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Amy
I cannot say you are the only lightBut you are candlelight glowing on burnished bronzeI cannot say you are the safety net to my trapezeYou are a sun warmed brick wall at my backI cannot say you are a kingly feastBut you are a comforting Sunday mealI cannot say you are total happinessBut you are many of my smiles that lingerI cannot say I am incomplete without youBut I ache for your presenceYou are not every conversation Just the one I want to have, even in drifting dreamsI cannot say I long for your touchBut you are a fleece blanket against the chillI cannot say I can’t live without youBecause I canBut I don’t want toThey are endlessThese Blue SundaysThey are quiet and stillThere is hope in the sunshineAnd the budding treesIn the fat groundhog waddling Clumps of green I am one moment closerTo the candlelight, the solidness of youTo be protected, to be cherishedIt is spring, and it is newLove from Appalachia,~Amy…
“Pretty is as pretty does.” We’ve heard it all our lives. But do you know what it truly means? It means that you can be a bombshell, but if you’ve got a wicked heart, you’re ugly as a blob fish. {I was going to conveniently supply you with a photo of one here, but I shan’t do you that way. To be fair, they’re only ugly once they’re hauled to the surface of water. They’re not so bad in their home depth. May this serve as a lesson to us all}. I was having a conversation with my friend the other night over supper and she said offhandedly, “She’s pretty.” I don’t remember who we were even talking about, but I agreed. Kay is one of those sweet people who can find beautiful things in everyone. I can see beauty in lots of things, normal things, like sunrises over the ocean and daffodils dripping with dew and Persian cats. I can see it in manmade things, too: Greek Revival houses and certain sports cars and the way candlelight glimmers in chandeliers. Sure. I don’t always see beauty in people. I can tell when women of a certain age were a knockout in their day, mainly because they’re still paying attention to their figure and appearance. They’ll still be keeping up with frosting their hair, and usually they have those deep set eyes that are always the envy of…
I feel the need to spring clean. Not the Pine-sol variation, but the “I hate all my possessions and all I’m going to keep is my favorite sweetgrass basket, 100 books, my coffeepot, and my dog” kind of cleaning. But you all recognize that for the lie it is, because I’m a fourth generation packrat. That’s just the packrats that I’ve known personally. I’d bet great-great Mamaw Octavia was one, too. It’s hard to let go of stuff. So when the urge hits, I try to embrace it. I’ve already thrown one thing away today. Well, to be technical about it, two things. Because it was a pair of shoes. Now, even I wouldn’t keep just one shoe. I will keep one sock, though, if it’s a style of sock I have multiple pairs of. Like white ankle socks. Because they never all get holes at the same time. They get holes individually. So I can prolong the lives of sock pairs. It ain’t like they’re penguins and mate for life, anyway. So these shoes, I’m sure you’ve seen me in them because I wear them all the time, are some very nice Josef Seibel black leather cork sole wedge sandals. They were the perfect height– the lift was just enough to be considered dressy if I needed it or…
Don’t go lookin’ for the poem, it ain’t here. I’ve barely even thought about it today. I hit the ground running this morning at work. Loads of emails, phone messages, tidying my desk from the disarray the boys left for me. They pulled the ol’ Amy and Lisa shenanigans, placing items backwards and upside down. Cute. But they also left me a 4-leaf clover, so I know they missed me ❤️ It’s so nice to have likable coworkers again. It’d also be nice to have a dog that doesn’t shed, but you can’t have it all. Y’all will be pleased to know that I went out in public tonight with the size sticker still stuck to the length of leg. On the back, of course. And I thought my jacket/ kimono/ whatever it is was long enough to cover it, but when I checked the mirror to see how big of a doofus I was, it was determined I was a complete doofus. At least it was a slow night at the Aubrey’s so maybe not very many people noticed. And here I’d been quietly giggling about these three older ladies who had gotten pretty tipsy and were discussing waxing…procedures. Don’t throw rocks, I do most of my stupid shit stone cold sober. I didn’t hug any complete strangers at Convention this week, so at least there’s that. I did talk to one lady like she…
Boo like a ghost!Moo like a cow! We sell dog food! Bow-wow-wow! You all just don’t know how that’s been haunting me. Yesterday, as we were passing by another of the conference rooms in the hotel, we could hear the Ecolab guys chanting. I thought, we need a chant! That would make meetings funner! Almost like huddle at a football game…and sure enough, just as the chant died, the doors burst open and the guys came pouring out like fire ants, jostling and happy. Their energy was palpable. Didn’t we have a chant at Co-op? More than John Ward’s jingle of “Co-op, Co-op, quality products for everyone!” Y’all remember that? It started coming back to me in little pieces, spirit fingers first. Then where it was (Fall Creek Falls) and what we were learning about (the new line of dog food), and who was there (Keith Harrison, Chris Cox, Shirley….Something) and the last line….I just couldn’t remember the beginning. By the time of the banquet I’d managed to remember all but the first line. But that one line was driving me bonkers because I knew it was real catchy. Then, today, the planets aligned, the sun shone through the clouds to highlight my brain, and BAM! “BOO LIKE A GHOST!!!” I crowed, complete with spirit fingers. After my chauffeur pulled it back in the road, I felt ten pounds lighter. There was no reason…
I will say, after missing two days in a row, it’s easy to want to miss the third. I would compare it to church. The more you miss, the easier it is to lay out. Really, it goes for anything that takes discipline- a diet, trying to make any sort of lifestyle change. I didn’t participate in Lent this year and I find myself missing it keenly. When I get a pang, I feel led to pray about whatever’s on my mind that day. I have sent out six sympathy cards in the last week, so there’s no shortage of people or things to pray for and about. It’s funny, sometimes you anticipate something for so long, say Christmas, and then it’s there and gone and you’re not sure you actually savored every moment. I try not to let anything go unappreciated and I try not to wish my life away. We’d all be better off if we could live like dogs- just in this moment, not pining for yesterday or desiring what’s to come. There’s always something coming down the pike to be excited about, and conversely, something to dread. Better just to be excited to be alive in this moment, on this day, and see what happens. I’m at the Tennessee Association of Conservation Districts Convention in Murfreesboro. I have seen many familiar faces but I…
Hello friends and neighbors. I hope I didn’t alarm anyone by skipping yesterday. Apparently not, because not a single one of my devoted followers reached out to see if I was dead in a ditch. Although to be fair, my nearest and dearest knew what I was doing and where I was. Anyway, I’m fine, it just boils down to me being a procrastinator extraordinaire and didn’t bother getting anything put down before I began my journey halfway across the state. Then after dinner and maybe some two-for-one beers, I no longer felt the supreme drive to write. So, since I’m writing today, in my rules in Amy Land, I still say this counts and it’s not cheating. I’m just a day late. And I have addressed my problem head-on. But the “dead in a ditch” phrase reminds me of when I worked for the fencing outfit and I would call all the crew leaders at 2:00 on the nose (unless I was asshole deep in alligators, but typically things had mellowed by that point in the day). The purpose of the call was to make sure they were on schedule either to finish or they would be on overtime to finish or needed an extra day (that was very bad and I hated to hear those words). Also, just to make sure they hadn’t died from heat exhaustion, rattlesnake…
I don’t wanna write, I wanna gripe. Common courtesy is dead. But if I write about it, I’m gonna get all wound up here at bedtime and I need to get some rest tonight. So, I’ll save it for a day I’m already mad. Writing prompt #911, courtesy of Barry the Chigger. Those of you on my Facebook know him as the guy who’s obsessed with the Kodak library. I know him as the guy who published my words about the helicopter crash and shit hittin’ the fan. I’ve unintentionally beguiled him with my Southern charm, but you never know when you might need a New York Yankee retired fireman to proofread an article on growing petunias. So here we are. #911 You gain control over a magical door. All you have to do is write a location, any location, at the top of the door and when you open it, it brings you to where you’ve written. Gained control? Makes it sound like I’m in a coveted spot, indeed. Like I had to sword fight for this right. Hmm. The “all you have to do” part seems a little suspect, too. And my handwriting is atrocious, so I better be very careful, indeed. “Historic Downtown Savannah Georgia,” I scrawled. Best to pick a place I’m familiar with to get my bearings on how this was gonna work. I opened the door, stepped through, and whoosh! It was like those…
Writing Prompt #466 “The fog rolled in, this was our first warning sign.” It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It was a beautiful, clear day. And lemme tell you, the trout were bitin’. I adjusted my G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised In The South) cap and pushed up my polarized prescription sunglasses. I twitched my rod. “Woooo!” Came my uncle’s war cry from the back of the boat. “I wouldn’t be you for apple butter!” This was a common enough phrase heard every Thursday when the weather was fair, TVA was runnin’ “big water”, and a bearded man and his redheaded niece could be found in the middle of the Clinch River in an aluminum boat. I kept my mouth shut and twitched my rod again. We slowly propelled across the river. Back and forth, back and forth. Only pausing to unhook. Which, to be honest, was happening a lot more from the stern than the bow. But as a wise person once said, “a bad day fishin’ is still better ‘an a good day at work.” The Clinch River is something to behold. It’s wide and green and swift and cold. It’s perfect for the sleek rainbow trout. It’s also home to the “elusive” yellow perch (named by me, sarcastically, after that was all I caught one afternoon and I had to make them sound more exotic and sought after), salamanders, white tailed deer, eagles, and the healthiest crop of…
Trigger warning….vomit ahead. If you don’t wanna read about snot vomit, please skip to the third paragraph. I spent the second half of my day irritated because my coworker is the single most disgusting human being alive. He throws up because he refuses to blow his nose. I am not even joking. He admitted to it today, freely, with no urging from me. It is a regular occurrence. It happened just yesterday afternoon and he didn’t even bother washing it off before he came to work today. He also never washes his hands. I mean never. And by the way, I’m not talking about Double Fries David or Addison the Saving Grace. This is a new guy, y’all don’t know him. And you’re not going to, because I am embarrassed by him and wouldn’t want to make you feel obligated to pretend you aren’t totally repulsed upon introduction. This is not to say he isn’t a nice guy. I feel confident in saying his mother has done the best she could. He’s not intimidating or anything like that. He’s just nasty. And this is nothing I wouldn’t say to him, and have, multiple times a day, since he started three months ago. I’m trying to help him improve his hygiene habits. It’s not working. If I wind up sick, I’m gonna string him up by his toes like a crow caught in the cornfield…
