Lower Salem Love Letter

In the little hamlet of Lower Salem, just a few miles from our home, is an elementary school, high on a hill overlooking PawPaw Creek and a small dairy farm.

My kids attended Lower Salem Elementary, and I will be forever grateful for the wonderful teachers who graced their lives in this one-class-per-grade rural gradeschool.

Science Club, after school, organized by Mrs. Hendrix.  I helped sometimes. Binoculars and scope courtesy us.

It is the kind of school where a boy can show up in Crocs and a cape, every day, and get away with it through fifth grade. Because to his teachers and classmates, he is a superhero, even if we aren't so sure what his superpowers are yet.

And this lovely teacher, Mrs. Hendrix, saw what was so special about Liam and nurtured that. I know he is who he is today because she cared so much and believed in him, and gave him wings (and let him wear a cape).

For me, this is the quintessential photo, that summons the place up in memory. I'm brought right back to when they were little and we entrusted them completely to this place, these people.

Liam, at the time this photo was taken, was in kindergarten, and having some issues with germs. He didn't want to touch the bench. Or anything. So he's got his little mitts all curled up and he's scowling, while Phoebe is being Perfectly Fine Despite All That. You can hear me tell a story about germs and those adorable kids at this link to NPR.  Do listen, if the player works for you; the written transcript loses a lot in translation.  But come back! You have to see more of our little village.

 Lower Salem also has a barber shop that is open sometimes. Fridays, 3-7, and Saturdays, 9-1pm. The little pole sign turns then.

We peeked in the window.

On the bulletin board, there's an ad for stump removal. The pink sign advertises Gracie's Grooming Salon, and the white one on the right says 

WANTED

PLACES TO TRAP BEAVER.

They would probably notice if I snuck in there on a Friday or Saturday and tore that sign down, so I won't. But I would sure like to. 

Nobody was home when we were snooping, but we thought there had been a cat around.

Yes, we're sure. We could see some cats on the hill across the road. But we knew better than to chase them.

In Lower Salem is a post office.  It's the brick building on the right. We'd never been inside it until the Whipple Post Office closed. Small rural post offices all over Ohio are closing, closing, closing, and we are much poorer for it, for they might be the only social gathering places in some rural areas. There is value to that that goes well beyond convenience.

I depend heavily on my local post office and postal carriers for much of my livelihood, which involves sending books, notecards, puzzles, art prints, CD's and plant parts (to name just a few things) to people far and near. These people send me money, and then I turn around and send their money to dentists and Bowdoin College.  

If I want to send something by any non-governmental carrier, I have to drive 18 miles to drop it off. This quickly becomes a problem. So I was crushed when, after having been cut to a four-hour office, the landlord refused to renew the lease on the tiny brown shed that was the Whipple Post Office, and it was suddenly no more.  It was a dark, dark day in Whipple when that happened. There's nothing in the building now.  Whaa?

What to do? I turned my eyes toward Lower Salem, only about 8 miles away.  That's it, white roofs gleaming through the sycamores along PawPaw Creek.

I loved having an excuse to go back. Since the kids have grown up, I haven't gotten over there much. Turkey vultures stayed there almost all winter this year, roosting in the trees on the high bluffs behind the village. I took that as a good omen, turkey vultures being (one of) my spirit guides.

If I took the right route, I could visit Nostrils and the Minidonks on the way!

Nostrils is the cutest horsie in the land, especially when she's got a fresh haircut.

  The minidonks are very, very sweet.  It's nice to see them on the long way to the post office. Velvety muzzles make everything better.

This photo was taken in early April from the front stoop of the little white Methodist church on the hill. The post office/bank complex is the brick buildling to the left, and I think the beautiful Gothic brick is the old school, now a community hall. The elementary school is just out of the picture to the right. But that's most of Lower Salem in this photo.

I will be honest. I was a bit trepidacious

 about bringing my business to a new post office. Because I inevitably wind up asking more of postal employees than your average bear.  What I mail can be big, bulky, and sometimes heavy. I knew that the success, or at least the pleasant execution, of my next big mailings--and I had a feeling they were going to be really big--depended upon whom I found behind the counter.

On my first visit, I took a deep breath, opened the door and let little Chet Baker take the lead. I figured I might as well just be me and let the chips fall where they may. And me = Zick + Chet Baker. We're a package deal. If the person behind the counter liked dogs even a little bit, everything would be fine. I hoped they liked dogs.

He trotted briskly into the foyer, stood up and tried to see over the counter. 

And what he saw was Miss Cynni. Who let out a squeal of delight and dove for her treat drawer.

It turns out that Miss Cynni is the kind of person who likes dogs. Probably more than anyone I know. 

Everything was going to be fine.

80 Minutes of Sun, Sky, Dog and Tiny Pony

I have a friend, also an artist, who lives on Cape Cod. Every day, she spends an hour or two on the beach, day in, day out. She posts photos on her Instagram feed. I like every one of them. When I think of Mary, I think of her on the beach. I love that she gives herself and her followers this gift of going to the beach with her, if only in our minds.

It's not that hard to do, to take a little time for ourselves. I work like a demon all day, saving the gift of beauty for a couple of hours in the afternoon before I pick Liam up at the bus. I work toward it. It's my carrot, my ice cream. I look at my watch and say, OK. I can run 40 minutes out, and 40 minutes back.

I pick a beautiful dirt road, drive well past the German shepherd who'd happily shred cheeky Chet Baker, park and off we go. Oh, what Chet and I can do with those 80 minutes in the sun!

We visit Nostrils and the minidonks. I don't know their real names, but that's OK. Nostrils just got a fabulous hair and tail cut. She also got her hooves done. She looks so cute with short bangs I can hardly stand it. Soon it will be a year since I discovered these sweet little animals. They are a major destination for me and Chet.

I love the way the sun plays on her Chincoteaguey hide. Here is an earlier photo of her right after her grooming session. She is about the cutest thing I have ever seen.

 I don't know if Nostrils is a mini-horse or a tiny pony, but she's about the right size for a squirrel monkey to ride. 

 

She's become so much friendlier since I can reach over the tiny electric fence to pet her.

 Why do I call her Nostrils, you ask?

That horsie. She kills me. This is for Em. Em, here is a big kiss from a tiny tiny horse. Once or twice I have managed to smooch her right on the velour. A very loud smooch. This is perhaps why she doesn't come close any more. Maybe. Next time I'm putting some carrots in my pockets. If I have to buy her kisses, I will. She's that sweet.

 The minidonks are friendlier, though. They adore me and hurry up to get kisses. Their muzzles are 100% velvet.

When you pat them great clouds of yellow dust rise out of their long hair. Whew, what a mess minidonks are, always rolling in the mud. Nostrils isn't much better about that.

Speaking of electric fences, Chet Baker wanted a closer smell at the minidonks and ducked under the innocuous looking wire last week. I called him right back out.

"That is an ELECTRIC fence, Chet Baker, and if you hit that wire you will be VERY sorry. Not only that, but those minidonks might just plant a hoof in your ribs. You do not know them. You stay on THIS SIDE. (This Side is a command he knows very well from 5 years of road running. THIS SIDE Chet Baker. And he crosses immediately.).

I went on petting the animules and by and by I heard a BAROWMP?? from Chet Baker. Who had sneaked back under the fence a little ways back down the road and gotten himself zapped. I couldn't help but chuckle. He was all doubled up and bug-eyed. "I TOLD YOU you'd get zapped, Chet Baker!!"

Now he was in a terrible dilemma. That hot wire was between him and Mether! He ran toward me, on the wrong side of the fence.

"Oh Bacon just duck back under, and give yourself plenty of clearance. I hope you've learned your lesson!"
He stood there hunch-backed for a few seconds, then pasted his ears back and dove under the wire. Safe with Mether. He had to sit on my lap for a little while and get a long, tight hug until he stopped trembling.

Now when we park and start our run on that road he sits in the car and has to be told to get out and come along.
I laugh and laugh. "You are NOT going to get a complex about this road. It is one of my favorite roads and you are coming along!"

 

  So this is what he does while I pet the critters now. He stands on the far side of the road, looking away. He will not even look at the horses and minidonks. I think he thinks they have something to do with the zapping.

As soon as we're past the grave danger of the zapfence, he's happy-go-lucky Chet again.

 

Really, this November. I cannot remember a November so beautiful, so mild, so glorious. We've had one hard frost and the rest haven't been enough to kill all the zinnias and morning glories. I still have flowers blooming in the yard. Sigh. It's so, so beautiful. Well do I know what most Ohio Valley Novembers are like. So I'm rolling around in this one.

And so is The Bacon. What a lucky doggeh he is, to have places like this to run free as a bird, every single day. What a lucky dog I am, to be able to do this, too.