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Amy
I have a friend who is married to a farmer. They are raising their boys among the cows & corn. The boys have calves they bottle feed & sell, they have horses they check fences astride. They enjoy the day to day life of being outside, helping their daddy tend to the newly born, the ailing, the healthy. One day, I was disheartened to read on Facebook about how one of their sons was being ridiculed at school. A schoolmate called him poor because he lives on a farm. Nothing could be farther from the truth. Trust me, farmers aren’t poor. They meet struggle every day of their life. They are up against it at least fifty percent of the time. Imagine if your livelihood was dependent upon the weather. If it doesn’t rain one day & the sun shine the next, you might be looking for a job in town. And then when hay is ready to cut to feed the cows all winter, you pray for three straight days hot & clear. To get your hay to grow, it must be fertilized. Fertilizer runs around $500 a ton. One ton will fertilize roughly seven acres. If your fields yield well, seven acres of hay will produce maybe 100 rolls of hay. A cow will eat half a roll a day in the wintertime if their pasture is thin. You figure four months of winter, which is 120 days. If you have thirty cows, that…
Mondays suck. It’s just one thing after another. People are crabby because they have to go back to work, I guess. They’re indecisive & needy. But that’s small potatoes. To most of you, this will just look like a good ol’ country baptizing. But to some…oh, it is so much more. This is Miss MacKenzie Henry, being baptized by her papaw (preacher) Danny Henry, & her daddy, Scotty. MacKenzie is a special needs, loving, beautiful child of God. About a month ago, her momma was tucking her in, doing the whole ritual of singing to her & reading a little bit, talking about the upcoming week. “And you know what’s happening Sunday?” Kenzie nodded enthusiastically. Brandi told her again who all was getting baptized. Kenzie nodded more exuberantly & pointed at her chest. “Me!” Brandi was stunned. “You want to be baptized?” “Yes!” Nodding excitedly. She got her point across. Now, we would like to believe that children are protected, until they become the age of accountability, but I could not find any specific verses to support this belief, which is somewhat disturbing. At any rate, MacKenzie had sat through enough Bible School lessons & church services to know that she needed to be saved & it had laid on her heart for knows how long before she was able to communicate her desire. The problem probably stemmed from her fear…
Y’all ain’t gonna believe this. So, you know how yesterday I was telling you about dropping 500 horseshoe nails in the floor? And how I compared it to dropping toothpicks? Well. I’m in the kitchen, fixin’ spaghetti, the aroma of onions & garlic filling the air, pasta bubbling away on the stove. I go to get the Italian seasoning out of the cabinet. This would be the cabinet above the stove, crammed with all manner of spices, excess olive oil, Crisco, & whatnot. It happened so suddenly, I’m not sure what happened. I’m standing there, toothpicks raining down around me, when Johnny appears from the basement with the garlic bread I had requested from the chest freezer. I stood paralyzed. They were everywhere: in my hair, on the stove, scattered all over the floor, IN THE PASTA. I sprang into action, frantically scooping them out with a spaghetti fork. Did you know toothpicks float? Well, you do now. About that time, I smelled something burning. I hadn’t put the bread in yet (that’s what I typically burn) so it couldn’t be that. There were several charred toothpicks lying under the eye. I turned the burner off, moved the pot, & turned the blower on, sucking away the smoke that was making my eyes water. I think this catastrophe was somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 toothpicks. I bought one of those containers from…
Some of my customers I dearly love, some I’d dearly love to kill. This morning, I waited on a few I love. First thing was Hugh Manis, whom I’ve waited on for years. I attended his church (Seymour First Baptist) for awhile, & sat with him & his wife nearly every time. When you get married, generally if it’s a Christian ceremony, the preacher will ask you to hold the couple accountable. The union of two people coming together is a Holy bond & to keep them in your prayers for a strong, healthy marriage. The people gathered include some of the ones who love you best & dearest, so it’s easy for them to make that promise. But I have found that it’s some of my older male customers that hold me accountable, that they ask how my husband’s doing, or, more commonly, “Are you still married?” When I answer to the affirmative, it’s usually followed by, “He’s a good man.” I don’t argue with that statement. Anyway, I’m helping Mr. Manis carry out his purchases this morning (he walks on a cane, so I help him if his son doesn’t accompany him) & he asks me, “Where are you & your husband going to church now?” Now, Johnny & I never attended FBS together. I went alone. But he’…
I’ve started this status four times. I know y’all get tired of hearing me expound on the same subjects but….how do I put this politically correctly? Oh, I know. I don’t care. That’s part of the reason the United States is in the shape we’re in, because everybody is so afraid of hurting someone’s feelings. While it would be great if we could be all “Make love, not war” but other countries don’t reciprocate. We used to be the nation that everyone feared, that everyone respected. We had all the power. But then we were infiltrated & fourteen years after the fact, people have forgotten. They will say they haven’t forgotten. But they have or they wouldn’t be tolerant. We are tolerant of a President who lies. We are tolerant of a President who turns terrorists loose after being held as prisoners. After our good soldiers risked life & limb to capture them from their holes in the earth where they dwelled. We are tolerant of a President who is Muslim. We are tolerant of a President who makes excuses for his lies & his actions. Now we have another one running that is all that & more. I wouldn’t let her scrub my floor. We have a person running who cannot guard his own microphone from some thug who had a different agenda. How does…
Church bells & sirens. Jackson Cathedral startlingly white against a cloudless sky. Artists dragging out their easels, hanging their wares on wrought iron railings. Business owners pressure washing the remnants from the night before into the sewers. Locals hustling to work nod, smile, & offer “Good mornin’.” It’s seven a.m. in the Quarter, & everyone is headed to Café Du Monde for café au laits & beignets. Newspapers snap & the light becomes a little brighter as the sun shines down proudly on New Orleans. Streetcars clatter their way down the cobblestone streets, & steamboats rest along shore. The smell, not unpleasant, wafts in from Lake Pontchartrain & the great Mississippi River. The city is waking up, & with it comes the street performers. The saxophone players, the moody bluesmen, the break dancers. Just as soon as the music begins to fade behind you, another tune picks up just ahead. Tourists are carted by in wagons pulled by mules who have red glittery hooves. Happy to be alive, guides call to each other & provoke laughter at every comeback. Beads hang everywhere, like a manufactured Spanish moss. They are in tree limbs, electric lines, rooftops, across fences, lying in the street. They are draped around doorframes as decoration, looped over mailboxes & front yard fences for passerby to take if so desired. The food alone is worth the trip. A fantastic mix of creole-Cajun, French, Italian, & American, you can find anything you…
As they say on Steel Magnolias, “There’s a story there….” I’m sure you can tell what this present is 🙂 My good friend TammyLynn (the one who almost got eaten by a bull shark at Douglas last week) brought it to me this morning. Here’s what happened, although I’m ashamed to admit it. It all started last year, when I got it in my head to be a good wife & make my husband homemade biscuits. I’m not a fan of homemade biscuits (just hush) & every time I say that in the presence of a baker, they gasp aloud, & say, “You’ve never had mine!” all scandalized. I have determined that in most of my experience eating them, I have found them dry & hard. I much prefer the frozen type, it’s really hard to mess them up. Anyway, so I went to Pinterest, found the prettiest picture, & used the accompanying recipe. This particular endeavor involved putting the dough in the blender. Johnny chose that moment to walk in the kitchen & took in the scene, blender whirring, flour dusted on every still surface (including my hair). “Never seen my granny use a blender to make homemade biscuits,” he commented drily. “You might not live to see these,” I replied icily, as he beat a trail back to the living room. Well, those biscuits came out…
A few days ago a friend posted about being at the vet’s office with her pet. In the waiting room, there was another lady with her pet…and three unruly children. She had shushed them several times as they made a ruckus & eventually took them out to her vehicle to watch a movie while they waited on results . Essentially, bribing them to be good for the duration of the visit, & rewarding them for their already abysmal behavior. These children were reportedly of an age to know how to act. When the vet had to go outside & summon them, the noise from inside the room where they gathered was loud, as the mother continued to shush them to no avail, while she tried to speak with the vet about their dog or whatever. The friend ended by saying she knows what would have happened to her if she’d acted this way- a busted hind end. Same here. The comments on this post were immediate. Mothers weighed in saying they sympathized with the woman having to wrestle with three little ones & a dog in a strange environment. Another said for important chores she enlisted a baby sitter for them. Well. Here’s my theory. And I know my opinion doesn’t matter, because I have no children. But before you get all huffy, hear me out. Children are spoiled. When I was little (and yes, there was only one of me…
“You know, you call a local store hunting a part for a lawnmower, & you expect to get a local person,” Crapbag is saying to me. Co-op, Wayne Blalock’s, & Cash Hardware are all closed today, so I’m not sure who he’s referring to, but I play along. “Oh yeah?” “And guess what I get? A damn Yankee!” He spits. He then chuckles without mirth. (Mirthlessly, it turns out, is not a word.) “I’m not sure he’s ever even laid eyes on a lawnmower, let alone sold a part to one.” The problem is, of course, he can’t wait for me to go to Coop tomorrow & pick up this wheel thingie. Must. Have. It. Now. He goes on to describe the entire conversation. I will spare you the details. Don’t ever say I lack compassion. It involves Home Depot. “So, do they have one or do you not know any more than you did before you called?” “I don’t know any more than I did before I called.” He’s looking online. “Yeah, here it is. And they’ve got one.” “You wanna run by there before we go to the hospital?” He blinks at me. “To Sevierville?” My turn to blink. “Oh, well, check Knoxville.” “Where’s…
I’m going to tell you a story. When my friend and I went to Jonesborough a few weeks ago, we were on our way back to Sevier County but I hadn’t quite satisfied my antique foraging itch. I was keeping my eyes peeled for the places along the road I had noticed on the drive in. I finally spotted the one I wanted–a white, well kept farmhouse. Sometimes with these places you just can’t tell. They look almost abandoned, & like spiders would be crawling just beyond your hand when reaching for something that caught your eye. But not this one. This building set off the divided highway just a bit, just enough to be private, & had a red metal sign –the kind that would creak a bit when there was wind–out by the road proclaiming, simply, “Antiques”. There was no wind that day, & the sign was silent. We traveled up the gravel road, split by a strip of cropped green grass, until we stopped at the end near the house. There was a massive, weathered barn to our left, on a little hill. A knoll. Another “Antiques” sign stood near the gray board barn. A small “Antiques” sign, up against the house, next to an obvious addition. A concrete walkway met us in the driveway that led to the shop. We followed it. Around the door, there were several placards…
