Halloween.

Chester’s Gotcha Day.

I took the day off to celebrate the latter. I detest Halloween. But I do enjoy seeing the fun costumes. And I ain’t gonna turn down a Reese’s Cup, pumpkin or bats or standard shape, I have no preference.

So we’ve had the bacon and fried taters, he’s opened his four presents, representing one for each of his years here (although I’m sure he would have preferred the number in dog years equivalent), we’ve been to Chickalay for the requisite fluff cup and nuggets, and have napped in between all activities.

Although it was over 80 degrees today, the breeze is cool, more so because I’m in the shade. But I’m watching the chickens wade through the fallen leaves from my formerly showy sugar maple. They’re all so unique in color and patterns. I find their gentle clucking therapeutic. I was never permitted to have chickens, I don’t remember the reasoning. Prolly ‘cause I’d cry myself dehydrated when the hawk made a meal of one of them. And in my family, we revere hawks and other wildlife above domesticated animals.

‘Cept groundhogs. They never were tolerated. It was the holes they dug, they’d hobble a horse or kill a cow.

There’s a ball game tonight. There’s a ball game most nights. I don’t mind the noise, people are having fun and united, politics hopefully a long way from their thoughts. The band could be better, though. I can smell the popcorn, strangely enough.

Halloween. I don’t know that there’s ever been a single trick or treater to visit this house, apart from me and my cousins. Of course not in recent years, when I’ve kept the gate closed and a toothy dog on patrol. I thought I’d selected a spooky book to read this week, but it’s just a variation of Where the Crawdads Sing. I don’t mind it. Midnight is the Darkest Hour by Ashley Winstead, if you’re so inclined to join me. It’s about a little backwater town in Southern Louisiana and the hypocritical souls who live there. I don’t know why anyone expects the truth from anybody else when they lie to their own self.

Maybe rain tomorrow. I’m glad I got gas today. I detest pumping gas in the rain. I’d like to stay home again tomorrow, but that’s just my laziness talkin’. Besides, I’m not sure Jake is capable of showing up two days in a row. It remains to be seen if he was even there today. He wasn’t at 9:30, according to Sam, who swung by for his retirement gift.

It makes me wonder what his dream job is. What is he good at? Not being on time, that’s a fact. Not paperwork of any kind. Not chewing quietly or blowing his nose or washing his hands. I guess he likes running equipment. And drinking beer. I can’t fault him for the beer.

What do any of us want to be, truly? I say I’d like to be an author, but I don’t know that that’s true. There would be criticism from all sides. People disagreeing with whatever subject you write about, any sort of opinion expressed, accusations that you drew from their life experiences, not your own. Look at Sean Dietrich. I would call him successful, and optimistic as anybody around. And he catches all kinds of flack.

I ain’t built for that. Not to just sit there and take it, anyway. Email is free, but Allegiant offers a lot of $99 flights. Prolly wouldn’t do for me to get hate mail.

Still I look to find a reason to believe, as Rod Stewart sang. You gotta believe in something or you’d never do anything. That’s why I can’t understand how atheists can face another day. Life is too hard to go at it with no hope for a better tomorrow.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy