are no words to express something so final. A tree coming down and resting, nestled in the metal of your vehicles gives new meaning to the phrase, “in one fell swoop.” All that was left to do was with a chainsaw, phone and tow truck.

Life goes on, as life tends to do in the face of joy or adversity. We were able to begin to talk about the incident and interject some humor: I got a lot of mileage out of “in one fell swoop.” We gave tours of the site where all that remained was a straight line of sawdust. We cut up the tree, stacked the wood and walked forward.

Ironically the oldest of the vehicles, our fourteen year old farm car was the only one able to be driven. Through the twisted metal I was able to sense some pride in its ability and willingness to keep going for us. And, since the rental car that we picked up had summer tires on it..that was a good thing.

I stopped at the feed store to get more straw for bedding and as they handed me the bales to pile into the car, I began to lift the back and a large piece of it dropped off onto the ground. I stood and looked at it for a moment and, realizing that it was not going to dust itself off and get up, I picked it up, tossed it into the car and drove off.

Life goes on, as life tends to do in the face of fortune, good or bad.

We are still in the mid-range of a pandemic, trying to figure out how to carve out our lives. My father died in March. We were unable to go into the hospital to see him for almost three weeks, only able to see him the day of his death. Our last holiday with him was spent in a lawn chair in his cold garage with snacks on TV trays. He will not be here this year. A tree crushed all of our vehicles…, enough said. But what also happened this year was a new puppy on the farm, a happy, healthy family and our Holiday Flash Mob at the mall where we arrived in garishly ugly Christmas sweaters, appearing as if by magic, playing holiday music and singing, surprising shoppers and for a brief moment lighting their lives, then disappearing.

Tonight, a week before Christmas, the snow began falling, covering the faux December mud-season in white: a holiday do-over, essentially making all new again.

Each day I get to wake up.

Each day I get to choose the things I pay attention and homage to. That is the gift of life.

One of the cars returned from the body shop yesterday. It went in there on a tow truck, undriveable, the body broken and bent: to see it you would believe it unfixable. Amazingly metal can be bent right and made whole and in a blink of an eye: you can begin to drive once again.

Happy Everything.

Melissa

Auditioning: For What & What For

‘Tis the season: Latkes and applesauce, caroling, Christmas trees, winter boots, Poinsettias and...auditions.

As an instructor, it can be challenging to convince kids, who are looking forward to some time off from the pressures of school, that it is a good thing to work twice as hard at their instruments this time of year.

I try to space out the practicing of some of the basic [festival audition requirements like scales and sight reading, over the course of the school year. There is method to this madness; if there is consistent repetition sprinkled in among lesson assignments, the rote work doesn't feel quite so rote?

One of the basic challenges in all of this is the sign up. The sponsoring school has to sign the musician up to audition for, in our area, the New England Music Festival and/or the Vermont All State Music Festival. What this means is that both the school and I have to convince the student to take information home to their family and connect the person responsible for payment and transportation to the sponsor - their school. Anyone who has, like me, found ancient permission slips crumbled at the bottom of a well-worn backpack, covered with something unidentifiable and very sticky, knows that this is no easy feat.

Sign up requirements are normally several months in advance of the auditions which means that, alongside students choosing a winter recital work, I have to gently bring up auditions as well.

This year one of my students sat across from me in his lesson, took a deep breath, fixed his hair (of course) and told me that he didn't think he wanted to audition for one of the festivals. He talked to me about wanting to include other activities in his life besides musical ones. He looked up at me, searching my face for my reaction.

How many times I have seen that look from my own children when they are trying to break something to me that they figure might not go over so well.

Fortunately, I have been teaching the cello for a long while and have four sons. I have had numerous opportunities for contemplation on these scenarios. I am studied in my response but, perhaps better still, I am good at masking reaction on my face.

We are dealing with a student who is early in his high school musical career but has had some good success in auditioning for festivals as well as orchestras. But, as he looked up at me there was a practiced voice inside me that reminded me that it wasn't only what I knew he could do that mattered. What also mattered is what he wanted to do.

Maybe he wants to join the team because he loves the games, or maybe he wants to join the club because it is, as he might see it, a way to meet people and, ultimately, be more popular. Maybe it doesn't matter - he wants to join the team and now is the time in his life for him to try new things and figure out who he is.

While I understand the dedication and devotion that it takes to be excellent at anything and I pass that idea onto all of my students, young and old, I think that, as adults, parents, teachers, well meaning mentors, we have to be very careful to be clear with ourselves about our own motivation. Too many times I sat in a bleacher watching a father, fully decked out in a sports t-shirt with the sleeves cut off to reveal the muscles in his arms, berate his obviously unhappy child because she didn't catch the ball. Or sat at a concert and watched the conductor berate her obviously unhappy musician because he was not making the conductor sound good in a piece chosen by that conductor, way beyond the orchestra but resume-boosting nonetheless. Both seemingly oblivious to the needs of the child/student.

What we feel is important is not always what is important to the person we are sharing our wisdom with.

As my student looked up at me that day, telling me about what he wanted, I recognized his bravery and I knew that the most important thing I could teach him was that he was respected for who he was and what he wanted. There might be regrets for not auditioning for the orchestra, or playing AAU sports, but aren't those lessons in themselves?

Strolling down Main Street in Montpelier, looking for that perfect gift - I try hard to remember who the person I am shopping for is and what they might like. Just my taking the time to think about them is part of my gift.

This holiday season, this audition season, I wish you all a big box full of “You do you.”

Gratitude

Driving home last evening we noticed several houses with holiday lights strung. It surprised me because most years we are one of the earliest to decorate, starting the day after Thanksgiving. Paul chuckled as I swore competitively each time we saw a sparkling house. I admit there was a temptation to get home and begin climbing the ladder to the overhead storage, we have headlamps for a reason, right? But Paul reminded me that today was Thanksgiving and that it was important to honor this day for the important day that it is.

In our house that is less about Plymouth Rock and more about the big rock that we all live on. For us, this is day for remembering the people, animals, places and things that we are grateful for.

I have found that as we navigate this new Covid-world, it has become important for me to look small. The big picture scares me. I accept the responsibilities of moving forward and finding a way to create a new normal, but if I take in too much at a time, it becomes overwhelming. There are a lot of things to be grateful for that can be found in our own microcosm each day.

Our life bulges at the seams and the sixteen waking hours we have in a day can feel just not enough. I'm doing the work of trying to slow things down, even momentarily, trying to be observant, mindful and grateful. Hauling water to the barn is now done in buckets, the hose is shut off for the winter. It will take me several months to get in sync with wearing gloves again so, for the time being, I'm hauling cold metal buckets and cold water sloshes over my bare hands. When I take the time to look up, I notice the sunshine angling through the conifers, I can see either small insects traversing the woods or watch snowflakes spin to the ground below. It doesn't take much time for me to stand still and see.

The thermometer is on its downward descent. When we walk into our house I am suddenly very aware of being enveloped into the warmth from the wood stove. I know that I can't appreciate the warmth until I experience the cold.

For my birthday this year, our sons wanted to have a special gathering, but it didn't seem safe for them to fly in from various parts of the country given the Covid-spikes going on. Instead they created a Zoom party and, as we opened Zoom - there they all were: our oldest, Michael and family, in birthday hats. Focus could have been put on the fact that this wasn't “live”, that it was merely a facsimile of the real thing. Instead, I moved my focus to a small space, to a computer screen where all of my sons’ beautiful faces smiled at me. Where they sang happy birthday and laughed and teased each other and me. My energy seemed better spent in gratitude than disappointment.

Today we will enjoy the traditions of the holiday; the wonderful smells of food cooking, the candles shining light on our festive table, and the pie....always the pie. I will grumble at the amount of dishes that need to be washed, even though Paul will be the one doing the washing. If I take the time to look small, everything will be made better for my bookmarking this day to really listen to my husband tell us a story, or to notice how our son, Josh, laughs merrily at every joke told. Suddenly there it is: we think happiness is eluding us but, it seems it has simply been hiding. Gratitude has revealed happiness.

My wish for you is a Thanksgiving Thursday filled with gratitude followed by a Friday with more of the same. Because, like pie, there is always room for more.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: The Nature Of Change

Two weeks ago, as we watched the squirrels outside busily gathering nuts, we were casually beginning the preparations for the upcoming cold season. As I walked by the bar in the kitchen I would jot down a task or two that I remembered needed doing in the near future. With Muir watching from a window in the house, Sam, Bronte and I brought the flock up from the pasture for the final time on the first day of November. We all strolled up the road, basking in the warm autumnal sunshine, leaves crunching under our hooves. As we passed the Youth Hostel, Paul waved to me as he began putting plexiglass over the old windows in the coop. In no particular hurry, he finished one and left one “to do later.” It seemed we had plenty of later.

For several days the sheep stood at the east fence watching and making comments at the goings on: not quite remembering this routine and missing the greener grass on the other side of the fence. Our hens began to molt but it didn't seem to be too bad a time to be naked. As is the nature of things, they slowed down egg production in protest to losing their feathers. The younger ladies, full and fluffy, strutted around the barnyard with a kind of arrogance in their elegance. They seemed to realize that any day they would be egg-layers themselves: only they would be fully-feathered-egg-layers.

We were all lulled into peaceful routine.

Sunday night the temperature dropped into the twenties. Without notification, winter had arrived.

After scrambling to find a warm coat and some fingerless gloves, I headed out to the post office and marveled at the trees sparkling in the morning sunshine, transformed, overnight, from sticks to magic wands. I slowed, put down my window and took in a frosty breath.

In Vermont, much of our calendar year is spent cold. Much of our warm weather is spent preparing for our cold weather and yet I never seem to see it coming. Winter arrives with fanfare but without schedule. I remember many years of putting winter coats over our kids Halloween costumes, much to their dismay. As much as I tried to call his coat a “cape,” Batman didn't buy it. “Over the River and Through the Woods” is no joke. Our traditional Thanksgiving walk (waddle) after dinner is often spent shuffling through messy snow. Days before the holidays in December, standing in the window looking out at dirty grass, feeling sure that this Christmas would be green only to wake, hours before Christmas to find piles of newly fallen snow covering that same grass. We plan, Mother Nature laughs.

Our pace changes and like those squirrels, we too begin gathering our nuts. The shed has to be finished this week alongside winterizing the Youth Hostel. Gardens need to be emptied and put to bed while garlic and tulips need to go to work. There is no rest yet. The time for standing in the window with tea in hand is coming...but not today.

This sudden change reminds me of the impermanence of all things; the good, bad and the ugly. As Maya Angelou so beautifully stated, “Chaos today does not dictate chaos tomorrow.”

While we might not be able to anticipate it, it seems important for us to accept the cold in order to fully appreciate the warm.

There is much to be learned from squirrels.


Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: Yes, It Is My Favorite

When you live in a state that celebrates five seasons (I live on a dirt road: mud season is real) it is difficult to choose a favorite. We start the seasonal calendar in the spring which in VT means June. We sugar in March so some call that spring, but in reality if you gather sap in buckets you'll find yourself waist deep in “sugar” snow. April comes in like a lion and goes out like one too. And April is the season of three letters- m u d. We peek our heads outside the front door to take a big breath of warmer breezes, make note of the small purple crocuses peeking through the retreating snow piles and bury our noses in seed catalogs dreaming big, red, tomato dreams. We don't dare take a step outside without Muck boots on our feet and bug nets over our faces. The stones that make up the pathway to our front door are still buried, first by snow, then by mud. We take bets on whether or not we will ever see them again. And so we traverse the space between house and car with big, mud-sucking steps. Dog towels hang at the ready and we swear. A lot.

We normally make our last morning fire in the wood stove in early June, and begin missing it two days later as the sun is not strong enough to permeate the woods around our house and warm us. I measure warmth by how long it takes me to lose the socks. Once things dry up a bit, out come the flip flops.

We think, a lot, about swimming in June. We talk about it, we photograph the lakes and rivers and even drag out our aluminum canoe, but we almost never swim before July. Considering most of our swimming is in rivers, the water is just still too dang cold. July fourth is the celebration of our independence from winter. When a vacation is planned, is what separates real Vermonters from everybody else. If we are going to be spending time on a body of water in Vermont, it is going to be in July. It is an undisputed scientific fact that June 30 will not be warm enough to swim but July 4th will be. The scientist is me, of course, but that counts. We cram all summer activities into July, and maybe early August. I have a summer bucket list scribbled on a pad in the kitchen and check off each activity as we do it in a bit of a fevered frenzy. If we are taking time off, it needs to be in July.

Summer sun blazes through our windows each morning making us hot in our beds. We live in the woods so it is a point of pride for us to have no air conditioning. I even resent fans and make no bones about it. I roast out of principle. Early August usually means we can get up and still put on your bathing suit right away. Two weeks later we get up in the morning, go to grab the suit and notice that we might be a lot more comfortable with a sweatshirt over it. As you traverse the space between house and car by walking over the miraculously re-appeared stepping stones, you'll find that the grass is now wet with morning dew. Late afternoon as we stroll down to the garden to pick tomatoes for dinner we notice some of the garden rests in the shadows. We look at your watch because we can suddenly hear time ticking.

Late August we drive down our road and suddenly notice some pale yellow leaves on the side of one of the maple trees. We turn our head's away because if we look at the other side of the road we'll still see all green leaves and can pretend we don't notice the inevitable beginning to appear. In good mast year the apple tree branches will be bending over with fruit and we make like squirrels and bring in our garden crops for winter. We busy ourselves with picking, freezing, canning and cutting, pressing for cider and bringing in hay. September is the month of the gather. The trees put on their finest for the buses upon buses of tourists (#thank you) the green fields are bordered by leaves that are on fire and magic is in the air.

October makes us happy because we can bundle up in wool and come in from the cold to be greeted by our reactivated wood stove, happy to be of service after its very brief respite. Halloween makes us festive and forgetful of what is coming. We slide into November on cold, wet puddles: sometimes cold enough for snow and sometimes not. November is the month for waiting.

October 2021.JPG

Winter officially begins in December and even the most Scroogiest among us wants snow for the holidays. People are colder, but happier as they wave hello to everyone at the hardware store. Paul has had the snow blower parked facing outward in the garage for two months now, waiting for the first snow. In the beginning of winter he snow-blows everything, immediately and swears a lot because rocks break the shear pins in the snow blower. When there is finally enough snow to make giant plumes come out of the blower, I stand in the window and watch our dogs leap into the air to catch the flying snow. We leave the tiniest of cracks in our window to let the cold air into our bedroom at night so that we can pile on the wool blankets made from our sheep's wool. If we get up in the night to use the bathroom we race back into the bedroom and dive under the blankets and into the flannel sheets. Sublime.

January is full-on winter as the thermometer drops below the zero, sometimes for weeks in a row. Hat head is the norm and you don't speak of it when meeting neighbors at the grocery store. February can bring our biggest snowstorms but also can bring a week of warmer temperatures so that the icicles begin to drip along our roof line. February is the month of teasing.

We are in the middle of fall as I write this. If there is a light wind the leaves cascade down from the trees. I stand in the road and can't help trying to catch one, remembering from childhood that it means good fortune, and I feel happy. At this moment I will tell you, if you ask, that fall is my favorite season:until that first white snow blankets the ground and makes everything quiet again.

Melissa Perley

Inherent

We are in the season of betwixt and between. Because swimming is over, we unofficially declare it fall. However, our summer seems to have one final BBQ in it. While the angle of light is autumnal, the heat of the sun remains warm on some days. When that is not the case, the wind blows and cool, fall-like air tosses the leaves around and reminds us that the time to bring in firewood is short.

In September I am ready for sweaters though I cling to flip flops. I crave the need for warmth. A fire in either the wood stove or fireplace now cooks us out, so I look forward to being chilled, walking into the house and feeling the radiant warmth from the stove. I'm all things pumpkin and cider.

Recently we attended an event that is a fall tradition for us. As luck would have it, the afternoon had high clouds and blue skies with enough crisp in the air to warrant flannel. We came upon a tent where there were several pairs of contra dancers performing. In the corner was an old, upright piano with an old, upright woman playing it. Beside her stood a fiddler who was as busy tapping her foot as she was playing her instrument. We sat on some metal bleachers, our arms full of bags of maple popcorn for sustenance. The last time that I danced in organized pairs was in a graded school square dance, so I was impressed by their ability to sashay, promenade and whatever else they did. Their dancing was dependent on the caller's instructions but, equally on the downbeat of the piano and the triplets of the fiddler. The fiddler was smiling, but struggling.

After we left the tent we wandered around some outside events, our hands full of sourdough pretzels, for sustenance and came upon a young member of the dance troupe sitting at one of the tables. I recognized her and congratulated her on fine footwork. Her father sat beside her and, in conversation, mentioned that he too contra danced. I asked if he had taken part in the demonstration and he scoffed and asked me if I had heard the music. I nodded that I had. He went on at some length, explaining to us the importance of “good” music in order to contra dance well and this was certainly not that, so why would he or anyone else with facile feet take part in it?

Later on the ride home and in a bit of a sugar fog, I asked Paul about the fiddler. We had both noticed intonation and rhythm issues and agreed that it did make it challenging for the performers to find a solid beat. But I asked him if he had noticed the persistent smile on her face as well. I'd seen her before at this yearly event and, each time noticed the enthusiasm despite her somewhat wobbly playing.

The man at the table felt that, in performance, there should be a level of expertise present and I understood that. But in these performances, the fiddler was playing with an almost unabashed joy; and doesn't that count? I was thinking about beginners in my studio and their belief that their music does not count until it is at a certain level and how this inhibits both their freedom in playing and, at a base level, their joy.

As a professional performer and teacher of classical music, I find joy in the long hours of practice and repetition in order to make my music say something meaningful to the listener. However, when I listen to performances in other genres and at other levels, the more often I see the joy of playing music on the performer’s face. No one has the market cornered on the enjoyment of music making. It can happen equally at a tuxedo event or a barn dance.

Music is inherent in all of us. Shouldn’t that mean that it is then a shared gift rather than one that belongs only to those who claim expertise?

As I sat on those hard bleachers, my ear heard the effort and the struggle of the fiddler, but equally, my eye was drawn to the off-beat foot tapping, the swinging fiddle and the enormous smile on her face. That happiness was contagious, important and therefore her music was as relevant as any I have heard.

Melissa Perley

Bounty

Driving down our dirt road I am beginning to see the first signs of leaves turning. At first one puts it down to only the weakened maples beginning to change, but then I started noticing tinges of orange and yellow dotting entire hillsides.

At home and on the farm it is the busy season. We are waiting for the wagon to bring our winter hay for the sheep. We'll push the hay elevator into place and escalate bales up into our storage space above the barn. Just before that happens we will revel in the open space that is left at the end of summer. I'll run a broom around and clear the floor as if we were hosting a barn dance. Birds that have lodged under the eaves talk back and forth as I sweep, their voices echoing off the angle of the metal roof. But Saturday morning we will use our collective mathematical skills to arrange bales to their best spacial advantage. There is a method to stacking in such a way that your efforts do not become buried under a cascade of sweet smelling hay, so that after picking hay out of your hair and off your clothes, you must begin again.

The youngest hens, who reside in the Youth Hostel, are no longer fledgling chicks. They are getting plump and we mistake them for the older hens as they flash past us at a dead run. Fall will mean that they will join the egg brigade so we prepare nesting boxes.

The wood shed is almost full and the spaces around the stone chimney of our fireplace are stuffed with logs. We keep a two year supply of wood- one dry for winter and one drying for the following snow season. Chainsaw equipment fills the garage as does the smell of its gasoline/oil mixture. Paul's hair is soaked with sweat when he lifts off his helmet at the end of the afternoon.

We noticed apples dropping from our trees and so began an early gathering for cider. Our press sits at the ready so that we can press anytime we grab enough apples to make it worth while. An almost non-existent apple season last year has made us greedy in our desire to freeze enough cider to have fruit smoothies each morning well into spring. We take a wagon to the apple trees and fill as many baskets as we can. Our pup Muir takes great delight in tossing small apples into the air then biting as many as he can find on the ground as they land. I stuff all available pockets for sheep treats.

The garden is lush. Tri-colored beans hang like Christmas icicles from their bush. Cucumbers, zucchinis and spaghetti squash peek out from beneath the large leaves that protect them from broiling under the heat of the August sun. We delight in unearthing new potatoes for dinner. I bring a big colander to the tomato wagon which moves around with the sunshine. Their plants are exploding with enormous heirlooms and orange and red cherry tomatoes. The full colander looks like a Renoir painting so we photograph it for posterity. We pat each other and our sheep on the back for the use of the manure from Mount Poosuveus.

Our pickles fill the entire house with the smell ofTurmeric and vinegar. Simultaneously we jam our old crockpot with tomatoes big and small to simmer for two days into sauce for the freezer, though we can’t help keeping a jar in the refrigerator to dip bread into. It makes us happy to think of the bright explosion in our mouths when we eat sauce this winter. How we will be able to taste summer in January.

We fall into bed at night.

As the ripe summer tomatoes roil into sauce in August and as we toss another piece of wood into the stove in November, I am reminded of the what it takes to make all of this happen. From the preparing of the soil to the harvesting of the fruit. From the lugging of basket after basket of apples to the sweet taste of cider and, of course, from the hours and hours of practice on the cello to the lifting of technique. It is the struggle that makes us appreciate any of it, all of it. Acceptance and even the embrace of this struggle is part of any process: is part of anything that is worth doing. It is what, ultimately, gives us true satisfaction and happiness.

Bounty.jpg

One of my favorite quotes is a line from “The Road Less Traveled” by M.Scott Peck, “Life is difficult.”

The tendency is to avoid difficulty because it sucks. However, if we can come to the place where we accept that life, in its entirety is difficult, but we do it anyway: that is where we gain satisfaction. Appreciation.

Perspective.

It feels to me that so much has, and continues to be, taken from us. The pandemic has bent our normal. We look out our windows to see pelting rain one minute and snow the next. Our icecaps continue to melt and we are, rightfully so, frightened. But today, as I stagger up the hill with my arms full of the bounty from our garden I am struck by what the earth continues to give back to us. I sit down to dinner and see my plate full of things that began with a sliver of a seedling and dirt under my nails. I cover myself at night with a blanket made from the wool of the sheep that I am the shepherd of, and I am filled with gratitude.

Melissa Perley

What Does It Take?

My summer teaching schedule is lighter… by design. Summers in VT are short. We burn off the morning chill with our wood stove in the early days of June and will begin lighting small, poplar fires in the late days of August. That kind of short. We know that our warm days are limited so we make the most of time in a way that southern states don't have to. Summer vacations often begin the moment the school kids set their books down.

I have my summer bucket list in my mind each year. Summer-y things I want to be sure to do. We have our scheduled vacation at a camp on a lake, but I am talking more about things that, while planned, have a serendipitous feel to them. We love to take the ferry from the Champlain Valley across the lake to Essex, NY and explore the village and shops there, we want open afternoons to dip into the icy water of the Dog river with, appropriately, our own pups splashing after tennis balls. We want to find snack shacks from the forties where you sit in old wooden swings while eating lobster rolls in grilled buns and homemade onion rings while waving at the river as it rolls by. We understand the gift and the burden of time.

Because I have students sign up for lessons on a month basis in the summer, I often get people who are outside my regular studio. This summer I had someone contact me wanting help with a recurring injury. We began at the head of June and have been working on an almost weekly basis since then. He is an advanced player who, even while passing through the many levels of technique required to come to this place, struggles with pain. Pain to the degree there is fear that it will curtail his career. Interestingly, as I watch him play, it is not overt why he is having pain. This has caused us to examine the minute of playing and it has helped remind me of how important position is. At any stage of development.. Playing the cello is an athletic endeavor and needs the player to consider it as such.

I watch to see where his power is coming from- is he playing with his back muscles or is he lifting (even slightly) his right elbow to push rather than drop weight into his bow arm? He often feels an electric-type “buzz” through his forearm making us wonder about the ulnar nerve and its involvement. He feels fatigue when asked to play long passages. These are all symptoms of stress. Any time we play with even the slightest stress in our bodies, pain can be the result.

I’m very careful when beginning a student, to be sure that stress is not manifesting in their jawline, or neck. Often students will quite literally stop breathing while playing, their focus on getting notes correct so intense. Interestingly, here we are working with someone so far from the beginning of study and yet, in reality, he is still suffering from the result of stress. It happens that the contact point for that stress has just gotten better at hiding from him.

If I am working on a difficult passage of music, I often will find myself feeling fatigue and soreness in my right elbow. It is an indicator that I am pushing my bow and transferring the energy needed from my brain into my right hand. In looking at this issue and asking Paul to watch me, I determined that if I could recognize the point of stress while playing- in other words, if I could be available to feel that at its origin, I could stop it by immediately but subtly changing my hand position. When pushing the bow (up bow) I tend to cause a slight extension in my right wrist in order to get more torque. It isn't necessary since among other things, I have a wonderful bow that will do that work for me if I let it, and yet I do it. I have learned to make note of fatigue or pain while I am playing, not afterward, and, realizing what my anatomy is doing. I quickly release and I can feel that release all the way to my elbow.

To determine exactly what is causing pain is really difficult since we are all anatomically unique. What triggers me might not trigger you. So, what does it take? It takes a second set of eyes and ears on us- invaluable for position and listening. Clarinetist extraordinaire Benny Goodman had a lesson every week of his playing life. It takes willingness to change, which sounds much easier than it really is. We use the words, we use the words very sincerely, but when it comes time to tweaking our bow hold, or dropping our shoulder, doing anything that is different than what we have been doing - we panic. What if we can't play the same way that we have always been able to?

My questions have to be: what is your option? And what are you willing to suffering with?

A good thought is to be sure that your instruction, at every level along your journey, pays attention to much more than just the notes that you play. If you say it hurts - that has to matter.

I tell everyone to stay on the path. But I need to make it clear that the path is your own, that your anatomy is unique to you. Your path might be straight or it might curve left or have a few boulders in the middle of it. Important to remember that, no matter how far you have traveled on your path, sometimes what it takes to change is to step off to the side and take a long breath.

Melissa Perley

Musicians Farming Sheep: The Need For Rest... And Balance

I received an email yesterday from a student/friend. She mentioned that the man who delivers her hay was looking to re-home a five year old sow named Tea Cup. Apparently Tea Cup could actually fit into one, at some point, but that time has long passed. It seems a fairly common story that people see an ad or read about the availability of piglets who are some kind of small breed who will never tip the scales at anything close to 200lbs...and then those piglets begin to grow and just keep on growing.

I believe I have mentioned my desire for swine. Probably a throw back to Wilbur from Charlotte's Web, or possibly Babe. In my mind's eye I see us walking down the dirt road together to gather sheep, my dogs quietly strolling behind us in perfect line. From time to time my pig looks up at me, adoringly, and gives a quiet snort. I understand. We are the perfect farm family.

Cut to what probably constitutes reality; I'm at a pretty fast jog chasing Tea Cup down the dirt road as he gallops, in all of his 300lb glory, after my puppy Muir, his un-trimmed teeth gnashing. It takes me, Paul, Josh and a tow truck to get Tea Cup back into his enclosure only to find that he has broken out again fifteen minutes later, with a not-so-quiet snort.

At dinner last night I broach the subject to Paul because I have the uncanny ability to ignore my own warning signals. We sit quietly eating steamed dumplings and I tell him about the email I have received about the pig. I like to think that the choking had nothing to do with the email...

At first he simply said “no”. But, with some gently reminding about being a team and making decisions together he said, “...probably not.” We were getting closer to the answer I thought I was looking for.

We spent a lot of time talking about the pros and cons of the situation. It remains important to us that everything on our small farm have a purpose; the dogs move our sheep, the sheep grow wool for blankets that we sell, the chickens provide dozen-boxed eggs, and we grow grass. What would Tea Cup's contribution be? If your first thought is bacon, you thought wrong. I mentioned having her birth a litter of piglets to sell. That made Paul tilt his head to the right a little, but not quite enough to overcome the dollar signs in his eyes over pig food, a new shelter to be built, and straw...always straw.

What we did talk about was the amount of time the work we already do takes up. There are morning and evening chores: rain, shine, or snow. We don't mind them, in fact we even enjoy them. But they do take up time. When we went on vacation for seven days we needed both a dog and farm sitter. Adding Tea Cup to the farm might require her own pig sitter! We talked about music and performances now that Covid restrictions are lighter, about things in our lives that are as important as the farm. We talked about the need for rest. We agreed to table the discussion in favor of ice cream cones.

Last night, sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up. It was one of those wake-ups where you aren't brain-foggy in the least, but completely awake almost immediately. And there it was. The answer.

I could see the issues represented in the figure of a mountain, and Tea Cup was balanced, precariously, on the top. It was obvious that adding a pig to our farm at this time would represent the tipping point.

Having a full life, a life full of purpose, is important. But if you stuff too many things into that life, you lose balance. When all is said and done, there needs to be time for ice cream, walks and swims. In other words, rest.

I closed my eyes again, feeling restful in the knowledge that this was the right decision....for now.

Cow In Pasture.jpg

The Need To Rest

The week before any vacation is hell.

Even when I am really excited about what we have planned, which I normally am, the week before we leave is chaos. This year we were returning to the farmhouse on the lake that we rent every year, only this year our entire extended family was joining us. We had planned a celebration of my father's life at the lake this year, a place my father adored. It would be the first time that we had been there that he would not. All sons and families came in. My sister and her family have two places on a nearby lake so they all traveled as well as my mother, who stays at one of my sister's camps. En masse, one might say.

We had arranged a farm sitter for the flock of sheep and seventeen chickens and, separately, a house/dog sitter for Sam, Bronte and Muir. This meant that besides arranging and packing ourselves, we had to also stock and stack up for the sitters.

As people arrived before we left for camp I lost count of sheet changes. A camp is not like an Air B&B, there really isn't a prerequisite for having all household essentials at the camp, so this means you must pack them in. Matches? Check. Paper towels and toilet paper? Check. Reading books mean reading glasses. Must have a puzzle. Pen and paper are not a given and how else can you keep track of Yahtzee tournaments? The grill is a charcoal grill - Oregon trail style, and charcoal is not guaranteed. Dish washing pods - we don't have a dishwasher at home (well...Paul) so what are those squishy things? I throw them into the cart, at this point what is one more thing? And, of course, these are already plentiful at the camp.

Five cars, one truck meander up the dirt road to the camp. In the back of the truck sits our Chiminea (think upright cast-iron fire pit with stack), a tent, and a plastic pool for the little people who can't be in the lake. We look like a modern-day version of the Beverly Hillbillies.

The house was bursting at the seams with love, laughter and laundry. In what was originally perceived as a kind gesture toward his brothers, Josh decided to sleep in his tent. He pitched it dead center of the cellar hole of the huge, long-since-dismantled barn that was across the road from the camp. He popped it up, threw a sleeping bag on top of his blow up queen size mattress and had the best undisturbed sleep of us all under the milky way. Kindness or brilliance?

You might note that amidst the Perley pile, I did not mention an instrument. We didn't have a lot of room but that hadn't stopped me before. My cello has ridden upside down behind the front seat for many a trip. What stopped me was my grand need for rest.

Americans especially underestimate the need for rest. We tend to underplay the need for sleep, the time during which the brain replenishes itself. Our motto is always do more.

I have practiced six days a week almost without fail for years. Do I come to it every day wearing a big grin? - no, but the point is, I come to it each and every day. I look at my cello as a life partner; I know it and it knows me. I get aggravated when its sound post has had an adjustment the night before and it has acquired a new load of humidity during the night, and is out of whack once again. And it gets aggravated when it is telling me, by the ring, where the intonation of a note lies and I just seem to ignore it. Repeatedly. Life partner. And, like in all wonderful and loving relationships, we need a break from each other.

Both myself and my colleagues have discovered that, during a multi-day break from the cello, the brain often solves knotty technical problems which were present before the break.

Early in the vacation when I walked into a store now without a mask, I felt odd.... Like something was missing, because it was. I wasn't quite sure what to do with myself during my normal practice times. But have no fear, I figured it out! Reading works, taking a walk works, paddling in the canoe with Paul works, and I found having a glass of wine and looking out at the water works quite well in fact.

As the week wore on I found myself “reading” on the lounge chair, eyes closed, mouth agape. Doing nothing suited me. The more I rested, the funnier I got, the easier and nicer I became. Little things didn't bother me as much because of the luxury of down-time.

The Island.JPG

As we repacked everything up to go home a mere seven days later, I took a moment to sit down on the little island we have in front of the camp and reflect on the week. I felt sadness at having to leave because don't we all want to be on vacation all of the time? But I realized that it is always better to leave wanting more. At this point I did miss the purposefulness of practice and adding manure to Mount Poosuvius. I realized that it took the rest to bring me to that realization.

Paul and I talked on the ride home, like we do each year, about how we should really take more time to watch the sun set, and get to bed earlier and eat more ice cream- in effect, rest more. Will we? Well, maybe the more ice cream part.

But we recognize the value of stopping, of changing paths, even for just a week.

With an important performance coming, I sat down with my cello the first night of our return. I knew it would be slightly painful and contemplated the orange ear plugs. It wasn't as bad as I thought but,…. was that a bit of disdain I heard from the cello?

Melissa Perley

If you’d like to keep up with the business and farm content, follow us on Instagram @paulperleycellos

Musicians Farming Sheep: Moving Forward

In early April we brought home Muir, our herding trainee Border Collie pup. We were back to being up late at night, up early in the mornings and clapping like fools at any tiny bit of urine done outside.

In late April all of our sheep got their spring haircuts. Everybody raced back into the winter paddock naked and afraid. We piled all of our wool into bags and stored them in the hayloft.

Next year's wood.jpg

Early May saw us arriving at the farm with a box (think takeout) of week old baby chicks. We piled them into our new hen house we call the “Youth Hostel”. They needed twenty-four-hour-a-day warmth and constant attention to correct amounts of crumbles and water. Baby chickens do imprint on humans: the imprintee is then the replacement for their mother. Each time I walked into the hostel they would simultaneously begin to peep adoringly and race over to any corner that I chose to work in. I have four sons...why not?

In June the dogs and I took our first trip down the dirt road to the summer paddocks with the sheep ladies who did a lot of their stiff-legged hopping as they saw the green of the spring pasture. We relished the familiar squeak of the gate as we swung it open and they all rushed past us.

Also in June we took Mount Poosuveus, our collection of winter manure and moved it, with the help of our friend Bob-the-Bucket-guy. Hours of transporting poop up and down our hill to the pile intended for composting for fall spreading. We found a manure spreader from the 1950's and it sits in the corner of our pastures, ready for fall action.

Farming is always about what is coming next; in the spring we are thinking about the fall, in the middle of winter I was walking gingerly on the top of crusty snow using my canvas bag seed machine to spew grass seed across the top of the snow. (Don't you want that photo?) Much reading about growing grass helped me to become a believer in the no-tilling method of planting.

We have moved from the idea of rotational grazing to Managed Intensive Grazing - so we watch the pasture, anticipate its growth at various times during the summer and move the flock accordingly. This constitutes many conversations standing at the corner of the fence and arguing over grass height and density.

My hens are terrific layers, but I am looking toward the fall and hoping that my young chicks will pick up that mantle and become part of the production team. The care I put into everyone now will be, effectively, our product.

We received ten beautiful wool blankets from the wool we sent for processing six months ago. So now we are selling those (feel free to contact us!) but simultaneously packing more wool to send.

I was happy and grateful to receive an International Indie Book award in the children's category for my book, The Violin Family. Covid had derailed so many of my scheduled signings and book events that I had become somewhat discouraged and worried about how I would be able to move forward with what I had planned to be a series of musical books. But this, and advice from friends John and Jennifer Churchman, the brilliant author/illustrator team of the Sweet Pea book series, propelled me - or kicked me in the rear- see it as you will, and I have decided to begin a second book. I have missed my characters. Basil Bass was named after my father, who was delighted at the honor. My dad died this past March and I guess I would like to see him continue to live, in a big, beautiful bass of a body. Violet left Luthier Paul's shop and began to play again - I wonder about what pieces she is playing with devoted Val. Sweet Biz with her busyness: I ponder what kind of mischief we could get into together she and I. And of course Celia Violoncello - the mother to them all. Celia watches over the goings on in her Violin family. She puts aside her own blueberries to be sure everyone else can have them in their pancakes. Wouldn't it be wonderful if we looked at her? If we found out what really makes her sing?

I can make that happen, in more ways than one, and that - is a fortunate string of events, if you ask me.


Melissa Perley

In Person: Over A Year Later

Summer has arrived in Vermont and with it a less cautious approach to Covid. In following the Governor’s guidelines, I kept restrictions in place and held the studio virtual through two weeks of spring recitals. Once notes from the last piece faded, I sent out my summer sign up schedule including the news that lessons for those in close proximity, would once again be in-person.

It turned out to be strange for me. I thought I would feel complete joy and freedom in returning to what I know works best. A true hands-on approach. But, I confessed to Paul that I felt nervous, not about the virus, everyone had been vaccinated, but about returning to a style of teaching that I had not used in well over a year. Each day I practice in the studio where I taught, so I spent time there, but there has been an odd silence for a long time. My extra stand still holds music, waiting for another player, my duet books sit stacked, collecting dust and my trusty jar of chocolates stands empty.

Everyone was excited about the opportunity to study in the studio again. But, for some, maybe they could start on their second sign up lesson?..., maybe we could stay virtual because they have an appointment right after their lesson, or perhaps they don't need to drive so far each time after all?, or..it is so hot...

Who knew?

In my mind the return to “normal” would, indeed, look “normal.” It might take a bit of transition time, but then our lives would look the way that they have always looked. In thinking about this I have since changed that thinking.

Change rarely occurs without difficulty. We had no idea the amount of difficulty that would accompany this virus, or how much our lives would be transformed by it. We can't know what we don't know - until we do. When I made the decision to shut the in-person part of my studio down, so many people had to bend their ideas of what constituted the shape of their cello lesson. At the beginning, we groaned together at the glitches, stutters and being tossed off line altogether. I watched some of my students smile, through clenched teeth, and knew they were struggling with whether or not to continue: but we did. And amazingly, as time passed everyone, including me, grew as a musician. Our routines began to bend. Ethan's greeting became a chance to outdo himself each lesson with some sort of unique greeting- sometimes I'd see a puppet on his hand, or sometimes he would come on upside down and, glitch or no, it made us both laugh uproariously – and we needed that.

At the beginning I would watch someone look up from their instrument with surprise when I corrected a pitch in their scale or talked about how not to be as abrupt in the ending of their phrase. Confidence, on both sides, began to grow.

During Covid, the studio had three recitals - two of them included senior recitals. Despite my Luddite-level technical ability, I was able to figure out a way to entice everyone into recording their recital pieces so that I could share them with the rest of the studio, reminding them that, even though it might not feel like it all of the time, they actually were and are a part of a larger community of cellists. I would put up a recital piece and then sit back and watch them respond to each other, joking, laughing, commiserating, and always supporting. I felt proud, like a mother hen.

We had figured it out and made it work and now we are going back. To what?

Last week I tidied up my music space. Dusted off my duet books and filled my chocolate jar. I took a moment to stand in the silence and reflect on what I had been able to accomplish in really difficult circumstances, and think about what my next step would look like.

I remind students that there is not a choice about difficulty being part of the learning process, or part of the life process, but how we perceive that difficulty and how we choose to respond to it, belongs to us. It is where our strength truly lies.

I've learned what it means to bend. Moving forward, things won't look like they did “before”- Maybe they shouldn't.

Challenge? Sure...but how about if we call it an adventure.

Melissa Perley