The Peasant's Cottage

It would be 11 hours before medical intervention.  The aftermath devastating, leaving the left side of his heart scared tissue. It would be the change in lifestyle that challenged Phil.  A man who used to hit the floor running before dawn; not stopping until after dark, and one who spent the majority of those hours doing physical labor.  Self employed, he owned and ran a nursery business for 35 years.  When Woodland Creations spared him some hours, he toiled on our small farm, located in north-central North Carolina.  Even before we moved here in 1999, the previous owners warned us this place was a sort of dropping off spot for dogs and cats.  That part was inherited and for whatever reason it was not long before more than a house pet showed up in the form of abused and neglected farm animals.  And so they came: goats, horses, sheep, llama, emu (some as referral by our veterinarian, some from animal control looking to place those they could not handle).  Geese, rabbits, dogs -- they would arrive, many starved, many starved and abused.  Most have special needs.  Many would not survive, but the time they did spend at our place they not only were provided much needed food, shelter, and medical care, but also love and compassion.  Each one became a pet and never again would they have to worry about being 'sold down', bred to death, auctioned for meat, or just left alone to die in a barren pasture.

 

It was in caring for these gentle creatures, and the joy of watching his grandaughter Schyler at play, that inspired Phil's next goal.  It would be, and still is, his ultimate goal:  to share the love and wisdom of these gentle and thankful creatures with those who may never experience such.  Even though by this time we had to refuse adding to the number of those seeking sanctuary, we still had those already here.  It would be these souls Phil sought to share the lessons each had to teach.  With children, but not just any child.  He zoned in on those who -- like the animals -- have been thrown one of life's terrible curve balls.  Ranging from children experiencing the turmoil of a broken home, to the challenged, to those small warriors who are waging their own war of survival against any one of the many childhood illnesses.  While there are larger organizations that provide such services to these children, there are none in our immediate area and none so informal that you could 'drop by' with no notice.  No appointment needed:  this place was their place.  And so it was that in the months and days preceding the heart attack, Phil had been in touch with local charitable organizations such as hospice and offered his plan.  It was met with enthusiasm and a meeting was set in July 2005. 

 

After that same conversation to arrange the meeting, he set to work chopping out a riding path in the back part of the property.  That afternoon, some 1/2 mile downhill in rugged terrian, a freight train slammed him into the ground.  It would be over 2 hours before he reached the house, stopping, resting, even losing conciousness (of which his writings will detail what he experienced as he lay on a bridge over a calm stream).  Once in the house, he collapsed on the sofa with the telephone less than 20 feet away in the next room.  It never entered his mind to call for help -- his mind was no longer working on that level.  On the sofa, he would spend at least 4, 5 more hours until I arrived home at 8:30 p.m.  He said later the attack began around one o'clock.  His window of survival from this clot lodged in his upper left arotic artery had long passed.

 

I came home to find the worst case scenario and went into autopilot.  He did not have to say a word.  He tried, but I was already in the next room telling EMS dispatch there was a heart attack at this address.  More time lost:  living in a rural area, and the hospital, Wake Forest University Baptist Medical Center, was over 40 miles away.  Numb with shock and denial, the extent of what had happened, what was happening, and what might -- or might not -- happen in the future took some time to sink in.  When it did, I was sent reeling and to this very day I struggle to get back up. 

 

But this is not my story.  This site does not contain my writings, my soul.  It is Phil's.  Surviving against all odds.  I do not have his strength.  It was not the first time he had been knocked down.  Physically, perhaps, but emotionally, no.  In early 2001, we suffered a terrible fire that took 6 of our 7 outbuildings: barns, sheds, the original house -- all of it gone.  Everything we owned (still unpacked from recently vacating the other home) was in one side of the barn, and everything my parents owned was on the other side.  They had just moved up to move into a small home on the same property.  We lost all the small animals, but thankfully with the exception of one yearling that freed herself and was slighly burned, all the horses, ponies, goats, and pigs were unharmed.  I ran into the firestorm when I first saw the fire to save my mare -- she had been put up with a young weanling.  We had just been awakened by our small terrier mutt's barking and it was 'Tiny Dog' who saved our lives.  At Anita's stall, I stuggled with the latch, feeling my hair singe.  Everything was 'flashing over.'  My mare stood waiting patiently, never panicked, and but for her calm demeanor I probably would have been unable to unhook the latch.  The door finally flew open and I led her and the weanling out of harm's way.  They went to join the others in the north pasture, safe from the fire.

 

Inside of an hour, my dream home had been destroyed.  The charm -- the heart and soul -- of this place was, for me, gone.  With firemen, neighbors, and onlookers watching over the last of the flames being extinguished, dawn broke.  I could take no more and went to the pasture to check on the horses.  Crying, I stood there in the middle of the pasture. Just then, something amazing happend.  Something that Phil must know is in all things, but I fail to see.  One by one, every horse, pony, mule, formed a circle around me.  They pawed the ground and snorted ever so quietly.  Finally, they closed the circle, with each one putting their soft muzzle in my hand, their head to my chest, as much to say, "Everything will be okay.  Don't be sad, we will be okay." 

 

Such forgiveness, such wisdom.  Such grace.  And so it was with Phil, who, since the insurance company refused to pay for any of the loss, picked up his 'broken tools and rusty nails' and started all over again.  He would write about this as well.  He was knocked down again in 2004 when a second fire destroyed what the first fire had not: his greenhouse.  The first fire was old wiring, the second was the fuel company that supplied kerosene at the local station had accidently mixed gasoline in the kerosene tank.  The day was cold, the place had been tightened up for the winter and ready for all the animals.  Phil had just cleaned the greenhouse, cleaned the heaters, lighting two of them and left to run to the store up the road.  Minutes later, my parents heard the explosion.  I got the call at work of another fire and flew home to find the final insult.  Again, none of the larger animals were hurt, but we lost our ferret, our turkey, the aviary, and Piglet -- one of the pot-bellied pigs.  He had panicked and kept heading back into the flames -- to his little 'den of safety.' 

 

I did not handle this loss well.  All that remained WAS our home -- everything else was charred, smoking ruins.  But Phil fared worse:  the greenhouse was gone.  This meant his business was gone.  There was nowhere to store the plants, no place to make up the gardens his customers expected.  All I had to do was return to work the next day, and wonder what in the world was Phil going to do.  What Phil did was call his good friend -- a competitor -- and, upon learning of the disaster, they joined forces.  A merger formed from necessity and friendship, they worked together until the heart attack prematurely retired Phil.  

 

As for the farm, which was by now nothing but old and new ashes and charred wood, Phil once again cleaned it off, and picked up old tools made even worse for the wear.  Amazing what survives one, even two fires.  He has always made the most pitiful plants turn into the most beautiful garden -- literally turning a sow's ear into a silk purse.  Give me the same, and it was still a sow's ear.  Working with virtually nothing, he spent days mending, reinventing tools, then rebuilding, board by board.  With no resources, it was a slow process and he did it alone. 

 

Phil toiled day and into the night to bring order to chaos.  Phil and his ever-optimistic outlook always had his same goal in mind.  An organization for the children to come out and escape from their every-day bonds if only for a few hours.  It was coming together, and after setting up a meeting the Hospice, he was filled with even more enthusiasm. 

 

We have our plans, and God has his.  And it was so on that July afternoon down by the steam when the first pain slammed into his chest.  

 

He survived for a reason.  There had been a darkness about Phil in the preceeding months, something I could not pinpoint, but felt intuitively something must be wrong.  Phil refused further tests:  he had just passed a physical.  All I know is during the time Phil says he looked down on himself lying on the bridge during the attack, was the man that came back up that hill was once again the man I married.  A terrible tradeoff?  I do not know and it is far beyond me to question. 

 

The physical limitations the heart attack's damage forced upon him were the most diffcult:  gone is his abiltity to work.  Gone is his ability to spend hour on end fixing up the farm.  Still, he pushed himself (with many an admonishment from me) against all allowable constraints and in doing so was able to bring an Ejection Fraction (for those familair with these numbers, you will know) from an 18 to 35.  His worry was for the farm, the animals, his dream for the children.  It would be derailed and it would be modified, but I made it a personal goal to do all in my power so he could achieve that dream.  Still, in the early days, being caregiver for not only Phil but the animals and holding down a demanding job 40 miles from home, the inevitable was soon to follow: we had to find homes for some of our 'pets'.  Financially and physically, the task was overwhelming.  With the help of our veterinarian, it was with heavy hearts and a feeling that we failed them that we found excellent homes for a couple of the horses and most of the goats.  We knew it was for their own good, but it went against our core mission.  They were not supposed to have to go through this again and now we were watching the trailers pull out of the driveway.

 

Phil was not going to let this happen again if he could at all help it, so he continued to push himself.  It might of been only 10 minutes at work, 2 hours lying down, but he kept working.  When forced to rest, he wrote.  On the days -- then and now -- he cannot rise, he writes.  It comes no longer from any dark episode of the depression he once suffered, but of a will which I now refer to as 'not of this world.'  He has a wisdom and knowledge that is beyond the scope of which the earth-bound are aware of.  He no longer fears death, and while is writings reveal much more, he is secretive and only tells me that he now knows that beyond death 'there is more.'   I try to pry it from him, "Can you POSSIBLY be more specific?"  The answer is a very mysterious, "I cannot do that."

 

Phil has amassed many writings and since all are scibbled in notebooks, I am constantly trying to gather them up before they get lost, tossed, or eaten by the house goat.  I have had no time to read any except those he has read to me, so it is my hope that in assembling this site, I will stumble across the one that will enlighten me on this mystery.  

 

Today, Phil is nearly at his 4-year anniversary mark.  He has been slowed by a month-long battle with pneumonia in August of 2008.  Added to that is his ever-present auto-immune disease that attacks the joints, muscles, and organs.  It existed before the heart attack and is suspected to be the underlying cause, as he never suffered high blood pressure and never had a bad cholesterol test result.  He now battles both auto-immune and an ailing heart, yet still continues his work.  It is getting difficult.  The physical made worse by financial stress when in 2007 my own health issues became unmanageable and I lost my job.  Two incomes down to one, now down to...nothing.  Where I planned for the future, I now live day by day -- just as Phil always has.  The only silver lining should be that it affords me to be home with Phil, but the mounting issues keep me as far away as before.  I have juggled until I can do no more.  I failed in my goal to insure Phil would never have to fear losing this place for which he literally gave his heart.

 

Through all of the stress and stife, Phil continues to write.  The difference of late is that his work and need to share his writing is ecalated with some self-aware sense of urgency.  Terrifying for me, but at the same time, I want him to know his wishes are being realized.  This part is my job.  My sense of urgency is driven by more trivial reasons:  like trying to beat the day the power and cable will soon be cut, and that formidable letter arrive regarding the house.  Whatever the reason, time is no longer on our side.  And of course, his urgency is utmost.  He if far more aware of everything and I know it.

 

In the end, Phil has said that if he can make just one child happy -- for the briefest of time -- then it all will be worthwhile; he has accomplished his task.  So Hannah -- this is for you:  Thy will be done.

 

Many writings have our Schyler in mind: our beautiful, gregarious, brilliant (of course WE think so) grandaughter.  She was the seed of this entire scheme and it is my hope to prepare the separate culumination of writings he has set aside for Schyler.  The most recent writings on the site, (the first of which is Angels with Broken Wings), are inspired by the diminutive, beautiful, blonde 4-year old Hannah, who is battling leukemia.  Feeling under the weather one day, Hannah was asked if she wanted 'to go see all the animals.'  They said her eyes lit up for the first time in days.  She was brought over to the house where she was introduced to all the animals.  Phillip said later even the most 'naughty' and most shy of the animals suddenly became gentle lambs as they lined up and stood quietly waiting for their pet from this precious angel.  Just like the night they surrounded me:  gentle, quiet, knowing.  Hannah was having the time of her life, and during all this everyone suddenly heard the most beautiful sound of all:  she laughed.

 

"Her laughter was the sound of wind chimes," Phil said.  No one had heard her laugh for such a long time.  If it sounded like wind chimes to Phil, you can only imagine what it sounded like to them.  In that instant, Phil realized his work.  It is time I fullfill my promise to him.