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Amy
When I was five years old, I was eating lunch at my desk in Kindergarten. I clutched a pack of mayonnaise that my five year old hand could not manage to rip open. I didn’t want to use my teeth, and I wasn’t about to ask my partner, Kenny Harvey, to open it, because obviously he had cooties and would infect both me and my mayonnaise. So, I did what anyone would do. I squeezed it. Nothing happened. I squeezed harder, bringing it closer to my body for leverage. Naturally, a packet of mayonnaise can only withstand so much pressure, and it promptly shot out and straight up my nose with a measurable force. I had mayonnaise not only in my nose, but in my eyes, in my hair, on my shirt, my pants as it dripped. I was, by all accounts, a mess. I was sent home for a bath and change of clothes. I don’t remember any more events of this nature until 5th grade, when I was sitting next to Brandon Gallespie this time, who was trying to use his modern glue pen. You remember: they were the size of the jumbo magic markers, filled with clear glue, and had a round spongy end for blotting the exact amount you needed onto your construction paper. Neat, and helped regulate drips and excess application. It was the start of the school year, and all our supplies were brand new and sparkling. Brand…
I’ve had a semi-eventful weekend, as far as things go in my hermit life. Friday morning, as usual, found me at IHOP. I love their crepes, what can I say? When I opened the first set of doors, I was greeted by a buggy full of grocery bags stuffed with…well, stuff, I guess. Possessions. Clearly the style favored by the homeless. Seated on the bench, facing the bright sunshine coming in over the tops of the trees, was an old black woman. “Good morning,” I chirped brightly to her. Then I realized she must be the owner of the buggy and bags, and probably had some mental health issues and would not understand me. “Good morning,” she returned clearly. Huh. How bout that? Before I had time to puzzle on her much more, I was led to my table. The thought did cross my mind that if I were a better person I would offer for her to dine with me, but I’m not that brave. When I looked back for her, she and her buggy were gone. The poor waitress was the server for the entire dining room, and looked like I felt most days. She was making laps with drinks, straws, and food. Another girl finally showed up to help and she relaxed a little. I’ve discovered it’s pretty much impossible for me not to eavesdrop at IHOP. I’m by myself…
I hear sirens. I’ve heard sirens all day. I thought I’d long become accustomed to them, growing up on this old curvy road with the ambulance station right across the hill, and then working in a store situated on a main thoroughfare. I hardly notice them anymore. But I did this time, because there were so many of them. And they were so close. And they kept on and on and on. Plus, Shug was gone on a 250 errand. Those seem to be becoming more frequent, as he finds more upgrades he wants to do to his weekend transportation. I sent him a quick text to make sure the sirens weren’t for him. He answered me mercifully quick that he was at his destination, and he had sure enough seen all the fire trucks headed down the highway. For most people, that would be the end of it. They would perhaps utter a prayer for the unfortunate souls requiring the emergency response, but they would get back to their sunshine-y Saturday. But I paused a minute longer, as more sirens joined the cacophony. They were now approaching from all directions. As soon as they arrived onscene, the noise would shut off, only to be replaced with a distant-for-now siren. For a few minutes, there was peace, and then, one by one, the high wail of the ambulance shrieked and tore away. Transporting emergency traffic, I thought. Must be bad. I…
Sometimes I think I’m doing all right, that I’ve got my act at least on stage, if not together. These are generally the times I’m comparing my life to the people you see in the news who have their heads stuck in pickle jars and the like. Other times, I embrace the fact that I’m batshit crazy and there’s simply nothing that can be done for my affliction. Today I thought I was doing alright. I even remembered to accessorize. Of course, when I got to work things took a nosedive, but that’s par for the course. My confidence was restored later, though, when the secretary of a large corporation requested a contract that I was reasonably sure I sent over last week. Digging through email archives, I unearthed it, and sent it back to her, along with the one from our insurance agent. She wrote back, apologizing profusely, blaming a lack of coffee on her slip. I was only too glad to soothe her, saying I was just glad I wasn’t the only one who goofed and felt crazy. It’s always nice when people who seem so professional are just as nutty as the rest of us. I have discovered this is nearly everyone. By the time we had finished our little conversation, she was signing her emails “Cait” instead of her full name with initial credentials 🙂 In celebration of making…
I’ll be the first to admit I don’t get out much (I hear Tracy and Rhonda muttering amen). But there’s a good reason for that. One, the majority of people annoy me. I had my fair share of the multitudes during my fifteen years of retail. Two, I’m happy at home. It’s cozy, it’s comfy, and I have everything I need. Namely books. Three, I have given myself a nearly unattainable goal of reading 75 books this year. I’m currently ahead of schedule by six, but I think that’s mainly due to being off Facebook for Lent. I have no doubt that I will be sucked right back into its addictiveness come April 2nd. Really, I’m dreading it. Just like everybody else, I’m friends with people I don’t follow. These people are the ones who will no doubt message me, wondering why I haven’t been sucked into their latest drama. Right now I can claim that I didn’t see it “because I’m not on Facebook” but that excuse won’t fly in two weeks time. And people don’t want to hear that I really just don’t care. It is rude, I recognize that. But I can’t help it. The truth’s the truth. There ARE things I can’t wait to…
You know when you are wanting some greasy salty potato chips but you don’t have any, but you’ve got a pack of plain saltines, and since they’re the closest thing you’ve got, you eat them even though you know they’re not going to be nearly as good? And you bite down only to discover they’re stale? That’s how this book was for me. A poor, tasteless, substitution for what could have been a rich, colorful story. I typically prefer Southern literature above all other genres. I even had the pleasure of meeting this author the other day. I’m just so thankful I had already purchased this Kindle book for $1.99. Because I probably would have cried my eyes out had I paid $26.95. Poor Ella May. Poor children. Poor Yankees, millworkers, law dogs, displaced mountain people, and all small minded individuals. There was a whole lot to root for in this book, but it’s all heartbreaking. Her story needed to be told, but I just feel like we learned about her in jumps and starts and it was hard to remember who was who as we read different perspectives from chapter to chapter. I still don’t know what to think, but I’m apt to believe all the same problems still exist. I’ll give you the link for ease of you reading other opinions, but…
The irony was, I was running late because I was reading. Late to a Literary Festival because I had my nose buried in a book. Not even an approved good book. Just some mindless blip. I finished The Stand Friday. That’s right. I read it in less than two weeks, with another book knocked out in two days for book club. I would like my medal now. Please make the ribbon red for victory. If you can find me a riser and podium I’ll be glad to make a speech of encouragement to the rest of you lackadaisical commoners. I might need a crown, too. My current one isn’t quite ostentatious enough. But I’m getting ahead of myself, as usual. The Sevierville Chamber of Commerce puts on a Literary Festival once a year called Rose Glen. I’m not qualified to tell you about the history, but I found these two videos enlightening. They’re each about ten minutes long. Rose Glen Videos <—-If you think they’re not worth your time, or you’re just lazy (hey, I’m not here to judge, I have a hard time committing to anything over 30 seconds), let me just tell you so you’ll know-Rose Glen is that old house next to the Walter State Campus in Sevierville. You know, I always thought it was part of Johnny King’s…
I always do the best I can. It doesn’t always live up to my momma’s standards, or my boss’s, or heaven forbid, society’s, but I AM doing my best. My hair is a perfect example. Believe it or not, I color it, I use expensive shampoo and product, and have even had a keratin treatment. But most days it still looks like a mockingbird nest after a tornado. My best is not good enough. I use an expensive skincare regimen daily, but my skin is still far from perfect. I still get acne, and there’s nothing to be done about these forehead wrinkles. Let’s call them laugh lines. I buy the expensive makeup and apply it carefully. More likely than not, I’m going to look like a raccoon because I have yet to conquer the smoky eye. And I’ll probably forget my lipstick. And although I spend $50 a month on pedicures, my nails are still an uneven, raggety mess. I have accepted the fact that I will never be thin, partly because I’m lazy, and the rest is because I like food better than exercise. I won’t lie and tell you I don’t have time, because I could make time. But I’d rather read and pin recipes for fattening, delicious food. And make lists of places I would like to eat and what I will…
Every time I said “Happy Valentine’s!” to someone today, Joey would grunt, “Pea Plantin’ Day.” Now, I worked at the Co-op a long time, and I don’t remember this particular day in February being marked as that designated time to plant legimes, but it sounds about right. Although I doubt anybody was planting peas or anything else in this flood of biblical proportions. So, in honor of Joey’s- and evidently Southwest Virginia’s-pea planting roots, we’re having sugar snap peas with pork chops, taters, and onions tonight. I’m using a paste that I bought off our computer guru who still plays Grand Theft Auto with his other grown men friends. That’s right, computers and cooking condiments. He calls himself a nerd so the rest of us don’t have to. The lovely Tracy baked some cookies to perfection and delivered them in their little baggie tied with a wee bit of string to my place of employment this morning. Were they picture worthy? You betcha. Did I pause long enough to take a picture before gobbling them down? Not hardly. In my defense, I did share, though. There was a BOGO sale at the library today (speaking of nerds, right?) so naturally I stopped by. And found this lying in the parking lot. It kinda broke my heart. I could clearly picture some…
Shot one. Collective intake of breath, shuddering. Shot two. Sobs break out. Shot three. The men weep. The widow exhales and raises her chin, defiant and courageous. She is presented the flag from the honor guard as the hollow notes weave through the crowd behind her. She is elegant in her good jewelry and navy blue dress, poised on her sharp heels. I can see our breath on the air. The rain continues to fall, indifferent to our tears. The service is over. I can still detect the acrid odor of gunsmoke, silent and invisible now. He brought many of us together today, back in his hometown after so many years spent scattered the four directions the winds blow. Family from all over the world, friends he knew, some he never met through simpletractors.com. I knew one, a former supervisor at the Co-op. He said he’d never met Kent, but wanted to pay his respects. He’d never imagined seeing me there. You never know where I might pop up. Friends from his graduating class and mine, there with our aging parents. People I haven’t seen in many years, old neighbors and people with babies that I remember as babies themselves. There were pictures and his plaques commemorating a job well done for 27 years. A patriot, proud to serve. There were plenty of mourners and lots of handshakes and hugs. There were many…
