Ok, this one truly is #88. I somehow managed to skip #87 and someone who pays attention to details caught it. I do not pay attention to details. I barely pay attention to the main attraction. Especially if there’s food. Or dogs.

I am really truly looking forward to the long weekend. In a very selfish kind of way….which is obviously the wrong mentality, especially seeing as how it’s Easter. But still. I can’t help it. I just love being home. Even though I’m prollllllly gonna get out; I need to visit a garden center for mulch and some flowers. And if I go to Loveday’s I can get one (ONE!) of them little hand pies. Oh my stars they’re so decadent. The lemon is my favorite. I want to try the chocolate, though. And blackberry is really good too. And of course the peach is always gonna be a hit with me.

Great balls of fire, I wonder what time they open? I just ate a half of a sleeve of thin mints like they were going out of style, and now here I am thinking about Dutch girl pie.

Anyway. I came home and knocked out the key players of housework which leaves my weekend fairly free. But I do want to go ahead and spray and work on my flowerbeds since I neglected them last year. Hey, not my fault. I was dealing with that massive tree that had fallen and it just jacked everything up as far as yard maintenance. We’ve had quite the lovely spring so far. I hate to admit it, but today was the first time I’d walked. Fish and I used to walk almost every single time the weather was fair. We fell out of the habit during Covid and never really picked back up. But today, when I could stand no more of Jake Right Now’s sniffling, I sent out the “fancy a stroll?” Mayday. And he did, seeing as how I’d caught him at an opportune time of feeling like he’d overindulged at lunch. As I understood it, there was gravy involved, so it’s warranted.

And that’s only part of why I wanted to walk. One of my favorite producers came by. As he said, he’s had a really tough year…and it’s not even April. He spent five of six weeks in the hospital, had a stroke that was misdiagnosed at two hospitals as pneumonia, he’s had three broke ribs, just came through a surgery this month of having his pacemaker replaced, I don’t even know what all. He’s not one to complain, but I know he’s tired. On top of that, his wife of 64 years has dementia. I stood out and talked to him for awhile and while I was super glad to see him out and about, I felt selfish for wanting to keep him here. And I wouldn’t, truly…but I do love him. He said he just wishes he could walk. He means unassisted, over his fields and farm. He’s on a walker, and I know that pains and shames him. No reason to be ashamed, especially at his age with his history.

I’m just afraid he ain’t long for this world. He made out like he’s waiting on her, and I made the remark, “maybe she’s waiting on you.” Was it crass? Maybe a little. Was it true? We’ll never know. Did he agree with me? He did.

I hate to see these old farmers quit. They don’t want to quit, and they know what’s gonna become of the place they gave their every spare moment to. The ground they worried and prayed about and obsessed over every day of their life. What they nearly went broke over more than once, what drove them crazy but kept them sane. What they and their families did without because of the love of their land. It’s their heart and soul. And they ain’t makin’ no more.

So if you’d say some prayers for the fourth boy in his family of nine, he could sure use them. And if you can’t pray, go walk, and think of him. Listen to the birds, watch the bees working clover, try to understand how your food gets here. The heartbeat of America isn’t a Chevrolet truck. The heartbeat of America is the farmer. And it’s on it’s last pacemaker.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy