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Monthly Archives: July 2015
A few days ago a friend posted about being at the vet’s office with her pet. In the waiting room, there was another lady with her pet…and three unruly children. She had shushed them several times as they made a ruckus & eventually took them out to her vehicle to watch a movie while they waited on results . Essentially, bribing them to be good for the duration of the visit, & rewarding them for their already abysmal behavior. These children were reportedly of an age to know how to act. When the vet had to go outside & summon them, the noise from inside the room where they gathered was loud, as the mother continued to shush them to no avail, while she tried to speak with the vet about their dog or whatever. The friend ended by saying she knows what would have happened to her if she’d acted this way- a busted hind end. Same here. The comments on this post were immediate. Mothers weighed in saying they sympathized with the woman having to wrestle with three little ones & a dog in a strange environment. Another said for important chores she enlisted a baby sitter for them. Well. Here’s my theory. And I know my opinion doesn’t matter, because I have no children. But before you get all huffy, hear me out. Children are spoiled. When I was little (and yes, there was only one of me…
“You know, you call a local store hunting a part for a lawnmower, & you expect to get a local person,” Crapbag is saying to me. Co-op, Wayne Blalock’s, & Cash Hardware are all closed today, so I’m not sure who he’s referring to, but I play along. “Oh yeah?” “And guess what I get? A damn Yankee!” He spits. He then chuckles without mirth. (Mirthlessly, it turns out, is not a word.) “I’m not sure he’s ever even laid eyes on a lawnmower, let alone sold a part to one.” The problem is, of course, he can’t wait for me to go to Coop tomorrow & pick up this wheel thingie. Must. Have. It. Now. He goes on to describe the entire conversation. I will spare you the details. Don’t ever say I lack compassion. It involves Home Depot. “So, do they have one or do you not know any more than you did before you called?” “I don’t know any more than I did before I called.” He’s looking online. “Yeah, here it is. And they’ve got one.” “You wanna run by there before we go to the hospital?” He blinks at me. “To Sevierville?” My turn to blink. “Oh, well, check Knoxville.” “Where’s…
I’m going to tell you a story. When my friend and I went to Jonesborough a few weeks ago, we were on our way back to Sevier County but I hadn’t quite satisfied my antique foraging itch. I was keeping my eyes peeled for the places along the road I had noticed on the drive in. I finally spotted the one I wanted–a white, well kept farmhouse. Sometimes with these places you just can’t tell. They look almost abandoned, & like spiders would be crawling just beyond your hand when reaching for something that caught your eye. But not this one. This building set off the divided highway just a bit, just enough to be private, & had a red metal sign –the kind that would creak a bit when there was wind–out by the road proclaiming, simply, “Antiques”. There was no wind that day, & the sign was silent. We traveled up the gravel road, split by a strip of cropped green grass, until we stopped at the end near the house. There was a massive, weathered barn to our left, on a little hill. A knoll. Another “Antiques” sign stood near the gray board barn. A small “Antiques” sign, up against the house, next to an obvious addition. A concrete walkway met us in the driveway that led to the shop. We followed it. Around the door, there were several placards…
I was waiting on the wife of one of my regular customers today. She’s always super sweet, & I’m invariably glad to see her. “Yankee,” I began, “her daddy was one of my regulars when I first started working down here. I didn’t know what to think of him. He used to say, ‘who’s your momma?’ All the time & tell me when I got married I was gonna hafta wash the skidmarks out of my husband’s drawers!” Yankee’s eyes got rounder. Clearly, she wouldn’t have known how to take him, either. I smiled at Miss Tammy, his daughter. “But I came to love him. He was a nice man.” She nodded. “Daddy was. I remember too, you & another girl from down here came to his funeral.” I paused. I had forgotten about that. “Yeah, me & Skeeter came. It was probably the first funeral I attended on my own.” (Meaning, without my family) I recall Shanea & I talking ourselves into going. We felt that we needed to. “My husband says I go to more funerals than anybody he knows,” I told Tammy. “But he understands now that my customers are like my family… They’ve seen me grow up, in a way. I don’t necessarily like to go, but I need to.” “…
I have just come from yet another funeral. Now this one was a little different. It was like others in the respect that the deceased was a senior citizen, and someone I knew through work, and there was no shortage of familiar faces paying respects. The difference was, I stood in line sniggering the whole time. I couldn’t help it. And yes, there’s a difference between snickering & sniggering. Snickering is when you’re laughing with somebody about something (or someone) but you’re trying not to. Sniggering is lower in the gut & deeper & knowing you shouldn’t be laughing & trying to stop. I thankfully got to Tuletta quickly & apologized, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I COULDN’T HELP IT. Tuletta’s mother was one of the biggest practical jokesters I’ve ever met & every picture they showed of her you could tell she was into some sort of trickery or meanness. Bows on her head, britchie leg yanked up, fluttering eyelashes behind Greta Garbo sunglasses. I kept getting tickled. The pictures made me think of my own memories…she was one of those ladies who carried her possessions in her bra. She’d embarrass Tuletta to death when they’d stop to get a biscuit before work & Hazel would whip out a roll of money from her cleavage. Tuletta was always afraid she’d go to diggin…
