You hear stories about people who chased their dreams and ended up with a pot of gold at the end of their rainbow. At the moment, we are not those people.
Shortly after Bob and I said our wedding vows in July of 1994 we created a mission statement which reads, “Team together to avoid negative influences and create a life of challenge and fulfillment by following our hearts.”
Over the next twenty years, we would weave in and out of fiscal security, jumping on lucrative opportunities when they fit our ideals, and pursuing unconventional lifestyles the rest of the time. The pursuit took us all over the globe, each move bringing us closer to paradise found.
So here we are today, living our dream, surrounded by people who share our values, all of us trying to eke out a life that doesn’t tread too heavy on the earth. It’s a struggle and a joy.
We have a sense of purpose, agendas that support local food and economy, and a richness of community that throws back to our grandparents’ era. We’re immersed in meaningfulness, but are all teetering on the edge of our overdrafts.
Maybe this is what collapse looks like, because I really don’t know anyone who is making buckets of money in today’s economy. Even my friends who have corporate jobs with health insurance and retirement plans are struggling these days.
If that’s the case, if the choices are sell out and flounder or stay true and struggle, following your heart is clearly the right choice.
Friday Afternoon Club – because sometimes, you just have to party in a greenhouse.
My recent ruminations about sharing began with a news story about Christians and Muslims sharing a Christian chapel, bled into a story about the murder of three students over the sharing of parking spaces, and are permeated by the daily challenges of managing The Plant, a diverse eco-industrial park.
The art of sharing begins in childhood. As a short-lived only child, I did not have to share my parents or anything else until my little brothers began to arrive. I recall learning at school that if you had an apple and your friend did not, you should cut the apple in half and give them the bigger half.
At the dinner table, I learned to stay my appetite for second helpings until the boys had taken their share. Ditto for thirds. These early lessons explain my obsession with leftovers (no one else wants them, so they are mine, all mine!) and a tendency towards sneaky eating, resulting in a lifelong struggle with the scale.
In my professional life, the diverse hive of activity at The Plant is rife with sharing challenges. When the farmers build their Spring planting beds, tractors hurry back and forth across the main drag, leaving tracks of red clay on the asphalt. The winery fills the parking lot with polyester-clad tasters, industrial aromas of insecticide and biodiesel permeate the air, and the massage therapist strives to provide her clients a pleasant-smelling, quiet experience. On at least one occasion, a swarm of bees left the hives to colonize one of the offices.
It requires open communication and diligent surveillance to keep all factions reasonably satisfied when what one business needs to operate is in direct conflict with what another requires. Fortunately, we are all up to the task. Bob has helped this effort immensely by tackling the issues head-on and putting in place community institutions such as FAC in his greenhouse. Friday Afternoon Club is the perfect way for tenants to unwind after a busy week, strengthen friendships and chew on the topics of the day.
Obviously small, communicative groups deal with diversity in the way that larger or more factionalized groups do not. The news is full of stories about failed relationships between families, neighbors, countries, ideologies and species. Human disregard for the other life-forms that share planet earth is the ultimate example of inadequate sharing protocols.
Last month, North Carolina’s Duke University made international news when they “canceled plans for Muslim students to sound the traditional call to prayer from the school’s iconic chapel tower amid threats of violence and a backlash from anti-Muslim groups, conservatives and Christian leaders.” Despite the chapel having been shared between Christians and Muslims for decades, apparently, broadcast prayers was over-the-top. Having lived with daily broadcast prayer in Africa, I was happy that line was drawn.
On Tuesday, ten miles away in nearby Chapel Hill, a dispute over sharing parking lot spaces led to the execution-style murder of three young students who happened to be Muslims. This story also received global coverage. I couldn’t help but sense a connection between these two indicents. The consequences for not working out problems, can be deadly.
As a result of these musing, I’ve come to two conclusions about sharing:
1. Keep it small because large groups don’t share well.
2. Communication and compromise are the keys to a long life.
Friday Afternoon Club in Bob’s ginger greenhouse at The Plant February 13, 2015
In Chapel Hill Shooting of 3 Muslims, a Question of Motive
Amid Threats, Duke Moves Muslim Call to Prayer
For a limited time, you can upload the free kindle version of the new book, Two Brauds Abroad – A Departure from Life as We Know It by Camille Armantrout and Stephanie De La Garza.
Available through Thursday at midnight Pacific Standard Time via Kindle USA or Kindle UK.
Two Brauds Abroad is a travel adventure about Camille and Bob’s year and a half in West Africa and Steph’s life traveling around Costa Rica, working with animals, house sitting and other ways she figured out for living on the cheap in a beautiful place. Part I is the story as told through actual correspondence interspersed with blog posts, photos and updated information. Part II is a primer on how you would go about transforming yourself into a world traveler with tons of tips and inside knowledge.
Even if you don’t have a kindle, you can download the free Kindle Reading app from Amazon. Please tell your friends about this offer. Our goal is to get our story out there.
And what a story it is. I won’t spoil it for you, but as you might suspect Steph and Camille face a lot of interesting dilemmas living in our host countries and being such good friends, they tell each other everything. If you have ever wondered what it might be like to live in Africa, or Central America, or love to travel, or just like reading other people’s mail, you will enjoy Two Brauds Abroad.
Bob and Jesse, 1992
Years ago I found myself standing amid a raging crowd, attempting to appreciate the finer points of car racing. It was an evening event, brightly lit, loud and confusing. It’s been too long to remember much more than the cloud of smoke that enveloped us, giving a supernatural quality to the lights. I recall struggling to get in the spirit of things, being overwhelmed by the noise, and feeling lost in the crowd.
Later at home, I looked in the mirror and noticed my face was covered with little black flecks which I guessed were either asphalt, or rubber, or a combination. I couldn’t help but wonder what all the fuss was about. Whatever had drawn the other people there that evening was eluding me, and that was the last time I ever ventured onto car-racing turf.
I never understood football either, but I can bring chips and dip and join in, cheering for whatever team my friends are rooting for. Ditto for other mystifying passions such as curling, pinterest, caviar, mountain climbing, organized religion, fishing and romance novels.
I find ways to pass the time during a football game. Often, pondering the similarities between gladiators and the grunting, heaving group of helmeted men scrambling on the field is enough to keep me entertained. I think about the cultural importance of ritual warfare, sometimes saying out loud, “This is a big deal! After all, our team is the only thing standing between them and our women.”
Once, during a televised match, I made a study of the advertising, discovering that 16% of the ads were for fast food, 25% about the television network and its programs, 9% for cell phones and so on. (Anatomy of a Ball Game January, 2006)
To be fair, most people don’t ‘get’ my obsession with horses, either. Every chance I get, I launch into a horse story, quickly losing my audience with terms like overcheck rein, navicular and grulla. It only takes about 15 seconds before my victim’s eyes begin to dart around the room, looking for escape exactly as I’ve seen many horses on the lunge line do.
I try to rope them in with the story about how Jesse liked to eat his corn across the cob, while Penny preferred to eat around the cob, but it’s too late. I can see they are already thinking about their new drapes or what their kid said on the way home from school.
Mahlon, Camille and Bob toast the kick-off of the Bronco’s first game of the season on September 10, 2006.
The whole horse thing is about so much more than just riding, or shoveling manure. It’s about the bond between human and animal, the freedom of flying effortlessly across green pastures and the secret world of dusk and dawn when hungry horses lure you outside.
I love the gentle swish of tails on quiet summer afternoons in the shade of a big tree. I have idled away countless hours watching an ultra-soft muzzle maneuver wisps of grass into a giant mouth with 2,000 psi grinding capacity. The footage of Rembrandt’s gold medal dressage performance in the 1992 Barcelona Olympic Games will always put a lump in my throat and no matter which handsome actor is galloping across the movie screen, I only have eyes for his steed.
But to an outsider, horses seem expensive, smelly, dangerous and a lot of work. All this fuss for saddle sores, gnawed fence boards, vet bills, busted ribs and broken toes? No thank you.
At the end of the day, a passion can only be truly understood by those who share the same passion. The rest of us are sideliners. Today is Super Bowl Sunday, when more than 100 million people will watch the greatest football game of the year. The rest of us will bring the dip.
Well here we are again, poised to launch into a fresh new year, in a perfect position to evaluate 2014 and set goals for 2015. With a glance over my shoulder, these were my high points:
- I co-authored a book, Two Brauds Abroad with long time correspondent Stephanie De La Garza about our travels to Africa and Costa Rica to be released this month
- I assimilated Bob’s Swiss boarding school experience via five days in Lugano at the Seventies TASIS Reunion
- I reintegrated into our relaxed little community in rural North Carolina without hiccup or blemish
- I assumed the role of property manager at The Plant and accomplished what I set out to do
- I lost that five pounds I picked up in Morocco
Peering straight ahead, here are my 2015 goals:
- Support my father’s transition into his 89th year
- Promote and sell my first book
- Figure out where I am and what direction I’m headed in the woods behind our house with the help of compass and topographical map
- Attract equines back into my life
- Cook one new recipe a month
- Exercise my singing voice
Let’s hear about your 2014 high points, low points, triumphs or notables and your 2015 wishes, goals and expectations.
Most folks who stay in one place long enough already know what Bob and I are just now finding out. If you build social capital with a particular group of people, at some point you can expect dividends.
Wikipedia describes a dividend as a payment made by a corporation to its shareholders, usually as a distribution of profits.
As children we were taught to give freely of our time and energy and so we did. We were also taught to expect reciprocation and fair treatment from others. What we didn’t learn was what happens if you live long enough in one particular place.
Shortly after my sixteenth birthday my parents moved for the eighth time. We had lived in one place for seven years where I felt at home and accepted, even though I had arrived there as the new kid on the block when my peers were already nine years old.
It was a sad day when I said goodbye to my two best friends. We wrote letters but lost touch when I began moving around the country. This was long before cell phones and social media. I left home within a year and fled town the next year to drift west, catching rides with my thumb and sleeping on floors.
Bob also had a socially fragmented childhood. His family moved to West Africa when he was nine and he was packed off to boarding school in Switzerland a few years later. After graduation he picked a university with mountains and stayed put for twenty years. He was better than I at keeping his friendships intact and routinely talks on the phone to his school mates from Ghana, Lugano and Colorado.
After Bob and I met we started flying again, living for a year in one spot, six months in the next. We spent four years on Maui and then dove back into our travel spree.
Three years later we settled down in Pittsboro, North Carolina, a place so community-minded they created their own currency which they aptly dubbed The Plenty. We had found our people and decided to take the plunge. Making a commitment to our new community, we began proving ourselves in the same way we have done everywhere else. “Always take the high road” is our mantra and we strive to give without expectations. It’s sobering to realize how many social capital accounts we’ve started and left behind.
After four and a half years in our new idyllic paradise we came unstuck again and found ourselves abroad. But this time we decided to keep the house and return home. I type that tentatively because the concept of home still eludes us. When you’ve been homeless these many years, it’s hard to say the word with conviction.
We returned a year ago and were immediately struck with how easily we slid back into step with the people we’d left behind. I picked up my phone and had a rolodex of tried and true resources at my fingertips. Around town we encountered twice as many familiar faces as not. How humbling it was to realize these seemingly unearned profits were coming from social capital we’d invested more than a year before.
When I shared this with my sister-in-law Darla I discovered she was well aware of social capital dividends. She lives with my brother John in a small town where her parents, their parents, her children and grandchildren have forged an incredible legacy of respectability. How amazing it must be to talk with someone who knew your parents or do business with someone you played with as a child!
Now it’s our turn. After all these years of investing in community we have finally arrived at the pot of gold. Everything is so easy these days that we feel like we’re coasting when in reality we are just not starting from scratch, not having to prove ourselves to a fresh set of people, not investing energy and walking away from the rewards.
For the first time one of our social capital accounts is distributing dividends and that’s something to be thankful for. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Camille, Kathryn, Grace and Deb – August, 2014
I’ve always thought of myself as the oldest child and only girl in a family of six, but if I reach back into my memory I recall that I had an older sister. By the time I was eleven, I had five younger brothers and so naturally I ran with it. We romped through the neighborhood, climbing trees, jumping off roofs, investigating construction sites, breaking into abandoned homes and playing Cowboys and Indians, Combat, Baseball, Football, Hide and Seek and Who Dies the Best.
Who Dies the Best was a uniquely East Coast version of Hide and Seek. The “Shooter” hid their eyes and counted while the rest of us scrambled for hiding places. One by one, the shooter would call out a name and that child would rush at him in ambush. Inevitably, the shooter would kill the ambusher and then rate their death based on believability and acrobatics. A back flip over a piece of lawn furniture, for example was sure to get you a high rating. After all of us lay strewn about the yard, the winner was named shooter for the next round.
The only time I got to be around a female family member in my age range was when Mom drove us from Jersey to Upstate New York to visit her older sister, Jeanette. Out of necessity, my cousin Barbara shared her bed with me. She was also an only daughter and my only female cousin and when we were together we generally put aside our boyish ways and behaved a bit more like little girls.
Darla and her youngest grandchild – May, 2014
When I was seventeen, my brother John fell in love with Darla and I did, too. She and John married a few years after that and has been my sister for more than forty years. Darla was followed by Deb, Bob’s wife and James’ wife Kathryn. Over the years the four of us have shared many conversations spanning a diverse range of topics, from recipe tips to the nebulous state of our family’s mental health.
I recently reconnected with Barbara who I had last seen in 1985. She goes by the name Grace now and our lively telephone conversations are as deeply nourishing as if we’d been talking every day for the past thirty years.
Grace and my other sisters fill a niche no one else can fill. They are as invested in my family as I am and we can talk for hours about matters which would probably bore anyone else
But back to my older sister. To this day, the phrase “Mind your sister,” conjures up a clear picture of Sister, my Nana’s dog, an amorphous black lab. With the help of a few photographs and stories, I learned that Sister, or Sissy as Nana sometimes called her was my babysitter when I was a wee baby.
The deal was Nana would set me down on a blanket under the big oak tree and put Sissy in charge. Her job was to make sure I didn’t crawl off of that blanket and from what I hear she did it well. This may explain why I was slow to talk, preferring instead to bark and scamper around on all fours.
So, despite being reared in a whorl of male energy, and for a time believing that I was a dog, I turned out pretty normal. It just goes to show you that nothing in life is set in stone and that eventually everything evens out. And that even if you think you’re the only girl/boy/dog/etc. – you’re not.