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Amy
Ahhh. The one I would normally pick to write about is, “Speak the truth, even if your voice shakes,” but I’ve written about that before. It’s no coincidence that my favorite quote concerns travel. “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” ~ Mark Twain I try to live without regrets or guilt. It’s not always easy. Balancing what is right for me, against what was ingrained in me what is the polite thing to do. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, it’s not easy being a woman in my beloved South. Travel got in my blood early, and I did it right. I never said no when Co-Op presented me with an excursion, flying me to Texas and St. Louis and Las Vegas. I practically lived in a Lance camper for six months, touring the southwest, flying in & out of Salt Lake half a dozen times and to Seattle once. I forwent communication with several friends and family during this time, but for the most part we’ve made peace with it. I was 25, and I would do it all again. And then I traveled alone, because I wasn’t going…
I just got this sweatshirt and it should tell you everything you need to know about me. Although I’ve made plenty of good decisions since then (and probably even more terrible ones), my last standout good idea was Charleston for Thanksgiving. My last two visits were less than mediocre, as I spent most of my time on the beach. That isn’t my cup of tea for more than a day. But love is about compromise. So anyway, this Thanksgiving dinner found me on an island, sipping something fruity, and eating lobster. I mean, what’s not to love? I was torn, sure. I love to cook, and had been making my own Thanksgiving meal at home for several years now. It sure cut down on the stress of having to be here and there. Probably a little selfish, but when I worked at Co-op I had to be back at work on Friday morning so it was exhausting spending the whole day running and the general mayhem. I didn’t have the usual crew coming this year, everybody seemed to be up in the air on plans, and I didn’t have any solid ones, either. There were several places I was welcomed, thankfully, but I wasn’t really feeling it. Additionally, I had several vacation days to burn. I couldn’t see rattling around my house for a week, even if it did mean having all the time in…
Many years ago, I could be found every Friday afternoon at a barn in Hamblen, Hawkins, or Jefferson County with twenty or so other like-minded rednecks of my own age. We were studying Farm Animal Management via the Ag Program at Walters State, under the direction and supervision of Roger D. Brooks. Farm Animal Management was a really good way to get killed. Perhaps I exaggerate. No, as I think back on it with a clear mind, really, I’m not. What would happen is we would all go to our morning classes, maybe skipping the last one in favor of some lunch at Sagebrush before heading out into the wilds. I was 18 (Farm Animal Management II was offered as an apprenticeship after completing the initial one the previous spring) but there were a few guys in class that were 21, because they were having too good a time to bother graduating and going to work full time. These were our apprentices. They had grown up punching cattle, riding horses, castrating everything from bull calves to the unlucky barn cat. They piled out of dented, scratched, and faded Chevrolet pickups with enough dirt in the floorboard and on the dash to send out for a soil sample. They dipped tobacco, they cussed, they wore starched Wranglers and sported belt buckles won at regional rodeos. They were boisterous, and witty, and quick on their feet. They wielded hot shots and shook paddles at aggressive cattle and scrambled up…
My Grandmother, even though I didn’t realize it until she was gone. Not really. She divorced her cheating lying husband, even though she had a new house to pay for and two kids to bring up. She worked night shift at a factory and still found time to go dancing in her gold shoes. She had her hair done every Friday morning, smoked Marlboros, wore Chanel #5, and caught her granddaughter a toad in the well house. She carried a .38 revolver, glued on false eyelashes every day, and raised Angelfish. She loved fresh long stemmed red roses but always killed houseplants. She cheered for the Vols and the Cowboys and cussed like a sailor when Alabama scored or she dropped food in the floor. She would drink bourbon while canning green beans. She was a registered Democrat that voted Republican most of the time. She nursed her baby brother to health and took care of her mother till the end. She counseled her granddaughter and made her stand up straight and become a well rounded woman through beauty pageants, guitar lessons, and clogging competitions. The only thing I ever knew her to be scared of was snakes. So here’s to all single mothers and dads. I really don’t know how you do it. I can barely feed and raise myself, let alone another human…
Poets Poets are Poets are supposed to be clingy And thoughtful And introspective And in love Poets are dreamy And indecisive And flighty And flakey Poets speak softly Poets are heartbroken And have sad eyes And wear their solitude like a badge Poets are willowy And wispy And don’t eat much Poets are lyrical Poets can while away an afternoon Just sitting in one spot Looking at a blade of grass Poets are made of secrets and whispers and stardust Poets have a disheveled appearance So at least I’ve got the hair right…
Do those two words conjure dusty corners and musty smells? Do you think of lamplight and heavy drapes and threadbare cushions on antique furniture? Do you envision leather bound tomes, heavy as bricks, piled on every surface and crammed into shelves that reach to the ceiling? Do you picture bespectacled old women, peering at you from under steel gray buns when a book from your pile slips to the floor, causing a disruption? Do you conjure up card catalogs and rainy afternoons and periodicals enjoyed by a large potted plant? Perhaps you are remembering hours spent in your school library among books on spaceships and whales with rainbow posters on the creme colored cinder block walls. Maybe you remember being slumped in a plastic chair at a round table with a chipped veneer finish, #2 pencil in one hand, the other in a fist at your hairline as you tried to determine what the differences are between porpoises and dolphins for your research paper. Or was it college, when you were there in your cubby, scratching out an outline to your thesis and some grad student was being helpful and surfing through ten weeks worth of newspapers from Chicago’s Great Fire on the microfiche to help you. You were taken into the archives by a lady who probably painted lines up the back of her legs during WWII. You’re tapping away on one of those newfangled Apple computers, the monitor the color of a cherry Lifesaver…
Did you mean to break meOr just simply push Right up to the edgeCalculatingAnd you hold my wristWhile we sleepAnd you call my nameBut I swirland spinOut of your graspBecause I know betterAs to who is breaking whose heart…
Copper Cellar. MMMM-hhhmmmmm. Lorie is the reason for this new destination brunch spot of mine. And it is GLORIOUS. I don’t know how I’ve gone all these years and this place has never come up on my radar. I think the last time I went was 1998. And it was for supper, not brunch. Knoxville may have not even caught on to the whole brunch theme back then. After all, we are the scruffy little city. Anyway. Copper Cellar is a fixture on Kingston Pike. They’ve been there forever, and for good reason. I can’t find a single thing i don’t like about the place. The booths are comfortable, the dining area is cozy, the waiters are all friendly. I like the ambiance in general. It’s usually groups out for something special. For brunch, which i have now enjoyed twice in a month, they offer the following (and I’m sure much more that I never even saw) Belgian waffles with all the fixin’s Fruit Sausage Biscuits Gravy Eggs Sausage links Hash browns Fried potato cakes Spinach mac & cheese (heavenly, and I detest mac & cheese) Omelets to order Sweet potato bites Fried chicken tenders Fajita chicken Chips, guac, salsa, pico, sour cream, black beans Spinach maria Green beans Hash brown casserole Shrimp creole Rice Salad I think I saw lasagna yesterday Some other kind of chicken. Cheesecake Cookies, doughnuts, mini eclairs, all…
I can get enough to eat. I’ve never gone hungry. I might not be able to eat quail and creme brulee every day, but I’ve always got meat and taters. Food is obviously very important to me. It’s also a way I show love. I feel so homey when hosting a dinner party, and I love to be in my kitchen, especially now that I’ve updated the flooring and fridge. It seems like no matter the company, that’s where we gather. The kitchen really is the heart of the home. I cannot stand to think of people or pets going hungry. That’s why nearly every dog or horse I’ve ever owned has been pleasantly plump. Of course, LB passed plump about three years ago…. I miss cooking every day. I can’t hardly stomach leftovers more than once and not everything freezes well. And when I do freeze it, I never think far enough to label it, so I’ve often thawed vegetable soup thinking it was chicken taco soup…or, like last week, chili. That’s always disappointing. And I can’t eat cornbread fast enough to warrant making a whole pan, so now I’ve been without it for some time. I’ve thought about volunteering at the local food ministry, but I have mixed feelings about that. I know that certain programs are misappropriated, and…
Well, I’m not as redneck as I thought. Because I didn’t murder my ex-husband. And let me tell you, he had it coming. I had a hundred different ways to do it. No matter how it happened, it would have taken him by surprise. He thought I loved him too much to kill him. My first thought was to kill him. I’ve told this story several times in the last year or so, and there’s always a moment of total stillness when I pause, just like after you take a shot of tequila. The moment of clarity, of slight pain when you’re just trying to breathe again, and thinking about the effects of your actions. It’s just a perfectly quiet moment. Notice, next time you’re doing shots. Then there’s the exhale. Here’s the story. It was only about 10:30, even though in the movies it’s always the middle of the night. I remember thinking that was ironic. And it was summer, one of those June nights, when no evil ever strikes. But it had. That’s the thing about life. It’s original and unexpected. It wasn’t storming, it wasn’t a full moon (but almost). I read the message and I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw up. I began to shake. And I pivoted on my heel and…
