You may think you never get calls anymore; that everyone knows to text. I’m one of those people who only answer for like, five people. And if pressed about letting them ring off, I would be like, “nah, it’s spam, it’s a creditor hunting the man I’ve been divorced from for five years, it’s somebody wanting something. I ain’t answerin’.”

Well, the exception(s) to my I-Only-Answer-Five-People rule was exercised tonight. First, I got two calls back to back from a number not stored in my phone. I just KNEW somebody was dead. “Mrs. Johnson?” Came the pert American voice when I answered on second round. Me: “This is Amy, yes.” “Your table is ready.” Me: “Pardon?” Because it was kinda loud. Pert girl: “We’ve got your table ready. At Blackhorse?” Me: “Oh, I’m so sorry! We’re at the bar!” I tell her, leaning around to peer at the hostess stand. I totally forgot to update them when I basically stalked a couple as they left the bar, like a hyena after whatever prey it is hyenas prefer. Oops. Yeah, they’d texted, too. I never give their hostesses much credit, but obviously they’ve got it more together than me.

The second time, it was the mother of my oldest childhood friend. I talk to her maybe once a year. This definitely warranted answering. And of course I couldn’t hear her, either, so I stepped outside. “Where are you?” She asked after we’d exchanged niceties. “Blackhorse in Maryville,” I answer. “Is that a bar?” Me, instantly stammering, “well, it’s a restaurant…it has a bar…yes, I’m at the bar,” I admit. You can’t lie to your childhood friend’s mother. She’ll see straight through you. Best just to own up. Here I am, 44 years old, and blushing with the truth.

Anyway. I was out with my good friend Kay, and we determined we hadn’t seen each other before Christmas. It’s been a whirlwind, between the snow event and Christmas parties and visitors and she’s been traveling for work. In fact, she’s been so busy, that when it came time to pay, it was discovered that her debit card expired last month. And when our very polite bartender pointed this out, and she whipped out another one, it was revealed that it, too, expired last month as well. At this point, she’s slightly flustered. I’m assuring the waitstaff she’s good for it, and ready to take care of it myself if she can’t come up with a currency. The guys next to us knew her from the Arab barn where she had a horse in training recently and they tell the bartender, “Hey, if she can’t pay, I happen to know she’s got a real nice horse,” which causes Kay to squawk, and I’m about to fall off my stool laughing. “Three drinks and a flatbread and we’re selling Miss Red Dress at the bar!” I hooted. Good times. Then she nearly worries herself to death wondering where the correspondence from the bank could be. Well, turns out she hasn’t opened her mail since early December, so chances are it’s with all that. “I hate it when that happens,” Kay laments. “They need to warn me!” I just shake my head and laugh. Kay is a flake. Period. End of story. And I love her dearly. I told her just tonight I’d rather go out with her than anybody. Sorry, Lisa! It’s true, though. She goes, “well, I’ve always got a story!” That’s a fact. Tonight I got to hear about her adventure at the Philadelphia airport rental car garage. I won’t get into it, but never underestimate the power of southern manners and the ability to laugh at yourself.

The question was raised yesterday about your favorite person. Is your favorite person the person you’re closest to? The person who knows the most about you? My answer was you’re obviously going to care very much about whoever you’re closest to, but no, they don’t have to be your favorite. And your favorite can have certain degrees, too. Like, favorite person to go dinner with/ favorite person to work with/ favorite person to sit in the shade with and talk to, etc. Your favorite may be your mentor, or someone you look up to, or someone who is forever coming to your rescue. I don’t know. My favorite used to be my Uncle Dale. I valued his advice. He was pretty much the smartest person I knew…if you didn’t believe that, just ask him. He was fun, and we could talk about pretty much whatever and he didn’t usually make me feel stupid. You know, after I got grown. He engaged in storytelling and loved to pass on any tidbits of wisdom, solicited or not. More often than not, unsolicited. My favorite now tells me stories, too, from many years ago to just this morning. I think I’m partial to storytellers. I like people who make me feel safe and protected, no matter what. My favorites always make me laugh. My favorites are not stupid, nor are they boastful. My favorites love dogs. Who’s your favorite? How come?

I’m glad I’ve got good friends and we know how to have a good time. I’m thankful to have fun, safe places to go with good food. I’m glad to have a good dog and a good job. It’s a good life. Lord, don’t let me screw it up.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy