Several months ago, I was in Chattanooga for a workshop. I took myself to a local bar that presented itself as safe for a single lady in the early evening hours. It had been raining, and I didn’t feel much like shopping with some of the other ladies on the trip. And truthfully, they hadn’t invited me. I learned about their activities the next morning.
At any rate, when I arrived at the well-lit restaurant on the end of a forgettable beige strip mall, I was pleased to ascertain there were three empty barstools, all in a row. I opted for the farthest one against the wall. I settled myself and the bartender was immediately there, ready to provide assistance. I must’ve looked like I meant business. Or maybe I just looked desperate. Either way, I got prompt, friendly service. I was enjoying my beer when an older guy walked up and sat down on the stool next to me. I nodded to him, as etiquette dictates, and he returned a greeting along the lines of, “how do you do?” He had a spiral bound notebook with him, so I immediately made an assumption that he was a local contractor who caught up on the day’s paperwork at the local watering hole. I have seen this in action countless times over the years. Forget scouring the internet and community “speaks out” Facebook pages for reliable contractors: simply park yourself at the neighborhood grill and bar. A specimen of every trade will eventually wander in. And most don’t have the heart to make excuses why they can’t come when they’re looking you in the eyeball.

The man ordered a shot of orange juice, a tall glass of ice, and a bottle of rotgut champagne. Well, actually, he didn’t even have to order it, the barkeep said, “the usual?” and placed it before him in moments. I cocked an eyebrow at his choice, but far be it for me to pass judgment on someone’s poison. I like gin. You gotta have thick skin if you’re gonna drink gin by choice in public.

As it goes, he struck up conversation. I don’t remember the particulars, probably led with a remark about the weather. To which I replied I was disappointed it was raining, because I had just washed my car that morning in preparation of the drive. And he let it be known right quick that he found me stupid.
“Because I didn’t check the weather and therefore, wasted my time, effort, and money?” This I could understand. But no, it’s because what difference does it make to have a clean car? It doesn’t affect performance. I agreed, but it makes me feel better to have a clean car, like it does to keep a clean house. Less stress, and you can easily find what you’re looking for, or even send someone else to get it, because you’ll know exactly where it is. You’re not digging through closets and layers of clutter looking for something for an eternity. But yeah, I could see where washing your car is a little different than running a vacuum and keeping the house picked up. But still.
He went on to say it’s as stupid as people who rent storage units. Now, this, this I could get on board with. I do understand if you’re in a transitionary period, like between houses and living in an apartment short-term and instead of selling all your possessions only to have to buy them back in the short-term, it made more sense to store them. So he’d no more than voiced his disapproval of people who rent them and how stupid he found them (clearly the storage building owners flat make a killing) than he tells me his wife had three and he paid $276/ month for them for ten years!!!!!!!! I’m like, holy moly! That’s a crap ton of stuff. So naturally, I have to know what his wife does and what warranted three storage units for all that time. Was she a professional holiday decorator?

Of course she’s dead. Of course she is. Because these are the people I tend to meet: the outcasts, the misfits, the broken hearted. They flock to me. The way he looked away, face breaking, I thought this was a new loss.
“I’m so sorry. How long has she been gone?”
“Eight years, three months, and 29 days.” He said it like you’d give your social security number at the doctor’s office. May something in 2017.
I pause, because what do you do with someone whose grief hasn’t moved on after all this time? There’s nothing you can do for this person. They’re burrowed down so deep in their sorrow there’s no digging them out. So I decide to do the humane thing, what I would want someone to do for me: bring them back to life, just for a moment.
“What was her name?” I asked quietly.
Never turning to me: “Faye Levella.” Flat, like even her name pained him.
“Levella, I’ve never heard that. Pretty,” I lied. Sounds like a name that would get made fun of all through school. Sounds like a delicate soap.
He snorted. “Really?”
I gritted my teeth. Oh, how bitter he is. It’s not a common name, surely he realizes. Even in the hills and hollers of Appalachia, where we hear one-of-a-kind names all the time, this one was original. I did a quick Google just now to see if I’m the one off base. I found that at its most popular, in 1932, it was #852 in female baby names. The only additional information I found was that the name is believed to have roots in the Latin name “Leva,” which means “light” or “to rise.” I tried to think of something else nice to say, but obviously he was set on being a trial. “What did she do?” I asked, because everyone had a job at some point.
“Whatever she wanted to!”
“So she didn’t work? Ever?” Was he a tyrant? Obviously I couldn’t picture him as nurturing, loving husband from the image I was getting now.
“Well, she was a hairdresser but she didn’t have to work, I bought her everything she wanted!”
“Including storage buildings to put it in!” I crowed, hoping a joke might make him crack a bit and smile.
No dice. Bitterness reigned. My guess is, he was an ungrateful husband who didn’t realize how sweet she was to him and he took her companionship for granted. Since she died, he’s spending these years repenting, but obviously it’s too late and now he’s become so miserable nobody can stand to be around him. Of course, this is just my opinion. His coworkers may find him a dazzling jewel in a sea of grey, ready with a new set of jokes every day and a box of doughnuts on Fridays.

He said he doesn’t have a reason to go on after losing her.
Of course I recommended a dog. He had a dog, a Shih Tzu, but it died after his wife. I was sitting next to a country song for sure at this point. Shih Tzus and storage units and Faye Levella at the Clip’n Curl.
I told him maybe he should think about getting another one; that it’s good to have something to come home to and be responsible for. He said he didn’t want another small dog, the gentleman who rents his downstairs was elderly and he didn’t want to have something under his feet and get him tripped up. So I suggested a big dog. He had his mind on some, he wanted a pair, I think it was Dobermans? I can’t remember now. He was talking about how expensive they are. I suggested he check with rescues and shelters. Lots of times they’re eager to put you on a list for a specific breed and call you when they get one. He scoffed and began berating the local shelter. It’s clear he’s determined to be miserable, but I’ve got a tenacious spirit, myself, especially when it comes to the welfare of dogs.
“Well, I’m sure they’re not the only outfit around who has dogs! And lots of rescues will set up transports from other states! I have a friend that helps out with that kind of thing! She even found me a dog in Michigan and they could get it down here pretty quick. People sign up for different legs of the journey. Maybe that’s something you could do! Since you don’t mind your truck being dirty, especially! It could fill some time, doing a good deed.”
The Grinch just huffed and took a swig of his dirty champagne. But maybe I got to him there.

The bartender set him down a fresh glass of ice.
“You ever try a French 75?” I asked him.
And this is how I got an earful about how he was a bartender downtown in his younger years and he’s tried every drink there is, and this one does the job just fine. He’s trying to expedite his meeting with Jesus and reunion with his wife. He’s 70 and says he loves the Lord and is eager to meet him. Miserable for over eight years, drinking his evenings away instead of facing the darkness and seeking light.
I finally told him I hoped he could find comfort and peace through the church, did he have neighbors who participated in a Bible Study or pickleball or something he could join in with them?
“Oh, I live in one of those subdivisions where everything is perfect and everybody is just hunky-dory!” Sarcasm dripping from every pore.
I narrowed my eyes. “You might be surprised if you talked to them,” I told him. Few things are as happy as they seem on the surface. We’re all faking it till we make it. It’s better for the attitude. You can’t just lay down and give up. You gotta have a reason to go on.
Just like me: I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I was paying and had stood up when he said he hoped I was married and had a beautiful life. I didn’t volunteer anything, and he asked if I had children, and I said no, and he said I was still young, so there could be one. Clearly he was blind as well as bitter. I told him he just cursed me. He laughed. So I got my wish, I got a short burst of laughter from a man who was bent on staying miserable for the rest of the days he was left here on this earth.

I never found out if he was a roofing contractor, he never so much as gave a glimmer of a hint about what he did, even when I told him of the game I like to play in bars, guess the occupation. He just insinuated that I was stupid for wasting my time again. Sure, buddy, but I’m not the one bitter and alone with a bottle of champagne and orange juice every night at the bar where even the bartenders don’t seem inclined to make conversation with me.
My hotel room never looked so good. Clearly it had been a mistake to go out.

A few days later, I found myself at TJ Maxx picking up some jerky treats for my bestest boy. It was here I had the most wonderful conversation about dogs with my cashier, Kenny, who wound up crying on me when he showed me pictures of his Bichon/ Lhasa that passed in April. His name was Ollie and he was 15 and he got him as a Christmas gift for his wife one year. Kenny and his wife never had children. Ollie developed cancer and doggie dementia and forgot his name but would still answer to Sweetheart and Baby. I encouraged him to get another dog but they both work and his mother-in-law lives with them and she doesn’t want the responsibility. Kenny appeared to have a disability and was at least 60 so I assume the MIL is way on up there.

And that is the story of how two very different people deal with loss. And how I found them.

The following day I was at Publix getting my sandwich and the guy bagging struck up conversation. I thought I was in for another one but he wanted to talk about what he was going to school for. He was studying Marketing or Computer Science, something that will be on trend for a long time, but what he really loved and wanted to pursue was his art. I told him to follow his heart. Artists generally will. They’ll choose their passion and starve before they give up on it. He showed me a picture of his latest masterpiece. He was proud, and he should be. We should share our talents. If it brings us happiness, chances are it might bring someone else some, too.
It’s funny the people you meet when you don’t have your nose stuck in your phone. And if I chose the option for contactless pickup who all would I have missed? You never know how you might get to influence someone’s life, or how they might influence yours.

I have a friend who has been unable to flush a toilet or take a shower since January 2nd.

Why not call a plumber, you ask?

Well, she did. Six of them.

Two eventually called back. One was just calling to let her know he got her message and couldn’t come (appreciate the honesty), the other could come from Sweetwater. And he did, on Tuesday the 6th. He was there less than ten minutes. He poked around in the vicinity of the septic tank, declared it and the field line full of roots, told her it’d be $13,000 to fix, and left.

That’s terrible news for anybody, right?

Now let me tell you my friend is disabled. I don’t mean that she simply draws disability (which she does, a pittance). I mean she is completely blind in one eye and only has 5% vision in the other. She has a disorder called myasthenia gravis, MG for short, which causes muscles to involuntarily quit. This includes muscles in the throat that make you swallow. You don’t think about that, right? Your neck supports itself and you just swallow spit all day as needed. She doesn’t always have that luxury. On flare up days (sometimes lasting a week and often as once a month) she has to sit up and let saliva come out her mouth or else she can choke. Her diaphragm muscles will sometimes get lazy and she struggles to breathe. She can be fine one minute, pulling something out of the oven, and her arms or legs give out all at once and she’s lying on the floor, covered with baked spaghetti or what have you.

If you just laughed, you owe us $20.00.

That’s just the MG. She also has arthritis and lupus. She can’t drive, obviously, and even if she could, she suffers from agoraphobia. After years of trying to navigate in the world with her white cane and people bumping into HER, after the looks and judgement she received and perceived from people of all ages, she hung up the notion of ever being seen out in the world again. She cannot, and will not, leave her home.

Now that I’ve told you about her, let me add that her 89 year old Mamaw lives with her. She has all the ailments one does at 89.

Well, ok, Amy, but there are programs and resources for people like that. Oh yeah? You find ’em. Because I work for the government and I have connections all over and all I managed to find was a grant from the state I should have applied for in August on the off chance this would have fallen in my lap (and I still wouldn’t have the money right now, even if I had. Maaaybe in another month). I found a one-time grant of $10,000 from the federal government that she doesn’t qualify for because she’s not 62. It doesn’t matter she’s disabled. Rural Development also offered a 1% loan to be paid over 20 years for home repairs. Not sure what the cap is, I didn’t get that far. It didn’t matter.

I have tried to go about this quietly and through personal contacts.

Her plumbing is completely clogged, in part due to the septic tank and field line full of tree roots and dirt. It has backed up into the mobile home and sat in pipes. Then there was so much weight and pressure over such a long period that it caused some fittings underneath the home to come apart, and part of the backup in the pipes has begun trickling out and leaking underneath. (This is now fixed, as of TODAY, January 15th)

Also, due to the long-term backups and flooding in the home, several spots in the floor have become soft. I’m talking like a trampoline.

Douglas Cherokee only helps with utility bills. I should add right here that every bill is paid, on time, including property taxes. And she’s not on food stamps, or whatever they’re called now.

ETHRA (yes, the transportation people, they supposedly help with other things) finally called me back after five days, four calls, three voicemails, and an in-person visit where I left a hand written note in their drop box. The two at the Knoxville office were kind, sympathetic, and helpful as they could be, even though they didn’t have a dime.

Sevier County Baptist Association: Their office hours are supposedly M-Thursday 8-4 but it’s clear their office is somewhere not in the building on Chapman Highway and the email account and phones aren’t monitored. I have been by there at least once a day during business hours. Today I walked up and rattled the door, stood there, called them and it went to voicemail on a different callback number pretty quick. About an hour later, I had a response to the email I sent Monday. It wasn’t promising, they referred me to Live-It Ministries (based out of Seymour and this need is in Sevierville). I responded that I may be mistaken on their mission, as several local people had referred me to them for this specific type of help. He has not replied to that. Update: recieved reply Friday around 6 pm, they plan to join the effort in any way they can.
UPDATE 2/11/2026 Almost a month later, and three emails later, still not one word from them about any help they obtained. I was not copied or forwarded any correspondence between pastors or their Men’s Ministry and SCAB (my own acronym, d’ya like it?). I speculate Justin didn’t “try” and he didn’t “reach out” at all, hoping I would merely disappear into the multitudes of other needs and he won’t have to dirty his hands at all. I got news for Justin. I don’t intend on disappearing from any part of my life at all, and I’m spreading the word loud and clear about exactly how sorry and shady they are, starting with hiding Annual Reports, which were remarkably transparent about how their funds are spent.

The Sevier County Senior Center thanked me for being an advocate and scrawled a name and number on a Post-it for a lady who might know resources.

Environmental Health has helped tremendously with what little they can offer.

One local lawyer offered up a bit of legal advice for free on a separate matter with the same friend.

One local septic tank service said they’d come (at full price, plus additional labor depending on what they ran into once they got there), then backed out on Friday afternoon with a mouthful of excuses. I think it was simply he didn’t want to work in the rain.

One local contractor came to pump the septic tank to the best of their ability (on the same Friday afternoon in the pouring rain within the hour of calling after the other outfit canceled) and cut a bunch of roots out of the way so they could get to the tank. Then he sent a crew of four and fixed plumbing under the house yesterday. He was back this morning with a crew of six or seven and machinery digging up the pipe from the home to the septic tank to replace it. ALL OUT OF THE GOODNESS OF HIS HEART, AND A FEW OTHER INDIVIDUALS WHO WANTED TO HELP WITH COST.

One large construction outfit brought equipment and cleared the septic tank on both ends so it could be determined that the field line was indeed full of dirt and roots. It all needs replaced. They provided this service (crew and machine) at no charge. The tank and field line replacement are what I’m currently trying to fund.

A handyman friend answered my call, came when he said, took a look at the floors and plumbing underneath the home and gave me a free ballpark estimate.

Another friend crawled around on the coldest day of the year (a Sunday, no less), hung upside down into the septic tank to run a snake towards the house, and crawled around underneath the home to see what all we were dealing with.

I called on a friend that lives in another county, who was once a hospice nurse, to see if there were resources she knew of that are tied to home healthcare. There wasn’t that she was aware of, but she’s praying.

I talked to another lady I’ve known all my life about this. She got two plumbers, both a couple of days out, to agree to come. There is still a repair to be done at the kitchen sink inside the home. She gave me advice, ideas, and most importantly, she reminded me of determination. She listened to me. She has been in the trenches in situations like this. Her husband was once in politics, and the man was raised in a home with dirt floors. This woman KNOWS. She’s praying.

Another friend is the one who mobilized the contractor who is out there now, and who pumped the tank to begin with. Who got the ball rolling and the most immediate need addressed. And has talked me through this process of one step at a time. Another one praying and being thankful.

I have just returned from the Department of Human Services (no help except for food stamps and child abuse, but she was a kind individual who heard me out and sympathized.)

I drove to the Salvation Army. There was a car in the drive, but signs all over saying by appointment only. I called and left a voicemail. They called me back within a few hours and gave me a rehearsed response: out of funds, try Smoky Mountain Area Rescue Ministries and First Baptist Church of Sevierville.

I plan to visit the Good Shepherd Clinic this afternoon after I eat dinner. All I have had is coffee to fuel my rage. ( didn’t get over there. Maybe tomorrow)

My point to this list of “resources” is that I’m finding it impossible to actually locate help for this specific, URGENT need. If it hadn’t been for the good hearts of some local Samaritans, that made things HAPPEN, she would still be in a mess. I am proud to report this afternoon she is taking a shower and washing her hair for the first time in two weeks. With ABSOLUTELY NO HELP from the government= tax dollars.

I sat in a meeting Tuesday where I heard the State Conservationist tout obscene FEMA numbers that supposedly went to Hurricane Helene victims. Meanwhile, I’ve got a friend who lives on Whitetop Mountain in Virginia begging for propane heaters, plastic, and insulation for people living in what shacks and campers they have for the SECOND winter in a row.

I know one thing: it’s pretty easy to write a check. I wrote one yesterday morning to the American Cancer Society for a memorial. What would be more appreciated, though? Holding the hand of a patient as they received a chemo treatment? Reading to them in their home because their eyes burned and they can’t focus on the words? Cleaning up their vomit because they’re too weak to?

We need the check writers, absolutely. But we also need people who will drive up a rutted muddy driveway to see their friend and assure them by being there IN PERSON someone sees their plight. To look them in the eye and promise to beg, borrow, and steal to get them some help. And to get their hands and knees dirty, too.

In this land of plenty, known as Sevier County, I have found a handful of people with enormous hearts. But I’ve found a few who won’t even call me back. And it’s evident all our tax dollars aren’t serving the true underprivileged CITIZENS. But we knew that, didn’t we?

I’m no bleeding heart. I’m for the pursuit of happiness and the American Dream. I will not help those who will not help themselves. But I will do everything I know to do to help someone who cannot help themselves. This friend cannot, and that is why I’m trying so dang hard.

I appreciate the prayers, and if you know of a resource I haven’t tapped, please get them in touch with me or give me their contact. The next needs will be flooring and a roof. I know this situation is unsustainable long term, but it’s the only option I’ve got when my friend won’t leave for government housing (if it’s even available to a DISABLED person and a senior citizen, I’ll remind you) and there is not family to help carry the burden.

I keep asking myself what she would do if there wasn’t a me. Not that I’ve done much myself to help actively get her flowing. But I’ve beat every bush I know to beat and called on resources and people in the know if there’s anything to know. I know this isn’t an isolated case, and yet churches seem to be focused on needs in other states, or even other countries. It’s no secret that’s where federal funds go. But what if a disabled person doesn’t have a redheaded friend with a big mouth and the means to walk in places and straight up ask for help? What do those people do? I saw a post yesterday from Cox Family Homestead in Kodak, where she wrote: “I am hopeful that we are equipped for that of which we are called.” Amen. I’m learning. And I’m thankful and angry, all at the same time.