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Amy
I’m told the Powerball is 800 million. Johnny asked if I picked up some tickets. I gave him one of my blank stares. “Let me tell you how that would go: ‘I need to play the lottery, please,” I would inform the Pakistani gas station clerk. And he would ask me something that I don’t understand, so I would point to those scratch offs in desperation & he would rip off some & I would have to buy those too.” “They’re five dollars a line.” “And I don’t know what that means, either.” “You can pick your own numbers or the machine can pick them.” “Pretty sure I don’t trust computers. So then I’d be having to come up with numbers other than seven, & that could be problematic.” “Don’t worry babe, me & the guys from work went in on some. We’ve got 15 plays.” “But then we’ll have to split it with all theeeeemmm….” I whined. “You might as well say 500 million, split five ways, 100 million for us…you think you’d even notice?” “I’m gonna be like Monica on F.R.I.E.N.D.S. & hide some extra.” So I’ve been planning what I’…
I read an interesting post yesterday about not comparing your life to anyone else’s because Facebook is their highlight reel. I agree strongly with that statement. However, let me tell y’all somethin’. You know as well as I do that I’ll tell just about anything. That’s how it is when you’re an aspiring writer. Not much is off limits. So here’s how today went: Slept way too late for my own good. Still up because of it. Also because I chopped a red onion about an hour ago & my nose hasn’t stopped running & my eyes are still watering & no way can I go to sleep with all that goin’ on. Started laundry. Ended up making three trips up & down stairs that my Fitbit didn’t recognize. I don’t know why it does that. To mock me? Grrrr. Ate enormous bowl of Cocoa Puffs because I was too lazy to fix actual breakfast. Watched a segment of Titanic. I started it Saturday. I’m not very far. I think the last thing I watched was where Rose is partying with the Irish down in steerage. Got my book finished so I could have it back by the due date because my friend Brenda is waiting on it so she can read it & come to book club because I’ve been hounding her about it for…
Home is a relative term. If you’re in your hometown and someone asks where you live, you will perhaps give them specific directions. Say I see you at Food City in Seymour, I would tell you I live behind the high school. If I’m in Knoxville, home is Seymour. If I’m in Atlanta, home is Knoxville. If I’m in Asheville, or Savannah, or Charleston, I might care to explain I’m from a small town near Dollywood. People from away are always fascinated that I’m from the same county as Dolly Parton. If I’m on the West Coast, home is simply “Tennessee”. If I were to travel to Ireland, “home” would be the United States. I’m arrogant, but not so much that I would expect them to point out the South on a map of the world. And if aliens abduct me, planet Earth would be close enough for me. So if you move away from where you’re born, but leave behind your family to cleave to your beloved, of perhaps to just a new life, then you hopefully have two homes. Hence the phrase, “Going home for Christmas,” the same as going home after a long day at the office. Home is where the heart is. For years, home was where my horse was, because my heart was my horse. I’ve been home…
So there’s this family I know, & they’re not normal. Allow me to explain. I’m scrolling through all the pictures of smiling faces & homemade cookies & well wishes on Christmas Day. Being as that I have no children to clean up after, I had a fairly relaxing day & could spend it mindlessly trolling the internet, looking at y’alls madness & mayhem. I got to a picture of a home I know, a home I’ve visited, a home that belongs to a family I love. In the picture was a modest tree, decorated with traditional colored lights & homemade ornaments, nothing flashy or showy about it. The tree sat on warm hardwood floors, polished to a shine. Nearby, perched on a low table, was a glass of milk & a plate of cookies. Other pictures revealed stockings hung on the chimney (with care, I imagine). The pictures themselves weren’t perfect, either, kinda blurry. Nothing was staged. But it was perfect in my eyes. I looked closer. And I saw something there. Or rather, a lack of something. Underneath the tree were just a few presents. Maybe six. Maybe there were a few more that didn’t make it in the frame. I was puzzled. Houses with children are usually overrun with presents. Even here, Johnny & I are terrible & have all of ours under the big tree in the living…
I hear a lot of people dreading Christmas, hating Christmas, saying the gift giving isn’t what it’s about. And while that’s true, I hope these people realize that getting back to the true meaning of Christmas starts within yourself. I hope that they pick a child off the Angel Tree, or volunteer with a Food Pantry, or some other selfless act. It WILL change your heart. Last week at work, this couple came up to the counter, inquiring about a discount if they bought several pairs of boots. They said six pairs. So we offered them the same discount we had on Black Friday, including 50% off our closeouts, which are already marked down. They bought fourteen pairs. They were at the counter for awhile, as you can imagine, as we were checking sizes & whatnot. They explained what they were doing. They were from North Carolina & it all started four years ago. A few members in their church are teachers & brought up the subject of a few of the underprivledged children in the community. These teachers had an inkling that some students weren’t getting anything to eat over the weekend. They thought the only food these children received was at school. So it came about that the church was making up sack lunches for these kids to take home over the weekend. It wasn’t much, like a can of soup or a sandwich, some…
Guess what? No, I didn’t hit the lottery. Y’all goobers really think I’d post it like this? No. You’d see a picture of me with my toes in the sand & a drink my hand. Guess what? Guess who your newest blogger for Sevier County Public Library System is? ME!!!! *picture me holding my arms out, head tilted towards the sun that is shining directly on me, much like a spotlight, eyes squinched shut, spinning* Miss Rhonda pitched a reading challenge at me last week & it was 40 books. Combined with our one a month for book club, that makes 52, which is perfect because my goal is one a week. So she said since I basically write a review on Goodreads anyway, would I care if they shared it on the library’s media sites? Well, heck no!!! So, that’s the gist of it. The way I understood it, anyway. Follow me! Follow me! I’ll be harping along as usual. P.s. Coming home tonight, I stopped for supper to bring home. Most women my age have children, & when traveling, if they have to slam on the brakes, they instinctively reach an arm across their kid’s chest. You know, like a backup seatbelt. Me, I sling an arm across my bag of food to prevent it from hitting the floor. Priorities…
I hear songs in my head all the time. I’m sure many of you do. Different circumstances provoke a line or two. If in conversation someone says a familiar phrase, it’s sure to remind me of some song that was popular ten or twenty years ago. For instance, Yankee & I were standing at the counter several weeks ago, & one of our regulars walks up with a part in his hand. We both greet him & reach for it simultaneously. He waffles between us, shuffling from one foot to the other, indecisive. “I guess I’m just gonna dance,” he laughs at himself. “You can dance if you want to,” Yanked tells him innocently. She’s only 21. Me, on the other hand…I immediately burst into song. “You can leave your friends behind. Cause if your friends don’t dance then they’re no friends of mine,” I sang, hopping around in accompaniment. (Sometimes you get more than you were shopping for at the Co-op. Sometimes you get a song AND dance for FREE). Anyway, I haven’t worn my wedding rings all week, except for a few hours yesterday, & my ring finger still has a smooth, pinkish colored indention. They’re not too small, they’re just snug enough not to slip off when my hands are wet. I guess it’s just because I…
Day 11: Your Current Relationship. If Single; Discuss That Too I check the status box that says Married. Finally. I mean, 33 isn’t exactly old maid age in the grand scheme of things, but in the South you might as well be dead & buried. I won’t bore you to tears with “our story” But here’s the high points: • It was love at first sight for me. He came in to buy dog food & I was smitten • Our first date he picked up hitchhikers who were hiking the AT & we dropped them off in Gatlinburg Then we went hiking (no makeup, no painful shoes, no fancy clothes= AWESOME) & to Texas Roadhouse, where I told him that if he was expecting me to be the type of girl who orders a salad, he was severely mistaken. I ordered barbeque chicken • I don’t call him Shug because he’s sweet. It’s a brand of chardonnay. • When I was losing my mind over all the wedding details, he didn’t understand what the big deal was. His exact words: “Just find you a dress, & get your girls, & we’ll find someplace to get married. It ain’t no big deal.” Which really caused me to go ballistic. • My family likes him better than they like me. My uncle says if I divorce him, he’s welcome to come live at his house. He can have the whole downstairs. Uncle Dale refers to him…
I used to really like shopping. It didn’t matter what for… shoes, fishing tackle, rugs, groceries, books, shirts, horse tack, whatever. But that all changed a few years ago. I can’t really pinpoint when it was, but now if I can’t get it from Co-op or Sam’s Club, it comes from Amazon. I just don’t do crowds or digging through crap. But in 2012, when I was shopping for bridesmaid gifts, I wanted to get each of my girls a present that was as individual as they were. No matchy-matchy necklaces for them. This proved to be no small feat. I was in downtown Sevierville, I think on my way back from the post office, when the cute little boutique in the old white farmhouse caught my eye. I’d been meaning to stop since it was the Common Good but just never got around to it. I was down to the last few days before the wedding and grasping at straws for a few of my girls. I had nothing to lose. I whipped in. I opened the back door hesitantly. “Welcome to Loralei’s!” A red haired girl behind the counter greeted me warmly. I returned her smile. Before I could help myself, I was telling her how I’d thought about stopping a hundred times but never had an opportunity. I was gazing at all the shiny baubles that…
We all serve a purpose. For some of us, it’s something dignified, like, you’re the voice of reason in a family crisis. You don’t take sides. Or you’re the one who gives out advice on retirement in your family without having to consult the aloof bank people. Or you’re a healer of sorts, with your special teas and ointments. Whatever it may be. For ages, people called me when they saw horse loose within a ten mile radius of my house. Everybody knew I had horses because I was forever out front riding them. Those days, for the most part, have passed. Then came the confusing phone calls from friends who had too much to drink and knew I was home, sober, tight in my bed, because I had a job that required my presence early in the morning. I was the responsible, dependable one for a long time. Then came the calls that I was paid to take, not really expected, mind you, but the ones with true emergencies: car wrecks, fires, seizures. Lord, at the seizures. I had a friend who called me once, freaking out because her baby was coming early. I was at a loss, no checklist chart in front of me, instead, enjoying a sunny summer afternoon tending my flowerbeds. But I got her through it, talked her down as she drove her panicked self to the hospital. Not two years…
