the fall and model buses just hits really hard when they were released at the exact time a social crisis was ongoing and politicians were ignoring the deaths of civillians due to police brutality in a third world country with a history of dictatorship

like it's just got a different vibe yk

You Saved Me - Derek Hale x fem!reader part 25

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2005

It was the semi-finales for girl’s lacrosse. Miraculously, I was made captain as a freshman. Which meant, for some reason, people were offended and thought that I should be picked on more. Fact of the matter is that lacrosse is a game of strategy. Together; with the help of my teammates, we would play to win. Being captain wasn’t a choice, Finstock made me captain and the role was a big shoe to fill. But here we are, semi-finales.

As we made our way out to the play, I looked at the stands. Mom, Dad, Uncle Noah, Stiles, Scott on one end. Laura and Derek on the other side. 

There were fifteen minutes left in the game, the score was tied. We needed to make one more goal to win and get to the finales. For this next play, I was face to face with the other team captain, waiting for the pearl to be thrown. 

“You don’t deserve to be captain.” The girl glared, her eyes looked like they wanted to melt through my helmet and into my brain. 

“Excuse me?” 

“You heard me. I worked my ass off for four years to be captain. What makes you so special?” 

I blinked at her, a little confused as to where this hostility was coming from, “I’m just playing a game.” 

“A real captain knows the lacrosse is more than a game.” She smirked, “When we win this, I’m getting a scholarship to So Cal, so why don’t you just do what freshman do best and lose.” On one hand I felt bad for her. She probably had parents that pushed and pushed for her to be the best. And I also felt bad because I knew we were gonna win.

The ref blew the whistle starting play. And everything was going according to plan. That was until I was passed the pearl. I ran with it, tossing it to another player. Meaning that it was completely unnecessary for me to be tackled and would be considered aggressive. But that didn’t stop the other captain from using her entire body to slam me into the ground. One minute I was standing and the next I had was on the ground. My chest felt tight, like I was straining to breathe. When I opened my eyes, I saw her face over mine, smirking down at me. 

“HEY!” I heard Finstock’s booming voice, “Ref! Aren’t you gonna call that?!” No whistle, either the ref hadn’t seen it or he was allowing it. But Derek wasn’t allowing it. I heard multiple shouts and then watched the player who stood above me get shoved away, Derek replaced her. He knelt down, placing a hand on my shoulder. 

“Derek, what are you doing?” I groaned. 

“Can you get up?” He asked, trying to help me sit up. I hissed at the movement. 

Derek turned back to the bench, “Get a medic!” And only then did the whistle blow. The girl had given plenty of excuses, but they still gave her team a three minute penalty that made them lose the game. Looks like I had been right. 

I was taken to the hospital and diagnosed with a concussion but I would be fine just in time for the finales. The whole time in the waiting room, in the room itself, and even when we got home, Derek had been right beside me, holding my hand.

- 

I had grown to hate hospitals and everything about them since the last time I had been to one I had been stabbed. The gowns with the open backs that were way too open to the public. That smell that was a cross between cleaner and the latex and rubber of gloves. The beds that were as hard as a rock and were covered in paper that would crinkle and make noise even if you weren't moving. That apprehensiveness that would build up in your stomach every time you heard footsteps coming down the hallway.

Thankfully, I didn't have to go through any of that. Since I was a pregnant werewolf, going to the hospital in Beacon Hills was a definite no-no, so the next best option is Dr. Deaton, a veterinarian and a makeshift supernatural doctor. Not to mention a full blown druid in this day and age. But from what I've learned in the past couple years, old magic was very much alive. 

I was sitting on the metal table used for the animals, swinging my legs back and forth, waiting for Deaton to come back from getting my medical records emailed to him by Melissa. He could have gotten them himself, he just figured it would be less illegal if he got them from a nurse. 

Thoughts were racing through my head for no rhyme or reason. Since I became a werewolf, every scar or scratch on my body had become only a memory. My stab wound, the acid burns on my legs, the cuts on my face from being tortured all those months ago which really felt more like a lifetime. It had been a different life, a life fabricated through magic and spells. A life that almost didn't feel like mine anymore.

"Sorry, for the wait, (Y/N)." Deaton walked into the room, his eyes scanning over the stack of papers in his hands.

"You're alright, Doc." I smiled, leaning back on my hands, "So how am I looking?"

“Very pregnant.”

"Nothing gets past you, huh?” I smirked. To be fair, I was approaching the three and a half month mark. Deaton smiled, taking my vitals and a vial of blood. 

“So I’ve been made aware that Mr. Hale is the father.” He said, pressing a cotton ball to my skin after removing the needle, “How's that going?"

“About as well as you can imagine.” 

“So not at all?” He asked. I nodded, shrugging my shoulders. 

"Everything looks normal," He smiled as he wrote everything down on his clipboard, "Just need to get a look at the little guy." He looked up, "You said it was a boy, right?" He asked, moving over to get the sonographer that I’m sure had never been used on a human before.

“Unless the baby’s sprouting a third arm. That'd be cool." I smiled, “But yeah, that’s what the ultrasound tech in Scotland said.”

He chuckled and shook his head, "Alright, lay back and lift your shirt up." I laid back on the table, lifting my shirt up. The jelly he put on my stomach was cold and reminded me of the goo that had encased Jackson when he was a lizard person. He moved the sensor over my stomach and looked into the monitor. Ultrasounds were usually a little hard to see anyway, just like a fancy warschak paintings. And the fetus? Kinda like a funky jellybean.

“There we are.” He grinned, “Little werewolf.”

Craning my neck, I looked up at him, "You can tell he's a werewolf?"

"No.” He took the monitor off, handing me a paper towel so I could wipe off my stomach, “But odds are since his parents are both werewolves, it would make sense that the child would be also. However, you had the dormant gene, maybe your child will too." He turned off the sonographer.

“Have any names picked out?”

"I have a few... I liked Jacob, which Derek hated because it was too ‘Twilight’. Then there's one other but I don't know about it." The name that Derek loved more than anything for some reason, "Nicholas." And damn was it good. 

"What about Nicholas Jacob? Just use both of them." 

"Or I could name him after Stiles" I smirked to myself, "Mieczyslaw Nicholas.”

"Maybe that would be a little too much."

“Stiles is a little too much.” I smiled to myself

-

"So Nicholas?" Sheriff looked at me from across the table, a cup of coffee in his hand. I hummed and nodded, sipping my hot cocoa.

"Nicholas?” He asked again.

"Mieczyslaw?" I raised my eyebrows at him.

He raised his eyebrows, "It was his mother's father's name." 

“I remember Grandpa Mitch, trust me." I smiled, holding my mug in both hands, “I was thinking maybe Nicholas Noah.” I avoided looking in his eyes. Emotional talks were never really his strong suit, especially after Aunt Claudia. I wanted to honor him somehow.

He smiled, blinking a few times, “Sounds pretty good to me.” After a moment he asked: "What are you going to do now?"

I finished my drink and stood up to put it in the sink, "My plan, right now at least, is that I'm going to stay here to have the baby... Then...” I washed out the mug, “Then I'm not sure. I don't know if I want to go back to Scotland or stay here." He stood up as well and pulled me into his arms for a tight hug. I wrapped my arms around him, blinking my own tears away. 

Uncle Noah stroked my hair and kissed the top of my head, "Whatever your decision, I'll be there for you. Whenever you need me. I'll always, always be there for you." 

-

My pajamas had taken a turn for the worst. No more t-shirts and shorts, it’s moo moos and nightgowns from now on. I pulled my night gown over my head, smoothing out the skirt. Did I look like I had raided a grandmother’s closet? Absolutely. I looked down at my stomach, rubbing my hand over my bump.

"Are you a little alien?" I smiled after a moment, listening deeply to his little heartbeat, “Nice.” I glanced over at my desk, then pulled back my blankets to get into bed. I stopped, my head snapping back towards the window where there were red eyes staring back at me. 

 Now, if this was two years ago I would be losing my mind over the fact that there were red eyes staring at me. But since I've gone through emotional Hell, I was feeling rather annoyed by some alpha that just thought they could mosey around my house, around my window, and around my goddamn personal space. I stalked over to the window and slammed it open. 

"Listen, pal, you have about five seconds to get out my yard or I swear by all that is damnable, I will put you through so much pain that your great-grandchildren will be sore."

The eyes came closer, revealing a familiar crooked jaw, "Nice to see you too." 

"You could have just come through the front door, ya know? If Stiles can make a spare key to your house, then he can make you one for his." Scott only looked at me seriously. It was like the kid from three months ago was gone and all there was left was a battle hardened man. 

"Can I please come in?" I stepped away from the window, watching him crawl inside and stand up.

"I've been great, Scott, I've only been in Scotland for months, crying and wondering why none of my friends or family were contacting me. How have you been?" Was it petty? Absolutely, but the hormones were raging. Even if Derek told everyone to stop talking to me, what hold did he have over anyone when Scott was around?

"I'm sorry about that, I really am. But I came to-"

I cut him off, after finally connecting, "Who did you kill?"

“What?”

"To become an alpha, who did you take it from?" 

"I didn't kill anyone!” He said in an exasperated voice, “Why does everyone ask that? Not killing people has been my thing since Peter bit me." He ran his hand through his shorter hair, it suit him.

It then dawned on me. The one thing that had little to no documentation of. Even the Lunar Circle had just the basics. It was the stuff of legend, a hear say. I didn't think it was possible. 

"A true alpha." He stared at me for a second and blinked a couple times.

"You're a true alpha." I grinned, "Oh my god, Scott, this is unbelievable." I grabbed his shoulders and gave them a slight squeeze, "Tell me everything. I wanna know how it happened and what situation you were in. How were you feeling? Were you hurt? Was your body under so much stress that it just happened?”

Scott grabbed my hands and placed them by my sides, "(Y/N), maybe another time I came here for a reason."

"Oh, right, of course." Probably looking ridiculous, “What’s on your mind?”  

"I really don't think it's safe for you here." 

"Here we go agai-" 

"Will you just listen to me before you start whining?" He growled. That certainly shut me up. I raised my eyebrows at him, but I guess I should hear him out. I motioned for him to continue.

"I'm not so much worried about you.” He said, “I know you can take care of yourself. I'm worried about..." He paused, "Uh..." 

“Nicholas.”

"Yeah, I'm worried about Nicholas." He sat in my computer chair and leaned forward, "The pack we're facing don't care who they kill or why, all they want is to hurt us. You're my friend, (Y/N). I don't want anything to happen to you. And I don't want anything to happen to your kid. Please." He rolled forward and took my hands in his, "Please, go back to Scotland. I promise you, you won't be in the dark. You don't deserve to be left out. I'll call myself, and if not me, Stiles will. It's not safe for you.” I looked down, gnawing on my lip. Scott was right, he was completely right. It wasn't safe. I couldn't be a tough alpha when I had so much to live for. Keeping this kid safe is my top priority. As much as I wanted to stay home, it wasn’t safe.

"You'll tell me when it's safe to come back?" 

"You have my word." 

I sighed, looking up at him with a half-smile, "I may be stubborn as hell, but that doesn't mean I can't admit when someone's right. And you're right, Scott. I'll go." 

He closed his eyes, like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders. He dropped my hands and rolled back, "I'm so glad you agreed with my first speech, if you hadn't I would have been improvising for my life." He chuckled.

Shaking my head, I grinned at him, “It’s good to see you again.” 

“It’s good to see you too.”

- 

"So you're going back?" Uncle Noah looked over his coffee with tired eyes, spying my luggage that had only been unpacked for two days. It was a new day and another plane ride.

"It's not safe for me. It's not safe for any of you." I rested my head on his shoulder, "But I know that will never stop you from helping the ones you care about." 

A small smile pulled at his lips, "You're way too good at reading me." 

"Well, I've only known you my whole life." 

He set down his coffee and hugged me tight, like this was the last time he would see me. I know he was worried about me and Stiles, it was in his nature. This was the best option for me. As much as I wanted to stay and fight. I couldn't fight if my child was kidnapped and hell knows what would happen to him. 

Giving him one last squeeze, I pulled away, the honking outside meant that Stiles had pulled in and was ready to drop me off at the airport. 

"I'll call you when I land. Or text you. Depends on the time." I kissed his cheek, "Bye Uncle Noah." 

“Goodbye, sweetheart. Stay safe." I kissed his cheek. My head held high, I grabbed my bag and my rolling luggage and went out the door. Stiles grabbed my bags, opening the back of Roscoe to throw my luggage in. That was until a familiar black Camero pulled into the driveway, blocking Stiles in. 

"God. Dammit." I muttered to myself. My life was just going swell, wasn't it? I looked down at my stomach and sighed. I felt the burn of acid reflux in my throat, my child showing obvious discomfort as well. Me too, little man. Me too. 

There was no way around it, I couldn’t leave without talking with him. Not that I should have to begin with. I sucked. 

Derek got out of the car, coming around quickly and standing in front of me. 

“Derek, I don’t think you should be here.” Stiles stepped forward. Very sweet, but realistically Stiles wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing against Derek. They stared each other down, the air just filled with masculinity.

“Stiles...” I said, grabbing my bags, “If he wants to take me to the airport, let him.” 

Stiles eyes widened, “You’re really giving him the time of day? Really?” 

Sighing, I pulled Stiles into my arms and hugged him tightly. He hesitated, but hugged me back. 

“I know that this seems like a bad idea, and most of my ideas are bad, but I got this. Trust me.” I smiled and kissed his cheek, “I love you.” He pulled away, looking between Derek and I. 

“I love you too. Scott and I will let you know when it’s safe to come back.”

“You better.” I turned back to Derek, trying to keep up the attitude I had to keep Stiles at ease. I held out my bags. He took them without a word and we both started the trip to the airport. It was hard to get a read on him at the moment. He emotions were dull, nothing that stood out. He still looked as tense as ever. His brows were knitted together and his piercing green eyes looked hard. 

“So...” He said after a while, “What are you going to do about...” He trailed off. 

“Him?” I looked down at my stomach, “I’m just preparing and getting ready for him. I picked a name too. Nicholas.” 

A small smile pulled at his lips, but he hid it, “Hmm.” 

“Derek....” Now or never, “I just need to know why?” 

He inhaled deeply, “I wish I could tell you. I don’t even remember it happening. Like I was under a spell and I couldn’t break out of it.” So he had experienced what I had when I was under Matt’s control. In this situation, in Beacon Hills, there was no reason not to believe him. His heart told me it was true. 

“I’m sorry that I hit you.” 

“I don’t blame you.” He glanced over at me, “If I felt the same thing you did, I would probably lose control too.” 

“I’m tired of people taking advantage of you. If I see that bitch-” I hadn’t realized that my eyes had turned red. 

“(Y/N)...” He reached over his right hand, placing it on my knee, “Calm down.” I took a deep breath and leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes. Just the simplest touch could calm me down and it was something that I missed. 

“Nicholas, huh? I like it.”

Happiness welled up in my chest, “I sure hope so since you picked it.” 

“I didn’t think you liked it.” 

I sat back up and opened my eyes, “What are you talking about? I’ve always liked that name.”

“Riiiiight.” 

By the time the conversation ended, we were at the airport. I reached for the handle to open the door when he reached over to stop me. 

“I let you leave alone last time, I’m walking you in."

We got inside and checked in, the only thing left was for me to board. Maybe it was a good thing that he didn't take me to the airport last time, because now that he was here, I didn't want to leave him.

"How selfish would it be for me to ask you to drop your life here and come with me?" I leaned on his arm.

"Very. Trust me, the thought crossed my mind. I'm needed here. I have to be here for Cora."

I smiled slightly, "We're gonna get through this. Soon we'll be together again and we can have that big happy family that you deserve. That we deserve."

Derek sighed, resting his head on top of mine, "Is it cliche to hope that this all ends tomorrow?" 

My smile faltered, "Don't believe in miracles, Derek."

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Read part 26 here!

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Why Woodie-n’t You?

How hunting woodcock can increase your dog’s success with waterfowl.

By: Chad Fix

Most of us hunting dog owners think our dogs are the greatest things since sliced bread. We’re the soccer moms of the hunting community. The truth of the matter is 90% of hunting dogs are decent, at best; this is especially true in the duck hunting. It’s not the dog’s fault either – it’s us, the handlers.

We don’t look from an outside lens. The standard colloquialism in the duck hunting tribe: “I’ve got a great a duck dog. He’s pretty good with pheasants too when we’ve gone to the Dakotas.” Upon hearing this, I just think to myself: so he’s pretty good with pheasants in the thick stuff (cattails, hedgerows, etc.), but why is he good for nothing at finding crippled ducks that bury themselves in the exact, same cover?

I imagine if I actually asked this out loud, the conversation would go South as quick as a blue-winged teal even feels a semblance of an autumn chill. My hope would be that the conversation would be like the following conversation (or better!):

“Oh what are you talking about? He’s found some this past season. And it’s a cripple, we’re talking about here…those things are long gone…besides, they’re food for the foxes and eagles.”

(what a note of consolation at the end…anyway, back to the convo)

So if foxes and eagles can find them, why can’t your dog?

“Look, just the other day my dog made a 200 yard retrieve on the water.”

That’s, great! You should be proud of your dog, BUT what about all those cripples? It doesn’t make sense; your dog shouldn’t have a problem finding them in similar cover he finds pheasants. Am I wrong?

Please hear me out.

First off, we, as hunters, have a moral obligation to give fair chase to every animal we down. Why then is it okay to easily shrug off cripples that go into thick cover? We owe it them.

Further, you owe it to your dog. They’ll get the same praise from you – just like the time when they made that 200 yard retrieve on the water. Which only encourages them even more to hit the thick stuff even harder the next time – there’s a reward!

                                                         GIve your dog more credit in this.

Call it hypothesizing, but there’s a truth to be heard: when a dog is exposed to a certain type of cover they may familiarize the scent of it with the game they’re scenting out; if a dog has been exposed to pheasants in cattails, it may have learned that a “Good boy” is when they sniff out and retrieve a pheasant – meanwhile, not giving two sniffs to a duck because a “Good boy” for a duck is when it’s retrieved on the water or cut corn field. Essentially there could be a disconnect.

The connection can be made through exposure.

If it’s hunting season for you, the best form of exposure you can provide for your dog is through pass shooting on land. Look to add a couple of these hunts to your schedule for some needed change. My old man and I have been fortunate to pass shoot a wood duck roost for the past few years with our dogs. It has made a world of difference because it has a perfect diversity of thick cover: we hunker down in tall grass with the dogs, behind us are woods, and in front of us are cattails.

As the birds pass, they’ll fall in each type of cover – given their flight path, how fast they’re going and how long it takes / how many shots fired before a bird is dropped. Thereby giving opportunity for the pups to associate birds in all three types of cover.

After one or two hunts, your four-legged companion will get their reps in – pending you being able to drop some. If you do, be sure to put a good mark on the bird(s) that fall before pulling up on more flying overhead. Birds don’t stray too far from where they land if there is cover for them to hide in.

You want to set your dog up for success, so putting them on the exact area it falls is the best option to do such. When you bring your dog over to the marked fall, position your dog downwind of the bird, if possible. It’s a cardinal sin not to and I can’t count how many hunters just go in with their dogs without thinking that through. It’s those same hunters that were the big pheasant hunters mentioned before and the ones I wonder if they even know how critical wind plays into hunting pheasants: hunt into the wind for the dog’s sake and, secondly, because pheasants generally fly with the wind. Just my two cents, but now I’m digressing…

So what if you don’t have that ideal pass shooting spot? No problem! If you’re in the Mississippi or Atlantic Flyway, you’re in luck. There’s another migratory “woodie” you can hunt: the American Woodcock. Before snarling your nose at me, hear me out.

They are an absolute hoot to hunt. They’re the reason why my girl, after a catastrophic encounter when she was a pup, has turned the corner on becoming a solid duck dog too. “Yeah, but woodcock eat worms. That’s gross!”

Know what else eats worms? All those bluegill you caught this past spring on their spawning beds. I didn’t see you complaining after your fourth plate of filleted, fried gluttony. While I’m at it, those jumbos (perch) and crapps (crappies) eat maggots! Walleyes eat leeches for Pete’s sake. Turn your eyes to birds of a feather. The most highly coveted upland game for the table, the ruffed grouse, is found in the same cover. The first one I ever shot in my life had a garter snake it its crop! It was the best tasting bird I’ve ever had.

Pluck a woodcock and put it against your favorite duck species on the spit and see which one tastes better. I’ll put $100 down that the woodcock will taste better.

                                               Laugh all you want at their prominent beaks.                                                        There's more than meets the eye.

That’s what I told my “duck-hunting-or-nothing” buddy during the annual “Waterfowl Weekend” that he hosts for a handful of his friends and family. In years past, we hunted all day for 3-4 days straight. Normally the birds are flying in the mornings and loaf the rest of the day. I believe we’ve only shot one bird out of the 5 Waterfowl Weekends I’ve attended over the years during the afternoon hunts, and that was during the middle of a migration – sadly, we just were in a bad location.

Getting to bad, last year’s Waterfowl Weekend was atrocious. We were in between migrations. The dogs were getting restless. We were too; after the second, full day of hunting without seeing a single bird in the two different counties we hunted, I asked my buddy if we could change up our afternoon activity for the third day.

Instead of hitting the water, I suggested hitting the woods. It’ll give opportunity for all of us (dogs included) to at least get a change of scenery, do a little walking where the leaves were dropping, and maybe put some meat on the table.

My “duck-hunting-or-nothing” buddy graciously relented. When the time came, we limited out in twenty minutes. His grin said it all when we rallied up before walking back to the truck.

“I don’t know why I haven’t done that before, but you got me hooked for life. It took a couple birds to get used to shooting in thick cover, but I think it helped me to key in on the bird and not worry about the cover around me…It’s good for Leo (his 2 year old chessie) too – bird diversity in different cover only helps!”

So it not only helped him change perspectives on shooting better through cover (as this sometimes can be the case when hunting out of a duck blind), but it also benefitted his dog. Win, win!

                                                  The next day he also got his first grouse

They also have a little oily, funky taste – just like our beloved waterfowl. And, their breasts are red meat – surprisingly enough – something I’d bet our pups may be able scent as well. I could be stretching it on that, but who knows (considering their olfactory acumen). The similarities can help your dog associate that oily, funky smell to woods, bogs, tall grass, creek beds, and edges of cattails – where woodcock tend to reside. This, in turn, can help to turn on the proverbial light bulb upstairs in their noggins. They’ll be versed to associate that smell to various cover.

What if you don’t have woodcock in your area? Try to walk for snipe after a duck hunt, or if your state permits it, have a blind mate paddle around close to shore with your boat and see if you can jump any.

Another great option is getting into some dove shoots, if your state allows it. Typically you’ll be setting up on tree lines, so you’ll probably be getting some thick cover for your dog to work in. Dove shoots provide the bonus for reinforcing steadiness prior to the season.

And if you’re reading this in the offseason, then you’re in luck! You’ll have the opportunity to get in some offseason reps, then some dove hunting, and then on to the real show when the waterfowl season begins. But, first, let’s get into training.

Hopefully you have saved a duck wing or, better yet, freeze a small to medium sized duck, such as a teal, bufflehead or wood duck. If not, contact a local retriever club – they should have someone that could provide you one.

Start first with your mindset. Always put your dog in situations to succeed, especially when they’re learning something new. Challenging a dog has its time and place, but not at this point.

First, place the wing or bird on the edge of the cattails or tall, thick grass and have your dog retrieve it. Then slowly progress further into the cattails/thick grass by 3 foot intervals on a straight line. This helps keep the scent localized so the dog can find it easier. Think of it like a blood trail with deer; each spot you drop it will retain its indication that a bird was there. Your dog will then be encouraged to go deeper into the cover.

Remember to never just throw it in the cover as we’re not training the dog to mark the bird, but to scent the bird. In addition, it’ll give you the chance to bury the bird under cover, once your dog progresses successfully along.

That’s what it’s all about. Success is the greatest tool in the dog trainer’s tool box. Exposing your dog to success in various cover only makes them better.

I’ll be the first to say that my dog does not have the best nose. In fact, I be willing to say that your dog probably has a better one than hers. Remember earlier where the conversation was about finding cripples?

Well, my pup had a 95% success rate last season at finding crippled waterfowl. Since your dog has a better nose than mine, this translates to you and your pooch having an even higher percentage of success! In turn, you’ll have more meat in the freezer. Plus, who wouldn’t want to add more fond memories with our best friend? There’s something to be said about seeing your dog come out of the gnarly stuff with a bird you downed; if you have even the faintest of pulse, it’ll give you goosebumps.

Versatility is the name of the game. Think outside the box for a change. Quit being a soccer mom!

                                                         This won't be a sight you loathe

It’d been a long day.

It had barely been a week since they had left Sinktuary on another mission, but they had all endured enough for it to feel as though a month had passed. There were many more creatures lurking in the cave than they had been warned about so they were taken by surprise. It seemed as though the deeper they traveled the more dangerous the creatures were, which would be fine except that they were definitely not expecting these and had not packed nearly enough health potions.

This was where Nanette found himself. The last thing he remembered was getting shoved hard against the stone and falling unconscious. When he awoke, He was lying on the ground in the mouth of the cave, a crackling fire sparking in front of him. From where he was lying he could make out Siren and Nasa patching up his...travel partners? Compatriots?-- could he consider them friends now?-- as they sat in various states of disarray surrounding the flames. Even without moving, he could feel dried blood crusting in his hair at the back of his head.

That was definitely gonna be a bitch to get out.

He groaned, attempted to sit up--too fast, if his spotty vision was anything to go by, and drug one of his hands up through his hair trying to find the spot where the blood was coming from. Squinting through the smoke and warm haze, he stared at the slightly blurred forms of Brolwyn and Fallulah who were being taken care of. There was a muted green glow coming from Nasa’s hands which was held over one of Brolwyn’s arms, what looked like a nasty gash was already closing itself upon her forearm. As he tried to focus his vision, staring intently at the blur that was Fallulah, his chipped fingernails scraped roughly against the injury that lay hidden in his hair. A loud hiss scraped itself from the inside of his throat, and his eyes clenched shut impulsively. Both Brolwyn and Siren yelp, startled at the sudden loud noise, seeming to be on the alert for more creatures coming out from the darker depths of the caves. His attempt at vocalizing an apology for scaring them falls flat, too mumbled to really make sense of any words he was trying to say. His head had been replaced by thundercloud, and he found he would really rather go to sleep than try to puzzle out what the hell that was supposed to mean.

The next time he woke up, there was murmuring coming from those around him and a warm set of hands at the back of his head. Immediately, he tried to lurch away, one hand already itching towards one of the daggers that he kept strapped to his thighs when a wave of dizziness and nausea flooded throughout his body, coursing through him in a crescendo of unpleasant tingles. The being-- the person behind him made a disapproving noise and tugged him gently back by the shoulder so he was back in the position he was in before. After taking a deep breath through which he tried to focus past his inability to remember which way was up, a soft melody snaked its way into his attention. The warmth radiating from the wound in his head must have been some kind of magic then, and based on the familiar hummed melody, Siren must have been helping him. Nanette forced another deep breath of musty cave air into his lungs and tried to relax. He had never understood magic, as far as he could remember at least. It was too complicated. He'd much prefer to just punch someone in the face and be done with it.

He let himself lean back against the warmth, which eventually traveled from the back of his head to the top to his forehead and his nausea slowly fades. Still, his eyes remain squinted shut against the bright fire in front of him. Fallulah and Nasa were talking strategy beside him, trying to understand how their mission could have become such a complete disaster in such a short span of time. Nasa keeps discreetly pulling little clumps of sage--always fucking sage-- out of his pack and trying to sneakily hide them in the various folds of Nanette’s clothing, so Nanette quietly puts what he can find back in Nasa’s bag.

Siren joined them when she was done fixing up Nanette's head. She sat on his other side and began poking at the fire with one slightly clawed finger in a way that he was sure would be agonizingly painful to anyone who didn’t have demon blood running through their blood. She looked as exhausted as the rest of them which was definitely understandable given the battle they just fled from. She had a bandage tied around her leg which was already slightly stained with red. Nasa’s head kept drooping every couple minutes and then snapping back up as if he was waking up. Suddenly Nanette remembered how young their druid truly was. If he weren’t so tall and spiky Nanette would definitely offer up his shoulder for Nasa to sleep on. Brolwyn was sitting slightly apart from their little huddle, little hands held out towards the fire, flame licking startlingly close to her fingers, eyes tired.

Nanette quietly took stock of his party, clocking their emotional and physical states and suddenly he realized how truly low the group's morale was. There wasn't anything really that he could do about that though as far as he was aware. All he had were icebreakers, a collection of vaguely shiny objects, and a head full of Void. He sighed and leaned on the side of Nasa’s arm to look at the stars. Not for the first time, he found himself wishing for at least some of the memories that he had lost. Maybe there’d be something in that bank of ol’ memoria that would help him help his teammates. Sad people were boring to hang out with, was all. He didn’t actually care how they felt. Obviously.

One of his hands reached up to tangle itself in his hair again, maybe to see if the blood was still there or if Siren’s magic took that away too, but as soon as his hand came close to his hair, Siren’s taloned hand came into view and swatted his fingers away. She gave him A Look that told him not to meddle with the freshly healed area, and promptly went back to poking at the flames. Sighing, he tried to stretch himself out so that his feet rested on top of Siren’s legs, but ended up accidentally kicking the hard case that held her violin that sat between them on the rocks.

Better idea.

“I have a better idea than whatever this is that we’re currently doing,” Nanette said, “As per usual. Save your applause.”

Leaning forward to grab the hard case, he flipped open the latches and gently picked up the instrument.

“What if I play you all a song on Siren’s violin” Nanette tried for cheerful and probably missed by about a hundred yards.

“Do you even know how to play an instrument?” Brolwyn asked wearily, though, Nanette noted, she did scoot a fraction closer to the group huddle.

“Brolwyn. Bro. Mom. Please. I don’t even know the name of the monastery I trained in for the past however many years. How on earth would i know how to play the violin?”

“Just please be careful with my instrument. It’s very viol-important to me” Siren had a joking smile on her face but the look in her eyes said 'I've dealt with far too much today. Don't make me deal with you too.'

“Now see that just makes me want to throw this in the fire” Nanette shot back.

“Wow that joke struck a chord with you, huh. Let's not resort to violins here” Her grin widened.

“Thin fucking ice, Mirawraek.”

“I’ll stop if you let me play my own instrument instead of allowing you to string us along.”

Nanette groaned in mock frustration, but handed over the instrument, poking her on the forehead for good measure. Nasa high fived Siren over his head, laughing loudly. Brolwyn seemed to have achieved the level of comfort she desired and had joined the huddle near Fallulah.

“Play us your funky magic music then” Fallulah grunted, giving the pair of them a very exasperated look.

Siren thought for a moment, tapping a little ditty on the bridge of the violin. Upon deciding on a song, she pulled her bow from the hard case and began playing an upbeat sort of fiddle tune that sounded like something out of one of the taverns near the port. The chords seemed a bit rusty at first as though it had been a fairly long time since she’d played the song but eventually the notes smoothed and picked up speed. There weren’t words it seemed, but somehow the song felt weird to him. It felt as though each chord in the song pulled at some forgotten, cobwebbed, corner of his mind, but he couldn’t quite place it. Still, he somehow found himself humming along almost immediately and tapping his feet against the rocky dirt at the mouth of the cave.

Strangely enough, upon hearing the song, Fallulah leapt to her feet. She cast an undeniably weird glance in Nanette’s direction before reaching over and taking Brolwyn’s hand and tugging her up into the area between the fire and the makeshift rock-bench that they had found. A smile crept across Nanette’s face despite his best efforts and only grew when he heard a vaguely cat-like mrrp come from the dragonborn next to him as the two dwarves began to dance around.

At first the dance looked haphazard and random-- probably due to inexperience-- but after a few repeats, Nanette could see a pattern in their movements which itched at the empty space where his memories should be and suddenly he was desperate to get up and join the dance. He dragged Nasa out beside the two small women, somehow effortlessly acting out the ‘dance’ that Fallulah was performing. He didn’t stop to think about how he knew this tune or how he knew these steps. He somehow knew that if he focused on the tiny thread granted to him that the thread would undoubtedly leave him.

Siren laughed at them and sped up her playing slightly. It was a bit awkward with Nanette trying to lead Nasa in a dance the young one didn’t know, especially considering that Nasa was about a foot taller than him, but he made it work. Or tried at least. Even Fallulah seemed to be smiling slightly as she led Brolwyn in a circle. The repetition from before was suddenly exchanged for a new group of notes, but Nanette didn’t slow them down, somehow knowing to spin Nasa out towards Fallulah and swap partners. Dancing with Brolwyn was much easier, or it would have been if she would drop the lance that was still strapped to her back.

Eventually the song found its close, and Nanette flopped down onto the ground laughing. Siren set her violin down on top of her case and flopped down beside Nanette, grinning. When he stopped laughing long enough to open his eyes, he was startled to see Fallulah looking down at him with a confused look on her face.

“Thought you couldn’t remember anything?” She asked gruffly, one eyebrow raised.

“I can’t?” He said, eyes flicking around as if he was somehow going to spot his fleeting memories floating around his head or flying up from the fire, “Why?”

“Oh--uh… uhm… I don’t know. It’s uh, I mean a dance that the nobility around where I grew up would do at galas. That’s all.” Nanette desperately wanted to push further and find out more about what she meant by this, but the tight expression on her face and the uncomfortable twitch of her fingers at her sides made him reconsider. He had just fixed everyone's moods after all and he would hate to undo his work by fighting with Fallulah again. Instead, he stored that information away for later and rolled over so that he could curl into Siren-- so that he could hide his face. She made a startled noise but offered him her arm as a pillow.

“So what does that mean? You some rich-y rich person that knows how to dance and you’ve never showed us these fabulous skills until now? You’ve been holding out on us!” He teased, voice muffled from where his face was pressed into the junction of Siren's shoulder, giving Falullah room to change the subject if she wanted. One of his hands rubbed the signet ring that he had around his neck on a chain, eyebrows furrowing. Fallulah scoffed from above him, probably rolling his eyes though he couldn’t tell from his position, and turned once again to converse with Bro and Nasa.

“You good?” Siren asked, bringing one hand up to play with the ends of his hair.

“Peachy”

“Need someone to talk to?”

“It’s just memory stuff. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

Siren sighed and tapped his shoulder twice before pulling herself into a seated position, leaving him lying in the dirt still looking up at her.

“Fine, but if you need someone you know I’m here” She eventually said, shaking her head at him. Well. There was one thing she could do.

“Can you play some more of that type of music? I think I recognized it somehow” His voice came out quieter than he had intended, as though it was a secret too precious to be revealed to the rest of the group just yet. Even now the name of the piece she’d just finished playing was sitting in his mouth unable to form itself into the proper syllables it would take to create words. He couldn’t even quite remember the steps to the dance that he’d just done from memory. Siren smiled at him and reached back to where she’d placed her violin, picking it up and quietly plucking the notes instead of drawing them out with her bow. Nanette wiggled himself over so that his head was pillowed on her lap, eyes closed. While he listened to her play, he found himself smiling, and feeling more at home than he had in a long time.

#JaneTheVirgin: Jane the Brokenhearted Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Four

Look, I feel some kinda way and I knew it was going to happen.  You’ll recall in my midseason finale/spoiler alert post, I told you this was coming to pass.  I hate being right.

(If you haven’t seen the eppy yet, 1) why are you reading a recap and 2) don’t read ahead unless you want the spoiler spoiled.) (Go away.) (Stop playing.)

First of all, this episode was tight. It was Jane in peak form, firing on all cylinders, every single character involved.  It was written by showrunner Jennie Snyder Urman and directed by Melonie Mayron (Professor Donaldson).   At the top of the show, the Narrator takes us back to young Michael instead of young Jane.  Young Michael is dressed for Halloween in a cop outfit that’s adorably too big for him. In a nice bit of foreshadowing, Michael wants with all his heart to go trick-or-treating, but he’s sick and his mom won’t let him go.  In the present, Jane and Michael are looking through old photographs and come across a pic from that long ago Halloween. Michael swears he remembers that moment perfectly, but Jane explains something called “flashbulb memory,” memories that seem so vivid and clear because of the intensity of the emotion attached to them, not because of our accurate recollection. (She read that in the New Yorker, here’s the article: http://www.newyorker.com/science/maria-konnikova/idea-happened-memory-recollection) (I wish I could figure out how to hyperlink). Michael says, “Nah, I remember everything.”

The phone rings and Jane is offered her dream job, assistant to a publishing wunderkind.  (What happened to the other lady? Last I remember, Jane and Michael (sob) wowed the assistant at a bar singing Bruno Mars karaoke, right?). Rogelio stops by with a different kind of picture: a still from his nude scene (Rogelio’s genitalia is a gift that keeps on giving).  Ro invites Jane to the screening and she agrees to come as long as he tells her when to look away in order to avoid having the image her padre’s cadre seared on the inside of her eyelids.

Unlike the last time when Catalina (may she never return) told Jane to wing her interview, Jane is hella prepared.  And when Jane is prepared, she does the darn thing. She’s given a memoir to read and her prospects ($40K and benefits) look amazing.  Jane goes to pick up Mateo from Abuela’s where Xiomara is watching him.  Xo wants some quid pro quo and asks Jane to come to dinner with Alba, Bruce, and Scary Tess.  Jane agrees.  When Xo asks Jane for feminine protection, Jane realizes she’s late.  And she’s been having a lot of sex. A lot of sex. With Michael. La amor de su vida.  (Why, Jennie Snyder Urman, why?!)

Michael comes home happy (he’s so happy this episode; he’s like a dog that doesn’t know he’s about to be put down) and Jane is making pasta. She tells him she might be pregnant, and she’s worried about their timeline and Mateo—but the look on Michael’s face assures her that a little Cordero would make Michael the happiest man on the planet.  Jane takes one of Xo’s old pregnancy tests (what is she stockpiling them?) but the test is expired, and the result is unreadable.  I loved that there was this kind of lingering hope that they might have a baby, even though I knew Michael was doomed. Doomed, I say!

Rogelio has been trying to come up with a matchmaker reality show for Darci. Darci wants him to co-star, but Ro is all about that indie life.  He invites Darci to walk down la alfombra roja to the screening of his movie. At the screening, Ro’s big reveal has been edited out of the movie. (“They cut my penis!”). He storms outside and Darci tries to console him. As a bystander secretly records Ro’s freakout on cellphone, Ro says “penis” about a hundred times and he also hurts Darci, telling her she just wants to be Bethany Frankel while he wants to be a serious actor. Not the move, Ro.

At the Tess dinner, Tess is being a shady little heffa, but Jane wins her over by telling her that she and Michael live near a popular coffee shop Tess likes (okay….). Back at the apartment, Jane tells Michael she got her period, and she’s not pregnant (seriously, she had to tell him that last part. I’m like, Mike, you’re a cop!)  They agree they’re disappointed, and Michael says they’ve got all the time in the world because he’s doomed! Doomed, I say! There’s a knock at the door and it Tess, drunk as a skunk in a trunk! Jane takes her to Xo’s, where Tess escapes on a bike, only to be captured by Abuela, who tells her to get in the car ahora mismo! Xo calls Bruce, who wants to lock Tess up forever, but Xo offers some sage advice that saves Tess’s butt, which Tess overhears, opening the door to a civil relationship between Tess and Xo.

Oh! The other people—you know, the ones who survived Jennie Snyder Urman’s death scythe.  Scott told Petra he and Anezka are married, and he has gazillion copies of the will’s addendum (I love Anezka’s forever bangs, lol). Rafael tells Luisa (remember her?) he’s not a real Solano and she assures him he will always be her brother and she’ll always have his back.  Rafael finds out he’s going to have to do some jail time for cooking the books after his dad-not-dad died. Petra freaks because she hasn’t bonded with the twins, but she eases into motherhood and tells Raf to go ahead to jail if that’s what he wants (maybe he’ll see Petra’s mother, Magda in the co-ed prison yard!). Luisa introduces her new girlfriend, Eileen (come on!), to Rafael and Rafael is like, “I’ma need some bloodwork, proof of plastic surgery, and MRI, a bone scan” whatever it takes to prove Eileen is NOT Sin Rostro. 

Of course, Eileen IS Sin Rostro (does she even have cartilage left?) and she has a look alike go take all the tests for her. Meanwhile, Jane delivered Ro’s naked pictures instead of the memoir summary and analysis to the publisher and torpedoed her chances at getting her dream job. Ro shrink-wraps a bus and wins Darci back.

The Date. God, this was beautiful writing.  Jane and Michael go to the amusement park they went to when they first started dating. The scene alternates between the shy pair feeling their way around commitment to the married couple dreaming of forever.  They play carnival games and take photo booth pictures.  Jane looks at Michael and they both smile, knowing they’re going to ride the Ferris wheel, where they became a couple (yes, I thought it was the night of Jane’s 21st birthday, too, but you remember they added that Sam in the beginning of season 3). As the wheel goes round the past folds in on the present and you just know Michael is doomed. Doomed, I say! Chile, I thought the Ferris wheel was gonna break and send him hurling to his death there were so many omens! That didn’t happen; instead, Michael remembers some minor detail from an investigation that proves the memoir wasn’t entirely true and will allow Jane to march back to the publisher’s office, find out it was all a test and get the job. Because Michael is Jane’s safe place to land, always guiding her, supporting her, loving her.  Sigh.

Jane gives Michael the cutest lunch box to take to the LSATs. She tells him she loves him, she’s proud of him.  Michael goes to take the test. When he finishes and lines up to hand his test in, he collapses and dies.  When Jane receives the call that Michael has died from some complication from his gunshot wound, she drops the phone and lets out a scream that better be on Gina Rodriguez’ Emmy reel, because it was life! Rafael comes in and wraps his arms around her (they are never, ever getting back together, so forget it #TeamRafael!).  There’s a hint that Jane goes through some dark times and we’re about to jump ahead three years (no more Mr. Sweetface?!), but we’ve reached the end of part two.

So, basically, this is a reboot of the entire show. They’re jumping ahead three years, so anything can happen for the rest of the season. Raf’s going to jail. Sin Rostro’s back.  Jane’s going to a wedding ( I bet it’s Alba’s!) and she has a funky new haircut. But as a member of #TeamMichael, my heart will always be a little broken when I don’t see Brett Dier’s goofy-sweet face mooning at Jane. (I hope he comes back as a Patrick Swayze in Ghost like spirit! Jennie  Snyder Urman told The Hollywood Reporter they will do Michael flashbacks! Yay!)

A+ eppy. Can’t wait until next week.

Tell me what you think of Michael's death in the comments section!

Kellybelle

Small Business Saturday: Meet the Floret Team

A few of my favorite thingsI’m asked all the time, “Erin, how do you do it all?”  And the answer is:  I don’t. There is no way I could do it all myself. But, boy, did I sure try for many years…and I came close to quitting more times than I’d like to admit.  

As I shared in a Design Sponge essay earlier this year, I used to think I should do it all, and that letting others help was a sign of weakness. I wasn’t that I didn’t want to relinquish control, it was actually that I was afraid for anyone to see what a mess my life really was. And while my inbox overflowed with hundreds of unanswered emails, my office was a total disaster and my work-life balance was insanely out of whack, I continued to try and do it all myself for far too long.

It was only after I took a huge leap of faith and hired Jill part time to tackle some of the things that were falling through the cracks, that Floret really started to soar. Since then, I’ve worked really hard to open myself up and let others bring their magical gifts into my life. Over the past few years we’ve built a fantastic team of folks who work both on and off the farm to support our little flower business.  In honor of Small Business Saturday, I wanted to take this opportunity to introduce you to the amazing folks that I’m proud to call teammates, friends and part of the Floret family.  I can’t imagine how I ever did life without  them!

I asked each of them to share a little bit about themselves and their role here at Floret. If you’re a small business owner and you’re still going it alone, I hope this post will inspire you to at least consider getting some much needed help. I can’t even begin to describe how dramatically my life has changed (for the better) with the addition of each of these incredible souls. It can be hard to feel like you deserve to be supported, but the truth is, you really do.

Since I try never to ask the team to do things I haven’t done, I’ll start us off:

Erin Benzakein

Role at Floret:  I handle the majority of our marketing and social media. I also do a ton of writing and product creation and work with our amazing team to bring all of our big ideas to life. I also lead workshops, plan out the fields and greenhouses, harvest, and fill in wherever I’m needed when we’re short staffed.

Best part of the job: I have a few favorites! I love trialling all of the varieties for our seed company, especially sweet peas. I absolutely love growing every variety in a specific flower group and then observing each one individually, comparing them to one another and recording their special traits.

I love writing and creating new things with Jill. Whenever we have a big project that we’re diving into, we huddle around my dining room table, get out the whiteboard, the Post It notes and plan until our brains hurt. Once there’s a road map in place, we start writing. She sets the outline, then I fill in the blanks, and then we lob it back and forth (sometimes 15 times!) until we get it just right. I’m sure it sounds crazy, but it’s such a thrilling process because with each pass the idea becomes clearer and more real.

Lastly, I love capturing the magic of the flowers. After everyone has gone home for the day, I usually head to the field and harvest whatever is at its best. Then I haul out all of my funky old backdrops and make a big ole mess in the yard. When magic hour hits (the hour before sunset) Chris and I run for the field and frantically try and capture the magic before the light fades. It’s kind of stressful and crazy, but when we get “the shot” it’s completely exhilarating.

Favorite flower memory: Growing up I spent part of every summer in the country with my great grandparents. During the long hot days my Grammie would tell me tales of her flower garden back on their farm in Nevada. She’d always send me outside with scissors to pick a bouquet for her bedside table. While it was nothing like her old garden, there were always a few treasures to be had if you dug around long enough. Leggy snapdragons, a few hybrid tea roses and always a rainbow of sweet peas scrambling up posts by her backdoor. If I close my eyes I can still smell them.

Favorite place to find inspiration: When it comes to business inspiration, Marie Forleo is hands down the best source I’ve ever come across. I look forward to her newsletter every week and have taken both of her online courses multiple times. When it comes to personal growth inspiration, my Mom is certainly my biggest source. She always has some incredible quote that she’s just read, or some amazing heartfelt wisdom to share, or a special way of taking even the worst situation and finding the gold in it. Her nickname for me is “Champ” and whenever I’m feeling down, or discouraged she says,” Champ, you gotta get off the ropes. Keep your head in the game. You can do it!” Without her I would certainly be lost.

Favorite tool on the farm or studio: My Farmer-Florist tool belt. Seriously, it changed my life! Now I never lose my phone, my jeans no longer have holes in the back pockets, and I can always find a pen or Sharpie when I need it. Sounds silly, but it really was a game changer for me.

Chris Benzakein

Role at Floret: I take most of the photos, oversee the shipping end of the shop, run the farm with the help of Jill, Marlee and Erin, handle repairs and maintenance and fill in the cracks wherever needed.

Best part of the job: Seeing our ideas and creations materialize. Witnessing the unique and powerful connections between people and flowers.

Favorite flower memory:  My grandmother grew hundreds of gladiolas at her Wisconsin garden every summer. She would pick them and always make the church arrangements. I remember her being the happiest in her garden, especially when she had a handful of flowers.

Favorite place to find inspiration: I love listening to books on tape when I do deliveries. I often listen to war stories and am inspired by the courage and tenacity that it takes to overcome such intense struggles.

Favorite tool on the farm or studio: I love my Canon 6D and Mark III cameras for helping tell the story of Floret. On the farm, my favorite tools are my Kubota tractor and my Leatherman knife. I use both every day.

Jill Jorgensen

Years at Floret:  I was the first florist to buy flowers from the farm when Erin was just starting out, over 8 years ago. I had a flower emergency and left a rambling message on her answering machine and the tape ran out! She kindly returned my call and we became flower friends. I’ve worked for Floret in an “official” capacity for 3 years. Prior to that I always worked traditional 8-5 jobs, but helped Erin grow Floret on the evenings and weekends, lending my creative writing skills and being a sounding board. It was a long time dream to work with her and her amazing family.

Role at Floret: It’s a beautiful mixed bag! Everyone calls me the “switchboard operator.” I help triage the work load, coordinate our workshops, and communicate with vendors. I also help Erin take smaller bites so her plate isn’t as full and break down daunting projects into achievable component parts so we can divide and conquer. I spend a lot of time at the Benzakein dining room table with Post It’s and white boards, and lots of strong coffee.

Best part of the job: How much space do I have? There are too many “best parts” to count and very often I find myself thinking, I can’t believe I get paid to do this. I take a great amount of pride in the quality of our workshops and their evolution from the smallest seed of an idea. I love communicating with really enthusiastic, supportive people via email, and then sometimes I get to meet them in person which is always really fun – lots of hugs and squeals. I love having magical Floret flowers in my house, but I love giving them away even more. I love meeting people that also get so excited about flowers (like garden roses!) that they nearly hyperventilate. I could go on forever. See, too many bests.

Favorite flower memory: My grandpa George was a pretty amazing home gardener. He’d grow a lot of things in big, galvanized trash cans with holes in the bottom and line them on the warmest spots of their great big house. All fall and winter he’d layer them with maple leaves to make what he called “black gold.” I have a great picture of him standing in front of his prized dinner plate dahlias and Sweet 100 tomatoes on long ropey vines. I can still hear him lovingly say, “Jill, look at my damn tomatoes!”

Favorite place to find inspiration: I live about 30 miles north of the farm and work remotely for most of the week. When I drive south to work, there is a stretch of I-5 that drops like a chute into the Skagit Valley and the hills open up to this vast expanse of farm land swaddled by the Cascade Mountains. I always feel my tension release, my shoulders relax and I breathe deeper, and I’m instantly filled with appreciation and gratitude.

Favorite tool on the farm or studio: In my own garden, I feel lost without a Hori Hori knife at the ready. I spend more time behind the computer though. My swivel chair, lightning fast laser printer and the Justin Bieber Pandora station make me feel like I’m handling some serious lady business.

Susan Studer King

Years at Floret:  Wow, I guess it is going on three years now!  

Role at Floret:  I work remotely from Ohio to help pull together text and information for Floret newsletters, blog posts, story pitches, website pages, workshop materials or any other miscellaneous tasks that come my way.

Best part of the job:  I love working with Erin and the rest of the team to develop resources to support flower lovers, especially fellow farmer-florists.  Getting emails or reading comments from people who have been helped by something that I had a hand in pulling together is super satisfying.  I don’t think I’ve ever loved a job as much as this one.

Favorite flower memory:  Definitely my wedding flowers! I asked my mom to grow and design them many, many years before we started our own farmer-florist business. Every time I smell a stargazer lily, I’m transported back to that July day in 2000.

Favorite place to find inspiration: The farm where I grew up. I love exploring the windbreak with my mom and scouting for shrubs and plants for use in our design work. Plus, the barns and the attic of the farmhouse are great to explore and hold vast troves of  “treasures” (what some people might call junk) that are fun to re-purpose.

Favorite tool on the farm or studio: Fabric scissors. In our design studio, there is only one pair that works well at cutting the pretty ribbon finishes for handheld bouquets and we always seem to be fighting for it.

Marlee Powell

Years at Floret: I stumbled into the Floret family in the summer of 2014.

Role at Floret: My job duties at vancouver florist are ever changing. I started as just part time harvesting help, then into full time harvester and farm hand. With the expansion of Floret as a company, I am now in charge of shipping and seed packing. I work remotely about 30-40% of the time in the fall and winter months. During spring and summer I am the point person for all of our workshops to keep everyone on track. I’m the bearer of bad news, such as FIVE MINUTES LEFT! But I say it and mean it with the utmost love!

Best part of the job: The best part of my job is seeing the joy we bring to people. That makes me feel like the hours I spend putting my heart (and back) into digging thousands of dahlias is so worth it. The simple act of sharing flowers, or even photos of flowers, has the ability to transport people out of their own world, even for a short time. Another “best part” is that I feel a part of a second little family. Being able to combine work, family and balance in my life is so important and brings so much joy to my life.

Favorite flower memory: My favorite flower memory had to be around 12 years old and my little sister was 5. My Mom home schooled us and we found a project in a book called “How to grow your own flower tee pee.” Oh man, I can’t begin to tell you how excited I was to try this! The three of us worked so hard building our tee pee and then added rows of corn, carrots, and lined the 20 x 50 foot plot with sunflowers.Sadly everything grew EXCEPT my tee pee. But those sunflowers — I had never seen such a thing. I didn’t even know they could get that big! My sister and I would run thru them and hide in our little jungle land playing in the dirt.

Favorite place to find inspiration: I do CrossFit as exercise, a sport, and something to have fun and enjoy my community through. I actually find a lot of personal inspiration with CrossFit and how it brings people together and lifts them up through fitness.I also find a lot of inspiration through pictures. I especially love the January image on Floret’s 2017 wall calendar shot by Chris. That photo of our green houses in the morning frost is so real to me. I feel the cold in my bones when I look at it. I love that a photo can make you feel very specific feelings.

Favorite tool on the farm or studio: Favorite tool has to be my Farmer-Florist tool belt! That baby makes me feel powerful and like some kind of flower pirate. Not to mention it’s HIGHLY functional. You can keep so many goodies in there! Snips, phone, rubber bands, chocolate bar, maybe some gummies…lots of things. And the tape machine is a close second. Thanks to you all, that thing is getting a workout!

Jill Powell (aka) “Angel Jill”

Years at Floret: 5 years

Role at Floret: I sow seeds, plant, weed, keep things clean, flip greenhouses (pull out spent flowers and replant), set up drip irrigation, get everything ready for workshops and help in the shop if needed.

Best part of the job: All of it. There’s always something different to do. Depending on the season it could be seed sowing, planting, weeding.

Favorite flower memory: The first summer I worked here we filled the entire truck with freshly harvested blue statice.

Favorite place to find inspiration:  Working across from Erin because I realize I can go even faster than I thought ; )

Favorite tool on the farm or studio: The pallet forks on the tractor, the battery operated compost tea sprayer, the electric stapler and the Japanese weeding hoe.

Meg Almanza

Years at Floret: Almost two years now.

Role at Floret: I help manage the house, keep things clean and organized. At the workshops I help set up and breakdown the events, plus handle the food and hosting guests. I also work with Erin to tackle big projects like reworking spaces for maximum efficiency, setting up systems within the business, and keeping inventory organized and accounted for.

Best part of the job: I love contributing to the ongoing success of Floret and assisting Erin with the home and the business. I get the most out of my job when I am making someone else happy and I strive to do that every chance I get.

Favorite flower memory: I never had an appreciation for flowers until I came to work at Floret. But after seeing them growing at the farm and the sheer magnitude of their beauty, they’ve taken over my soul. Seeing the way that people react to the beauty of them at the workshops is overwhelming. My biggest joy is when Erin sends me home with buckets of leftover flowers. I fiddle around putting them together in little arrangements and put them all around my house. They make me smile when I get up in the morning.

Favorite place to find inspiration:  I love to go junking, “lookie looing” around and finding special things for people in my life to make them feel good.

Favorite tool on the farm or studio:  My wagon cart! I can haul all kinds of stuff and it helps me save time when I running back and forth. It makes me feel like I’m accomplishing a whole lot of stuff in a short amount of time. Erika Stephens

Years at Floret: Two years.

Role at Floret: I help with the Floret workshops and have helped with weddings.

Best part of the job: I love to see the students as they come into the barn, feeling held and welcomed. The flowers. I love to watch people open themselves a bit more as they are given new concepts relating to their farms, businesses and their lives as a whole.

Favorite flower memory: Helping my grandmother Astrid cut and hang to dry roses for wreathes she would make. I loved to be close to her and the smell of the roses. I don’t know if it was actually the roses that smelled or she was wearing tea rose perfume. Doesn’t matter, I loved it all the same.

Favorite place to find inspiration:  I love to look at Andy Goldsworthy’s photographs and the concept that his art is ephemeral and a large part of the reason he chooses to photograph his pieces, so that they become “everlasting.”

Favorite tool on the farm or studio: My Grundens rain overalls and Bogg boots. Close second, the flower snips.

Nina Foster

Years at Floret:  I have been with Floret from the start! Erin and I met when our girls went to kindergarten together. We were each other’s first flower friend. While our kids played, we talked about our dreams and visions over coffee, seed catalogs, and Martha Stewart Living!

Role at Floret: I now live in Vermont and fly back to act as the hostess for the workshops. My job is to make sure all the attendees are comfortable. I am a total mama bear to all.

Best part of the job: The best part of my job is meeting new flower friends, and getting to be part of their experience at Floret. It’s a beautiful thing to witness people following their hopes and dreams.

Favorite flower memory: My older sister Gray, taking me hunting for trilliums and fairies in early spring in the forests in Vermont. Those trilliums were pure magic.

Favorite place to find inspiration: When in Washington, my favorite place for inspiration would be Rosario Beach and Erin’s roses! In Vermont, I have trails in the forests I walk daily. Nature has always been my biggest inspiration.

Favorite tool on the farm or studio: I’d have to say my Floret tool belt is my favorite tool on the farm and in studio. It holds everything!  

Readmore: A few of my favorite things

Except For Me

Growing older has its perks. Not many, but enough to help ease the mysterious aches and pains, memory lapses, diet adjustments and blood pressure fluctuations. Of course, I could go on, but then I would be whining and boring you more than I already have plus I may be providing 'too much information' as the grandkids say. Anyway, this is not about the downside of being an old fart, quite the opposite. I've heard it said, often with negative connotations, that as we grow older we become more like children. I disagree, not with the suggestion we become like children again, but that it is not a good thing. Children are fascinating, humorous and oh, so creative. They need very little to provide amusement and like me are easily entertained. So, I have come to accept, to even encourage that 'inner child' to take over at times. Yes, I think I'm reverting to childhood, especially when it comes to being tickled silly by the simplest things. Viewing the street below from our balcony has kept me occupied for hours. Much better than the so-called reality television shows everyone seems enthralled by. This is a peek into honest daily life in a small Mexican beach town and the entertainment is endless, day and night. And, if you are like me, you'll agree. As I said earlier, I am easily amused. On this street of five short blocks, most of the structures are very typical of the area, buildings of brick with brightly colored paint on plaster and none more than three stories high. Nearly all the flat roofs are used for drying clothes. Lines stretched criss-cross wherever they'll fit are hanging low with the weight of everything from kid’s undies to dazzling embroidered bed coverings. The Mexican sun and tropical ocean breeze provide a special scent to drying laundry that no overpriced store-bought chemical fabric softener could ever match. There is a home, almost directly across from us that differs. I once heard a tourist loudly proclaim, "This house is third world, a bloody shack. I feel sorry for the people who have to live in it." His description although rude, was not far off, except for his misplaced pity concerning the fine folks who live there. It is a throwback to the houses I remember during my first visit to Mexico over 40 years ago. Everything about it is haphazard. The place is pieced together with palm fronds, corrugated panels, plastic tarp and cardboard. The roof is not like the others on our street. It can barely support the cats and roosters let alone a clothes line. I concluded that the crooked branches that hold up the structure are very strong. After all, they survived Patricia and I have no doubt a few more hurricanes along with the occasional shaker known to rattle a few glass windows of which there are none in this structure. There is a house in front and another at the back of this large lot. Both look like they may collapse at any moment, but this is a place, that I know, has been standing for many years, adjustments made when necessary. Between the two houses is an open yard where numerous chickens congregate (when they're not on the street), five or possibly more dogs hang out (when they're not on the street) and I've seen three different cats on the roofs and in the trees (never in the street) from time to time. Every morning shortly after sunrise the smell of burning wood followed by the unmistakable sharp slaps of tortillas being shaped drifts across the street to our balcony from their outdoor kitchen. Tortillas have been made this way for many generations. Ironically, the local tortilleria next door to them pumps out over 100 kilos a day from a machine that flattens, cooks, and delivers this Mexican staple along a moving belt that drops uniform tortillas in neat little stacks ready to eat. I prefer the handmade. With tradition and love as the key ingredients in the recipe along with the smoky wood, the flavor can't be beat. There are two small boys, identical twins around four years old, possibly five, who are part of this extended family. Observing those two at play was one of my favorite pastimes, very entertaining. Many people enter and leave the funky little dwelling but there are a consistent few who live there permanently. I have identified their Mom. She sweeps the front area and the road every day. The dogs often leave a mess of garbage on the road. I'm not sure which one is their father. An older brother is often chopping boards and logs with a rusty machete. Branches are occasionally dropped off in front of the house for fuel. There's an old fellow, perhaps a grandfather who strolls across the street to the store below us purchasing smokes and beer. The twins don't seem to have any toys and they don't need them. I am always impressed at their creativity. One day it's an old broken laundry hamper turned into a sled of sorts, each taking turns to pull the other along the rough cobblestones with a piece of rope. The same rope that occupied them for an afternoon tying each other up after a lesson on knots taught by the old fellow. A couple of buckets flipped upside down made pretty good drums until the fishermen had to reclaim them for their catch. A pile of stones and empty plastic soda containers lined up against the brick wall of their neighbor's house turned the lads into excellent marksmen in short time. Plastic garbage bags, cardboard boxes, beer cans, palm fronds, old coconuts, and so on, endless toys for Raul and Ricardo. But, it was the sticks that forced me to sit up and take a keen interest. One morning they came out of the house with a couple of branches, almost perfectly straight and cleanly trimmed. I assumed they snatched them from the firewood pile I saw the older boy haul inside the day before. These little boys and their sticks were about to tell a story, although I didn't realize it at the time. All I could think of is what my Mother often hollered at my brother and me when we were around the same age. "No, boys. You're not playing with those. Someone is gonna get poked hard and lose an eye. Get rid of them, now." It was all I could do not to yell across the street with the same warning. Instead, I found myself nervously settling in on my balcony to see what these two might have in mind with those eye pokers. Ricardo, (or was it, Raul?) sat down on the curb in front of the tortilleria and idly scratched in the dirt with his stick. His brother soon joined in. Although I couldn't see what the scratches represented it was evident they were drawing in the dirt. With a determined look, one of the lads would scratch some shape or form into the roadway, they would have a short discussion and sometimes burst into laughter while admiring their artistry. Curious, I later wandered across the street to see if there were any remnants of their drawings to view and was delighted by what I found. A group of stick-people all shapes and sizes held hands and danced under a smiling sun. They soon bored of drawing into the road dirt so after a few words the boys stood and headed to the front of their house. Holding their sticks in the middle by their side with one hand they began to prowl about methodically obviously looking for prey. The old dogs loitering in the morning sun were easy targets so they passed on them, but the hens and roosters presented the challenge they sought. Chucking their sticks like spears they were unsuccessful at hitting anything, but the ruckus caused by the cackling hens as they chased them from one side of the street to the other fueled their enthusiasm. Finally, Raul (or was it, Ricardo?) managed to make contact with a rather large rooster causing such a loud squawk that I don't doubt it could be heard two blocks away. It was a cry of surprise, not pain and other than losing a few feathers brought on by the big bird's crazy flapping reaction, no harm was done. The Tamarindo tree on the street caught their attention. All the lower pods had been picked or fallen, but there were a sparse few higher up. Calling upon their knot tying abilities they managed to secure both sticks together doubling the length. While on an overturned plastic bucket one of them found it was enough to reach the high fruit which he deftly knocked out of the tree. Sitting under the shade in front of their house Raul and Ricardo broke open the crusty cover of the legume, removed the stringy part inside and dug out the seeds. Popping the seeds in their mouths they both began to chew and suck on the sticky pit cover. The sweet and very sour taste were evident by their comical expressions, chatter, and laughter as they devoured their free snack. After wiping all the gooeyness off on to their pants and t-shirts the boys took the sticks apart and attached a rag they retrieved from the clothes line to the end of one. In front of the house, an old dry log sat that sometimes doubled as a bench. They managed to force the stick into one of the cracks at the end of the rotting log. The stick and the attached rag represented a rather crude flag and pole. Both boys stood on the flimsy log, one pointing in front setting the course while the other paddled with his stick. An ocean crossing if I ever saw one. The wind picked up flapping the flag as the log became more unstable with the lads standing on it. The sea was soon unpredictable and rough. The log-ship wobbled back and forth and Raul (or was it, Ricardo?) was tossed into the brine where he floundered. His brother reached out to him with his stickpaddle and pulled him back on board. After reaching shore the boys sat on the log and planned what to do next. They both stood and placed their sticks between their legs holding them at the top end. Galloping around the street on their skinny stick horses, they raced each other, chased the dogs and chickens and took short intricate steps dancing their horses to the front of the house where they dismounted and in a blink turned their mounts into swords. I could barely watch at this point as they were frantically swinging at each other wildly, sometimes making contact which didn't deter them in the least. They were determined to battle it out to the end. I could hear the swish and swash from the sticks slicing through the air, cringing as the sharp tips came a hair's breadth from their faces and little bodies. It was an epic battle and had they not been distracted by their mother calling them in for dinner I'm convinced it would have ended in a blood bath. Before Raul and Ricardo went in they did find a final purpose for their sticks. With the rope, they took both sticks and tied them together fashioning a cross. They placed the cross in the same crack of the old gray log as the flag and once satisfied it stood erect ran to the neighbors where they plucked a few bright magenta bougainvillea off of the abundant bush. While Ricardo (or was it, Raul) carefully arranged the flowers at the bottom of the cross the other ran into the house returning with their mother. Each boy grabbed a hand and led her to the front of the stick cross as they spoke to her in soft tones. I could see she had begun to cry and so could the boys which brought on their own tears. I couldn't hear what they said but it was obvious that the shrine was placed there by the boys for a family member. Perhaps a grandmother, uncle, sibling or even their father. I tried to fight it and lost. My eyes were welling up while I observed this tender moment through a blur of tears. The whole scene was so touching I was soon sobbing. Mom and the boys went into the house. The stick cross remained in front for a few days as the flowers wilted and blew away. The boys invented new games to play and one morning the older brother took the sticks, broke them apart and threw them in a pile along with the other kindling. Nobody seemed to notice the cross was gone, except for me.

A wonderful story by a gentleman who lives in our wonderful village - Barra de Navidad - in Mexico, He goes by the handle of Chili on TomZap. Thank you Chili!