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Amy
I could be thankful for a whole host of things today: Sundays off, good books, leftover pot roast & grilled cheese dinner, my cozy monogrammed blanket…but I’m gonna be thankful I’m not Bear Grylls’ wife. Have you ever watched his show? He is a MANIAC. He eats SCORPIONS. RAW. And rolls around in mud for wildfire protection. And kills rattlesnakes with a stick. And makes rafts from oil barrels & ancient Styrofoam. And sleeps suspended in discarded fishing nets high in the trees. And that’s not all. That’s barely the tip of the iceberg…or should I say glacier……
October 5th 2013 I tried to explain to a guy from New York the “orange thing” today. I had to work, & although I do possess a couple of official Co-op shirts in orange, I was wearing a jersey. “What’s with the orange? Y’all got a game today?” Although Georgia isn’t viewed with the same hatred that fuels us against Florida or Bama, they are still SEC & it’s still a “big game”. I thought for a second & finally said, “I can’t imagine NOT wearing orange on game day. I can’t imagine not caring about the turnout of a Vols game. I’m working till four, or I would be down there, screaming my head off with a hundred thousand other die-hards, because that’s what we do. That’s what my momma’s doin’, & that’s what my grandmother used to do, & that’s just what you do if you if you’re born here in big orange country.” He looked at me a while, cocked his head like a cocker spaniel, & said, “You people are a rare breed. You’re loyal to the end. Syracuse fans will leave in the first quarter if they’re down by ten.” I just smiled, & didn’t say the rest, but I…
There’s a lot I could say about today. Heck, there’s a lot I can say about any given day. But I know what it was like to be scared to drive home on this day 13 years ago. I know how utterly terrifying it was to put your life in someone else’s hands & fly for the next year or two. I know what it feels like to worry about being a target, due to being in such close proximity to Oak Ridge. Yes, I profile. Yes, I’m prejudiced against Islamic people. (Actually, I’m not prejudiced. I despise almost everybody equally.) And it makes me angry that people disagree with our presence overseas, argue that we didn’t need a war. “Fight fire with fire” isn’t just an expression. You actually do fight fire with fire sometimes, especially in the case of brush fires. See, fire is reckless. It’s dangerous. It has nothing to lose, it takes everything in its path with it. So you start another fire, and control it to make it collide with the uncontrolled burn. They meet, and there’s nothing left for it to take. So it burns itself out. My metaphor here is the kamikaze pilots. They know nothing but fighting, death, & destruction. So that’s how you make them understand. You can’t reason with evil. Imagine getting up to go to…
Last week, I decided that I needed to learn how to can before everybody I know crosses over & there’s nobody left to teach me. I mistakenly thought this would be fairly simple. I ask a coworker, who is known for her huge garden & her season-long canning of green beans. She promptly informs me that she can’t can tomatoes, that her husband always does it, she’ll send him to talk to me next time he’s through. Inwardly, I’m dreading this, I don’t talk to him a lot, because outwardly he projects a kind of gruff demeanor, even though I know he’s really not. I’m not sure how he’s going to be on giving me direction for something so precise. The very next day he’s in, & I bring it up. “Oh, it’s easyyyy….it’ll take you twenty minutes, tops.” This sounds promising. “Okay, is this something I need to come watch you do, or is it something you can tell me how to do right here, right now?” I asked. “I can tell you right now. It’s simple.” “Alrighty-roo. Hit me. Wait, do I need to make notes?” “You got a good memory?” “Nope. Hang…
A soft, gentle, much needed rain will be falling this morning at the gravesite of Mr. Ralph Newman. Maybe I should call it a “mourning rain”. Ralph might’ve got to Heaven & made that his first order of business, ’cause he sure knew we needed it. My heart is with all the Newmans this morning as they lay David’s daddy in the earth. Many of you know him, have bought hay from him, have seen him working in the fields. I loved Mr. Newman. He was one of the first farmers I ever waited on when I came to work at Co-op. He was patient with me as I hunted item numbers for his requested feed and baler twine. He has been patient with me over the years as I tracked down the right bolts, seeds, shoestrings, oil, vaccines, and information for him on herbicide & pesticide application rates. I’d spot him ambling along the aisles of the store & I’d break off from whatever I was doing to go speak to him. Well, go holler at him, is more accurate. We got along good because his hearing had been sub par for several years & I tend to talk loud. ” Hello, Mr. Newman!” I’d bellow, & he’d grin ear-to-ear. “Hello, Amy!” He’d holler back. Or sometimes he’d call me “sis”. It…
Y’all settle in. There are a few places in this world where life gets real. You know what I mean. Where rubber meets the road. Hospital rooms, church altars, courtrooms, gravesides, and bars at two a.m, to name a few. Delmar Maples was my co-worker for my cumulative years at Co-op. He didn’t say much, but that’s ok, because what he said counted. He always, always, said “Good Morning,” (which seems to be becoming less common these days). If yes or no was adequate, that’s what you got. I think the first time we ever really had a conversation was when he was showing off his first grandson, he carried him all over the store, grinning ear to ear. Delmar was a small man, with ropy muscled arms, dark eyes, and a scraggly beard. He was never without a mesh-backed “old man” hat that he carefully folded down in the center, essentially making a crown around his head. He traveled with a limp & a whistle. Delmar changed the oil in Patsy many times, & filled a bunch of propane tanks for me & the rest of Sevier County. He didn’t complain or ask for a break in the rain & sleet & snow. He simply bowed his head to the weather & kept working. He crushed boxes too, & I’m ashamed to admit how many times he saved…
Last Sunday I was driving down Boyds Creek & I saw these two old ladies out in the yard. One was pointing to a particular plant in her flowerbed, and the other was peering at it & nodding sagely. They wore polyester pant suits, it looked like to me, with their hair sets & big-enough-to-notice-but-not-big-enough-to-be-tacky necklaces. I slowed, and resisted the urge to stop & watch them, or better yet, join them. They reminded me SO MUCH of my great-grandmother, my Mamaw. I was fortunate enough to have her next door until I was in high school. She loved her flowers. There were several flowerbeds surrounding her home, taking up most of the yard. She had a huge sage patch, and she grew dill, and tended the biggest aloe plant I have ever seen (For those of you that have seen mine, think x3). She also had this magnificent Christmas cactus that blossomed so hot pink it didn’t look real. Anyway, any time she had company, that was part of the ritual: touring the gardens. No matter how many times you’d previously visited, or how recently, you still had to observe the growth of her “cannies” (gigantic leafy red plants with enormous stalks I always thought were hideous), her prizewinning elephant ears that I could hide behind until I was ten, her millions of tulips, the weeping peach tree she was so proud…
I’ve decided I like golf. I think it’s one of those things you have to acquire a liking to, similar to lobster. This must mean I’ve matured at last. It’s pretty calming, & unobtrusive. I can read while it’s on, & not be bothered by war-like sounds emitted every few seconds, or the thunderous gorilla chanting & squeaks that accompany basketball. Perhaps best of all, the scenery is much more picturesque than that of any other sport I can think of. The fans are low-key & controlled, politely clapping or voicing a barely audible groan every now and then. The commentators stay calm, as well. The golfers themselves cut an elegant figure, dressed in a classic manner (for the most part-there is this one guy that’s kinda out there in some loud clothes but that’s fun too). There’s this guy named Bubba I’m pulling for, mainly due to his name but I also dig his hot pink driver. I wiki’d him & he seems like a top-notch kind of human. I say give golf a chance. It’s the last four holes of the masters, y’all, how much better does it get…
This is a picture of yet another lunchtime catastrophe. I went to Food City for Sushi Wednesday & was tempted by their olive bar…I thought this was bell peppers & mozzarella balls in garlic sauce. I could not have been more wrong. I bit into what I thought was a delightfully sweet red pepper….and immediately my eyeballs began to sweat. I thought, well, I can fix this by eating a bite of mozza…rella & tried repeatedly stabbing it with my plastic fork. It refused to be impaled. Desperate now, I pick it up with my fingers & popped it in my mouth. It was a plump clove of garlic. Gary is watching all of this transpire from two feet away with a mild expression, much like a cow chewing its cud from the safety of its pasture while the farmer is electrocuted by their fence. I had no water because who needs water with mozzarella salad? I dash to the fridge in the small engine department. Luckily, I had both water & mountain dew stockpiled. I gulped at both as soon as I got the lids off. Shooooweeee!!! I will be more diligent in my shopping next time.  …
Most women, I think, grow up dreaming of having a baby. They think about it all the time, starting with a fantasy about what their husband will look like, where they will meet & fall in love, what type of fairytale princess wedding gown they will wear & the flowers they will carry…then where they will make a home. Depending on their husband’s profession, these women may be envisioning a plush apartment in the city, or a colonial with a picket fence in the suburbs. They may even be aspiring to a grand greek revival mansion on the river. I can identify thus far. But when they start thinking about the little ones…and they’ve got the names picked out & what order they may have them, & how they’ll decorate their bedrooms…well, that’s where my dreams always ended & another one started. As surely y’all know about my proclivity to devouring books, it should come as no surprise that I dreamed of my own library. Walls of books. Stacks & shelves towering on every available surface, too many to count. Books of all types: old, classic, leatherbound editions; mass produced paperback fiction; history books; college textbooks; journals; coffee table photographic books, you name it. I wanted them ALL. I wanted a red wall, & a warm rug, & a leather chair. I wanted a Tiffany lamp & a box of kleenex when emotions were…
