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Amy
I have a confession. I used to silently judge these women that would come into Co-op and not know anything about killing weeds or, conversely, growing grass. They would ask me to put their $10 one gallon sprayer together before they left. “My husband always did this,” they would explain, sometimes glancing a little forlornly at their empty wedding ring finger. I would try (and often fail, I’m sure) to avoid rolling my eyes. I would instruct them on how much herbicide to mix, frequently using my ever-present mountain dew can as a prop. (I also did this for the men, because 100% of people carry the misconception that the more weed killer you use, the better. So wrong. So, so wrong.) Anyway, I haven’t mixed up or sprayed herbicide in ages and found both my sprayers gommed up because the last time they were used they didn’t get cleaned out. I was not the last one to use them, tyvm. So I had to prance in Co-op yesterday and buy a new one. I was on a cake delivery, anyway. I got my new Chapin sprayer out of the box this morning to use and was instantly assaulted by memories of the dozens I assembled for ladies. I had almost forgotten what a joy it is to spray herbicide. I felt like the Terminator. I hope that every woman I ever helped felt just a little bit more…
These old men Mountains Men of the mountains Mountains made these men The ground cold into May Wet till October And then the gold is abundant Don’t pan- just look up Salamanders scurry And squirrels scold And bear chew Lazy, arrogant Brides with wildflower halos And dulcimers on the porch Chicken and dumplins on Sunday After Bible thumpin’ amens Old baying dogs with black patches Flogging roosters Rusted tools hanging forgotten But don’t kill the black snake Didja hear about Shorty Gonna run ’em a cobbler Porch swing’s squeakin’ What to do with all this squash Yes ma’am And thank you Please don’t trouble yourself Prettiest quilt I ever laid eyes on There’s watermelon And sweet tea Cousins are all comin’ too Just wanna drop in this heat We’re headed to the lake To the funeral home Just want to set a spell All we do is run run run Rain’s on the way Mail’s late Kids comin’ in for Thanksgiving Can’t wait to get to the beach So green it’ll hurt your eyes So humid you can wring the water off of you So slow you think you’ll never get there And everybody’s talkin’ ’bout football Stay Southern, y’all Love from Appalachia, ~Amy…
I’ve fallen super far behind on these writing prompts (shocker) but when I was looking at the topics this morning for ideas (I’ve got the itch again) this one jumped right out. I’m a great example of a person you would come to for precisely this kind of advice. “Hey Amy, what’s fun to do in Knoxville?” “Hey, Amy, if you had one day in Pigeon Forge, what would you do?” “Hey, Amy, whatd’ya think about ridin’ this horse?” But the monumental worst decision I tend to make is….”Yes! Cotton Eyed Joes sounds like a FANTASTIC IDEA!” It’s not. It never has been. And I’ve not even been in more than ten years, but it was a terrible idea then, too. Cotton Eyed Joes is a bad idea of catastrophic proportions. It sounds like fun, let your hair down a little, have some beers, laugh at some drunk folks trying to dance or ride the mechanical bull, and then…..then it’s two o’clock in the morning and you’ve had two fishbowls, nine beers, and a line of cocaine and you’re the drunk girl on the bull….or you’re hunting “the queer in the yellow vest” to go the hell home. See how it deteriorates? QUICKLY. And then you’ve gotta…
I do not stop for him I will not even pause But if he gives chase I will give him a smile over my shoulder I will flip my hair And arch my eyebrow And maddeningly For both he and I I will pretend that he’s the one Even though I know better And he should, too But I trust my name in his mouth And I love when he tells me little things It’s like Drops of nectar from a honeysuckle flower Never enough But sweet all the same What I offer him Is myself Uncensored Honest Bare I don’t know why But I don’t need a reason…
Day 2. Some place you are grateful for. Oh myyyyyyyyy. Right now I’m grateful for all the places. All the places I can go (home, work, Food City) and all the places I used to could go. (Yes, that was intended to sound redneck. Cause I AM.) I know. I’m grateful to Holston’s. Sevierville needed them so badly and we didn’t even know. We needed a sit down lunch spot on this side of town, without having to go plumb up to Pigeon Forge or getting out on 66. We needed a place that served good food for a reasonable price, nothing fancy and some different dishes from what Ruby Tuesday’s has had for a thousand years. We needed a place to gather for a relaxing drink after work and a good spot for little groups and still private enough for a dinner date. Holston’s remains virtually undiscovered by the tourists, so you’re bound to run into someone you know when you go. The waitstaff doesn’t have a huge amount of turnover, and so they learn your preferences on where you want to sit and your favorite libation. I always feel welcome and appreciated under their care. It seems like I’ve eaten there at least once with nearly everybody I know. It’s my go-to. I like their catfish and coleslaw better than anywhere. Any time someone is unfamiliar with…
Wouldn’t it be nice to remember things as you wished they happened, but not as the actually did? Well, one of the small joys of being a tortured writer, is that I can rewrite history to my liking and visit it at will. I’m not usually one to bide my time. I like carpe diem and all that jazz. Dessert first. Explosive. But that’s not always wise, as I’ve come to learn. I found out about the indiscretion through his own stupidity. Isn’t that how it goes? These cocky men, underestimating the intuition of the woman they’ve been sharing a life with. They also tend to underestimate our cunning vengeance, thinking we are much to sweet to react with such murderous contempt. And so, after I talked to my attorney and realized that, yet again, it had not served me well to be a self-sufficient woman for so long. Because I had always had a steady income, and the lodgings originated in my family, and we had no children, I would get little to nothing from the man who had so easily taken my trust and reputation and totally wrecked the illusion I had of our marriage. I decided I would get it all, anyway. And the sooner the better, because no doubt he was squandering every dime on that crack whore. It was coming up on my birthday, and of course I preferred to celebrate out…
You ever feel like enough is enough? As Gus says, “That. Is. E-NOUGH.” I can’t take one more quarantine post. Not one more. Whether it’s funny, political, informational, factual, or pure made up CRAP, I’m DONE. So. Here is my reprieve. And yours too, if you want it. Day One (too bad I’m not starting this on the first, but that’s just like me, a day late (or six, but who’s counting?) and a dollar short). Someone you are grateful for. Well, I’m grateful to a lot of people but in the spirit of keeping this light, I’m gonna be grateful to the writing team on the Greatest Sitcom Of All Time: FRIENDS. Bright/Kauffman/Crane. I mean, they’ve kept me going all these years, through good times and bad. You could always depend on them for a laugh a minute. Still, to this day, I will laugh out loud watching that show. And I’ve seen every episode at least three dozen times. It wasn’t always squeaky clean jokes, but it wasn’t nearly as raunchy as what’s on now and passes for comedy at prime time. Chandler, Rachel, Monica, Joey, Phoebe, and Ross keep me in stitches no matter what they were doing. And they did A LOT in ten years. They played endless games of foozball, got married, got divorced…
I’m supposed to be at a party right now. A small party, I imagine around 25-30 people. It was to take place in a popular downtown restaurant. But instead, I’m sitting at home with my dog, writing you. Not because I decided not to go. Not because I don’t feel well. But because of panic and “guidelines”. Guidelines being a nice way of saying restrictions. One week ago, last Tuesday, America was aware of this “flubug” called Coronavirus. We felt bad for China, and we were really examining our spring break plans. We had enough sense to know we didn’t want to go to big cities with international airports. We weren’t too keen about getting on airplanes or cruise ships. But we’re not China. So we laughed and joked and shared memes about beer and face masks made from bras. Wednesday. I look back on this day now and wonder how long it will be before I’ll have another day like it. Because that was the last time I had dinner out with friends. We laughed and teased our friend who stayed glued to her phone. She travels a lot, and her panic rose substantially as the night wore on, no matter how much wine she drank. She was in communication with a coworker in California, who said she was praying. In case you’re new to America, let me…
All I knew was he went by Rod. I found him through a friend of a friend of an acquaintance after I couldn’t find a granny witch. Everybody said I didn’t want to open that door, and I tended to agree. So straight-up murder, no magic, then. I assumed he came from a neighboring county that had, shall we say, less stringent laws? The authorities would turn a blind eye to lots of misdeeds…especially if you feathered their nest if the public got to lookin’ too close. But I wasn’t going to ask him about his family and politics. The less we knew about each other, the better. It’s surprisingly easy to put a hit out. And cheap! Less than what you’d pay for a mediocre used car. The details were simple: meet in a corner booth in a Mexican restaurant. Wear a black shirt (how original, I know). Order a burrito with extra sour cream. Slide the money under a stack of napkins at the earliest convenience. Finish the meal, and get the heck out. Leave first and don’t look back. So that’s what we did. Rod was sturdily built, with a goatee. He looked like any number of guys in these parts. Not a killer. He was wearing a plaid shirt with pockets and blue jeans. Lace-up boots. A pack of cigarettes in one pocket, sunglasses in another. He…
I stepped into my favorite restaurant bar at a quarter to five, seated at what I’ve come to think of as “my” table, since it seems I get it nearly every time. Maybe I should see to getting a little plaque made up. I ordered a cosmo and settled back to wait on my friend. I surveyed the people at the bar and what I found was a goldmine. I couldn’t get my WordPress account opened fast enough. Left to right: Balding man, grey hair trimmed short. He was in blue jeans, a black hooded sweatshirt under a jean jacket with white tennis shoes. Describing his appearance makes me feel that his best days were the 80’s. He stayed absorbed in his phone the few minutes I got to observe him. I’d wager he’s still figuring it on, maybe navigating YouTube. He polished off his light beer and left abruptly. Maybe to drink PBR’s in his buddy’s garage while bangin’ some drums and smoking a little weed. He was replaced shortly after by a heavyset dude in his 30’s, clearly fresh off a construction job, but obviously he’d taken the time to change his boots. Otherwise, they would still be sweeping up mud. I didn’t notice what he’d ordered to drink. Maybe sweet tea, maybe a dark draft, I dunno. His friend came from a…
