Veteran’s Day. In years past, I’ve elaborated at length about my appreciation to those who have served. I should again today, but there are more pressing concerns in my midst, and I don’t have anything new to say, so simply: Thank you for your service, no matter your reasons.

I had promised JA to accompany him to Powell to look at a bus. Let me stop myself right there. Not a bus, as in a school bus. More like a tour bus. I don’t know why this set doesn’t call them a motorhome, but I understand that the correct terminology is either “coach” or “bus”. Perhaps this is to differentiate from the Class A and Class B rating in an effort to sound a little more recognizable. My friend from college, her parents kept one, and they called theirs the same thing: “the bus”. They are anything BUT a bus, they’re a house on wheels. And the ones I’ve spent time in are not like a mobile home, they have high quality cabinetry and solid (often heated) floors. Most people don’t have a clue when you say “bus” what you’re actually talking about.
So it turned out the bus wasn’t in Powell; it was in Maynardville. No big deal, I was just along for the ride. But the best part was, he fixed me breakfast! A chorizo breakfast burrito. Kevin is the only other man who has cooked for me lately, so it was a real treat. He’d found another bus he wanted to look at in Sweetwater, so we had our whole day scheduled for sightseeing East Tennessee. I guess I wasn’t going to get to watch Woman of the Hour after all, since JA refuses to watch scary movies after dark. I wasn’t too keen on it, myself.
The GPS didn’t take us the interstate, surprisingly. We went through the country, which was also fine by me. We started into this development, I guess you’d call it, that goes over to the marina on the lake. And of course there are switchbacks due to the steepness and it’s narrow. Plus all the leaves falling off the trees made for an arduous journey. I couldn’t believe they could get a 45′ motorhome in here. JA went back and forth between saying, “Ain’t no way, I don’t see how,” and “Oh yeah, I could get one in here,” so who knows. I was just glad we weren’t in my car, because even though Maggie is much smaller than his old rattletrap Dodge dually and is able to turn on a dime, it was SO STEEP.
Anyway, we eventually made it to the pinnacle and we’re looking around at the houses and mailboxes, searching for the box numbers. The road name didn’t match where we were supposed to be, but I know from working for 911, addresses are a hairy business. I start looking instead at the homes, trying to discern who would be most likely to be harboring a 45′ motorhome.
“This cat’s got a lot of toys,” I say, nodding to our left, where there sat two UTVs and a bunch of other crap I won’t name for privacy purposes. “There it is!” I said jubilantly, pointing. I was always a pretty good egg hunter.
The RV was in a very fine, very tall, bricked garage with a full glass roll up garage door.
“Derned if it ain’t,” JA said, and cut the wheel left.

We sat there a minute, just looking. “I bet the view from the back of this place is phenomenal,” I breathed.
An funky lady stepped out a side door, holding cleaning supplies. She wore flamboyant glasses and obviously had hair extensions. Not the cleaning lady, then. Likely the wife.
We stepped out and before we could introduce ourselves, she said, “You must be John.”
Then her husband whipped in the front yard in a Jeep and bounced over. He looked the opposite of his wife, beige and a bit stressed.

The guys went straight into the bus, while the wife took me on a little tour.
Their house started as a “tiny” cottage, with two bedrooms, a little kitchen, a small living room, and two baths. They had just built a monster of a house in a new development somewhere down the road, but would come out here on the weekends and didn’t want to leave.
So they didn’t.
I think she said they stayed in their new house one summer, and then never set foot in it again. They started building on to this one. It is now nine bedrooms, eight bathrooms, three living rooms, and I don’t think she told me if it has more than one kitchen. It probably does. It’s about 10,000 square feet plus the pool and porch area. Not sure if the pool house was included in all that, but that’s where the bus stays. There’s no yard to speak of, but I reckon they own the majority of the top of the mountain, so they can run around up through there.
“Our neighbors don’t like us very much, we’re not very good neighbors,” she explained with a shrug. “We get out here and party and have our music up and they used to flash their porch light at us but then we built that building, and we can’t see if they do now.”
I giggled, but at the same time grateful they weren’t my neighbors.
“We close that gate right there and we’re blocked off. We can be running around back here naked and nobody knows,” she said, about the same time I was thinking, “they probably get back here and smoke dope and jump rope naked, and I don’t blame them.” I couldn’t take my eyes of the view. It was stunning, and I imagine only more so in the summer when the lake level is up. She spoke of the noise, how the different boat motors sound in different seasons between the fishermen and the ski boats whizzing around. She granted me permission to take pictures. I tried not to get their infinity pool in it. I just wanted to sit there all day, but she eventually said we should go see what the guys are talking about.
Bah, humbug.

I was exploring the bedroom and closet when she made some comment about the shower being big enough for two and I was like, “Oh, we’re just friends.”
Silence reigned. Her and her husband both just kind of blinked.
JA and I are quite used to this. Most male and female friends don’t go furniture shopping or to land closings or bus picking out excursions together. But most friends ain’t went through what he and I have endured.
“Y’all aren’t married???” She said at the same time the husband recovered enough to say, “I really thought y’all were married.”
I flitted my hand around as John Alan said, “Everybody does.”
“We couldn’t get along to the bottom of the hill,” I said.
“Ha! We couldn’t get along to your mailbox,” he corrected.
I nodded. “It’s true.”
“But y’all are….you….”
“We finish each other’s sentences, yes. Almost 30 years of friendship will do that,” I explained. “We used to married,” I went on when I could see they weren’t satisfied. “Not to each other, but to other people.”
They just shook their heads while JA and I grinned at each other. If we had a dollar….

We eventually made our way off the bus and out into the driveway, where we continued to exchange stories of traveling on the road. The paint job on this thing was really flashy, a navy blue color that I’d never seen before. She said they get compliments every trip. But I wasn’t sold on the layout, or the black woodwork that she was so crazy about. But the people were worth meeting. What a hoot.
When we made our way down the mountain this time, we followed him as he scooted down their private road in his Jeep. THAT’S how they get the bus to and from their house, not those hairpin cliffhanging curves. I still don’t think I’d want to ride in it till we got to the highway, but it was a burden off my mind that they didn’t take the GPS route.

We got back into Maynardville proper and stopped at the Marathon to teetee and get snacks. It was one of the cleanest bathrooms I’ve ever encountered, like seriously, Buc-cee’s level clean. JA got some chemically orange peanut butter crackers and I got a Whatchamacallit. I looked around at the patrons scattered at the few Formica tables down the windowed wall.
Two men in overalls, not visibly chewing anything apart from their tobacco. A construction type headed out the door, clutching two energy drinks and leaving clods of dried mud in his wake.
I could write a book here.

JA called the owner of the other bus he wanted to look at in Sweetwater. It had been listed by a family member for an ailing uncle or something.
“We can come right now,” he was yelling into the phone. “We’re up in Maynardville, it’ll be about an hour….alright, sounds good, we’ll see you atter while,” he said, hanging up. He looked over at me. “I like him. Reminds me of my dad.”
We backed out and headed towards the interstate.
“This reminds me of that road between Tazewell and Middlesboro,” I remarked after a few moments of observation.
“What do you mean?”
“Just…like, the terrain and businesses.”
“That’s because it is,” he enlightened me.
“No way!! They STILL ain’t done with this road?? They were working on it when we were in college.”
“You ain’t tellin’ me nothin’.”

And so we go.
JA and I were in agreement on not being crazy about the rounded glass on the shower and all the black. Sure, it was a nice bus, but not really his style. So we’d look at this one and hope it checked more boxes.
We got off the interstate and are looking at road signs when we’re about on top of the place. “Well, I don’t know about the road, but there’s the coach,” I said, pointing. It was parked in the front yard.
“That’s it.”
Life hack: sometimes it’s easier to look for the vehicle than it is the road name.
So turns out the road used to just be this guy’s driveway, and they’re building a development behind him. The grass was mashed down, but that’s about all I could tell was happening so far. I popped out of the rattletrap and bounced over to the old man and stuck my hand out. I noticed his Vietnam Veteran cap right away.
“Thank you for your service!” I chirped. “And on Veterans Day, to beat all!”
He smiled in a genuine fashion. JA joined us and he led us over to the bus, telling us about his liver biopsy he’d had that morning.
“I hear those feel really good,” I quipped. He managed a laugh.
“My appointment was at 6:15, so I got there at 6. At seven, I went up to the desk and they said my appointment wasn’t until 6:45. I told them I didn’t have much interest in having it done anyway, and I was leaving if they couldn’t take me back. I’d done sat there longer than I’d intended to. So they put me back in a room. And I still sat there longer than I should’ve.”
John Alan winked at me.
“I won’t know nothing for a few days, but the Lord’s took care of me so far. So anyway, here it is.” He sat down heavily on the couch. “Y’all make yourselves at home. It’s got all kinds of storage. My wife had this thing crammed full. It’s amazing, it didn’t all fit in that 1600 square foot house. You can get a lot of crap in here.”
I tried not to snort. “I like it,” I told John Alan as we stepped towards the back. “Look at this shower!” Very nice. “Look at that sink!!!”

“Oh, there’s a washer and dryer too, but we’ve never used it,” the gentleman called from his vantage point on the couch.
We moved back towards the front.
“Lemme tell you what all’s wrong with it so we can get that out of the way,” he says without preamble. “We never used the dishwasher. We intended to take it out and make it a pull out cabinet. Never got around to it, though. About a year ago, and my wife loaded it and the thing wouldn’t hardly come on. Called Lazy Days down there in Florida and my guy said they ain’t worth nothin’, ‘specially after they sit, so jerk it out and put you another cabinet in there, is the best thing you can do.”
JA nodded along.
He went on to tell something about the batteries, and then something about controlling the windshield wipers from the steering wheel. And the cruise control. But everything else is good. There’s a TV that comes down outside, but he’s never watched it. We trooped outside to watch it slide out of the side of the bus. It was pretty cool. So that would be nice, if you’re the TV watching sort. JA asked him about this screened device that was plugged in front of the passenger’s chair.
“Oh, I don’t know what that thing is. Pretty expensive to keep it up, though. My wife could look at maps or something on it.”

He asked what we intended to do with the bus, and JA filled him in on a few ropings he tries to hit. So we did a bit of tire kicking and talked about mutual acquaintances among the cattle end of rodeo. Then he settled back into his chair in the garage pointed at a TV that was broadcasting Fox News. “I’d just as soon listen to these liars as any of the other’ns,” he grouched as he lit a cigarette.
We didn’t disagree.
He started saying again how he wanted it to go to somebody who would use it, and we fit the bill. I didn’t bother trying to explain to him that we weren’t married; that was not a conversation I was prepared to have for the second time in four hours. I asked him where his favorite place was that he’d ever traveled.
He didn’t hesitate.
“My old Army buddy bought an abandoned campground in Utah. He wanted us to come out and help get it up and running again. So we went out, all the waterlines were old and corroded so they had to be dug up and replaced. We stayed out there doing that for three years.”
“Big place!”
“It was, about 300 campsites. He’s added on since. It’s still up and running.”
I shook my head, amazed.
“So that was fun. We’d get up early, and work till it was so hot we couldn’t stand it, about eleven, and go in and eat lunch, then go back out about six or seven or so and work till about eleven.”
Then we got his Army story. He’d joined up, like everybody did back then, with the draft. Or actually, I’m making that part up. I can’t remember if he said he was drafted or not. And he sure didn’t say anything about going to war. But he did say he served 12 years, then bought a truck and drove it till it was wore out, hauling produce out of Florida. He said about the time it wore out and he was trying to decide what to do next, buy another truck, or do something different, another old Army buddy called him up and said he could come back, at the same rank, doing the same thing.
“I asked him, ‘Where do I go?'” He grinned. Pretty sweet deal, I guess.
So that’s what he did till he retired for real. Then they took to the road. After the stint in Utah, they moved to Florida, but came back to Tennessee regular, as this is where their hordes of children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren reside. “That’s why I didn’t wanna move back here, you turn into a taxi service and a babysitter,” he told us as an aside.
This isn’t his forst time around the block with cancer, he’s had two previous run-ins with it, but he said he ain’t scared this time, either, the Lord’s seen fit to take care of him so far.
Ok.
It’s good not to worry, I think, but it’s also prudent not to light one cancer stick off another, in my humble opinion. But he’s seen more than I ever want to, and lived through things I probably couldn’t endure even in passing, so that’s for him to deal with. Probably one of his few enjoyments at this point.

JA told him he wanted to take a day to think on the purchase, and he waved his hand dismissively. “Take all the time you need. Only one other guy has called about it, but he said he couldn’t get it till after the first of the year, he’s got a daughter getting married. He ain’t gonna get it. He ain’t got no money!”
That’s the God’s truth.

So we drove back to New Market, talking pros and cons. I liked the bus, but like I told JA, I wasn’t sure if I liked it because it was pretty much a replica of his last one and that’s what I’m used to, or if I really liked it. I knew I liked the sink and the shower. I thought he’d be more comfortable when problems arose having this bus, since he had experience with this brand.
“Well, what I know is, as soon as you set foot in this one, you said, ‘I like it.’ You didn’t say that at the other one.”
“Well, I didn’t like it,” I explained, shrugging.
“I know it.”

Unfortunately, we didn’t stop at Loco Burro or Aubrey’s on the way in, and then he wanted to drink a beer in the hallway of the barn before we walked down and gauged the status of the arena for roping tomorrow. So I knew I wouldn’t be getting to watch the scary movie, dang it.
Then we tried to order the burgers from Hardees with the onion rings, but couldn’t find them, then he decided that was because it wasn’t Hardees after all, it was Sonic.
So there’s that.

All in all, not a bad day. Seems like every time we’ve got something to do, we get good weather for rattling around. I’m glad I’ve got a friend.

I was idly wondering what subject I would expound upon tonight. Today’s WordPress prompt was: “What is good about having a pet?” Well, I talk about the benefits of that ad nauseam, so I was going to have to look at Pinterest for inspiration again. But then… well, you’ll see.

Today was my first day “off” since Halloween. I’m not counting yesterday since I had laundry to catch up on, plus the added task of furniture cleaning and what have you. So I’ve been here, basking in a day of no real responsibilities, apart from feeding myself. And I already had my meals for the day worked out: I planned to fix chili since it was going to be so gloomy.

I used to love rainy days. Now I dread them like a trip to the dentist.

I had thawed my sirloin tips and hamburger meat and after I got breakfast eaten and washed up, I decided to get on with it. I browned the meat with seasonings, opened my cans of tomatoes and beans, diced my onion, dumped it all in the crockpot and gave it a stir. I started to put it on high so I could eat it sooner, but decided there was no rush, and moved the dial to low. The time was straight up 12:00.

The sun was in and out much of the afternoon. I had windows open all over the house, so I wasn’t surprised the chili wasn’t smelling very strongly. I’ve read, and sorted the vast majority of the world’s problems over the phone with John Alan, played with Chester, and messaged Emily. A typical Sunday. I ate some grapes and cheese and crackers around 2:30, because I didn’t figure the beef tips would be tender enough after that short of time. I sat there, right there, at the counter and ate. Right there, mere inches from my crockpot.

Today was a long day. Sundays always have been for me. I didn’t realize they were for others, as well. Stacy said her and her friend always called them “Blue Sundays” because people aren’t around to do stuff with; they’re spending the day with their families. Today was absolutely a Blue Sunday, between the weather and the solitude. And my overall lack of something productive to do.

Oh, I could have found something, but I wasn’t that desperate. Better to sit on the porch and watch chickens peck and try to get through this book. It’s kinda awful.

I shut the windows because the breeze picked up. I opened another bottle of wine. Not as in second one today, but second one of the weekend. It wasn’t as smooth as Friday’s, so it will become sangria soon. (Today’s Dictionary.com word of the day is vinaceous, btw. It means the color of red wine. That’s something we all now know). I lit all my fall candles. I felt very ladyIike, here with my witchy romance, amid my flickering candles, sipping my glass of Pinot.

At four o’clock I messaged Emily that it looked like seven. While it’s obviously pitch black at 7:00 now, you know what I mean. She agreed, and said she had just let the dogs out for last call, and then was shocked when she saw the time. 🤣

At 5:30, I could stand it no more. And if I ate this early, then I could bake chocolate chip cookies this evening. See how that worked out?
I went to dip me out a bowl.
And found that it wasn’t looking very…liquid-y.
I stuck the ladle in and stirred it around, bringing up an uncooked onion.
You have GOT to be kidding me. Crockpots last forever! I have two of my Grandmother’s that are still going strong. I felt the side. Yup, cold. Dial on low and…..
*expletive* not. Flippin’. Plugged. In.

I have been here all day. All. Day. Long. Evidently my mind merely tricked me into thinking I smelled chili. That would explain why it didn’t seem very strong. But I’m also aware of nose blindness, and thought I was suffering from that.
So now I wait. I figure it’ll be good to go by 8:30. No time for cookies, then. But I didn’t need cookies, anyway. And this will no doubt lead to heartburn: eating chili, of all things, this late, but that just means I can partake in a Snickers ice cream.

Silver linings, and what have you.

Update: I left a small piece of onion on top when I stirred and since the lid is clear glass, I will be able to gauge doneness by merely peering in at said onion. Even though this was blind luck, I felt like it was absolutely pure genius for me to recognize. I will be implementing this step in the future. As well as having some sort of method of making sure all systems are go. When I’ve used my flat iron, curling iron, or stove, I say out loud, “unplugged” or “off”. It helps, I promise you. This does not mean I haven’t left my front door standing wide open when I went to bed (another perk of having a dog, I don’t really worry about it), or leaving my keys hanging in the door and go off to work, or a number of other things. You might be surprised to know this is not my first misfortune of this nature with the crockpot. Oh no. I did it at least twice when I was working for Jackie. But I just can’t believe I didn’t notice it ALL THE LIVELONG DAY SINCE I WAS HERE.

I need a vacation.

While I wait, let me tell you a crazy story. My cousin, who hates talking on the phone as much as me, called and invited me to supper (oh, how I wish I had gone! But I declined because you know, I had chili on. And I didn’t want to put on real clothes and wrangle my hair). But she said, “well, lemme tell you my story anyway.”
So Chelsey was married before, to the father of her child. His best friend was married to a girl named Kristen. They were all really close and went out together regularly. Then their friends divorced, and the husband stopped coming around, but Chelsey remained friends with Kristen. Chelsey and her husband divorced, and they have both remarried. Kristen remarried a couple of years ago, as well. Chelsey has not seen or heard from Kristen’s ex in five or six years.
Today, Chelsey drove to Morristown to meet Kristen’s one-week-old baby. She stops by Sam’s on the way home, and ends up walking down the wrong aisle hunting her car when leaving. She sees this guy and she’s like, “OMG, that’s Kristen’s ex” and breaks into a sweat hoping he doesn’t notice her. Well of COURSE he did, and hollers at her and is chitchatting like no time has passed at all and introduces her to his kids.
She’s like, “how crazy is that? In all these years I’ve never ran into him, never talked to him, and then the same day I meet Kristen’s first child, I meet all of his, too, because I walked down the wrong aisle at Sam’s Club. And I was there getting new glasses!!!” ☠️☠️☠️

8:30 pm. Onion appears to be in nearly same condition as when I started. Risked taking the lid off to check doneness. Still needs about another hour. I am hangry and frustrated with myself, as there is nobody else I can blame, or I most certainly would.

This is a non-problem, to be clear. There are plenty of things in this house to eat. I just have my heart set on chili. (And Tums, at this point). Angela text me asking for prayers for her friend in California. Her daddy had started feeling low on energy and couldn’t eat but just a few bites at a time. Had some tests ran and they were getting the results tomorrow. Yesterday he started feeling really bad. So she took him to emergency room. They said he has a perforated colon and were taking him into surgery. About an hour later she text Angela back saying no surgery because he was most likely septic and eat up with cancer. They put him on morphine for the pain. He passed a few hours later. She didn’t even get to say goodbye. They couldn’t back off the morphine because the pain was too intense.

I don’t have problems.

Another friend, her friend’s daughter had twins about two months ago. She wasn’t wild on the idea of kids, but her husband of thirteen years talked her into it. And then twins, can you even imagine?? But three weeks in, he says it isn’t what he had bargained for, and was out. She discovered he’d been having an affair for eight years.
Think on that. Brand new twins. Eight years of an affair.

Life just kicks ya right in the teeth sometimes. You don’t have to look far to find someone with bigger problems than you. I hope she can see the blessing of having children to keep her busy, and a strong relationship with her mother to lean on for child rearing but also for emotional support.

My uncooked chili is no big deal. Not at all. And neither are my stale crackers.

10:00 and I have finally consumed two bowls. It was everything I dreamed it would be. All day long.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

WordPress also gives me a daily writing prompt; I almost forgot. Today’s is: “What was your favorite subject in school?” Well, I’ll tell you what it wasn’t. Math. No surprise there. The people who are skilled with the words aren’t usually blessed with a head for numbers. I’m not sure which is more useful, although I try not to judge people too harshly for spelling and grammar, since my math skills aren’t on display. I remember all my math teachers would say, “you aren’t going to be able to go around with a calculator in your pocket your whole life!”

Ha. Showed you.

Funny, one of my closest and dearest friends is the daughter-in-law of my most hated teacher, one Mrs. Gwen Hardin. She was a pill and a hag. Everybody hated her. Angela even found hate mail from parents when she was cleaning out the house. That, and a lifetime supply of aluminum foil, among other things. This summer they cleaned out one of the sheds and there was like, an entire warehouse of medical supplies: wheelchairs, crutches, potty stools, you name it. Although I can’t talk, I never threw out my crutches. And good thing, since I had to use them this summer.

Anyway. I liked English very well by the time I got to high school. Don’t tell anybody, but I loved essay questions and I didn’t mind the research papers. I most especially loved all the assigned reading. Well, maybe not all of it. I didn’t especially care for Lord of the Flies, The Scarlet Letter or Christy. But among my most cherished are The Great Gatsby, and as I mentioned yesterday, Peter Pan and all the Mark Twain. I also liked diagramming sentences. I don’t know why, thinking back, it looks like long division. Eww. Fractions were terrible, too.

I’ll tell ya what else I love. Having a clean house. I worked my tail off today. When I bought this living room furniture, my salesman told me I needed to clean and condition it twice a year, and he did his at Daylight Savings Time so it was easy to remember. This has proven to be good advice. I also flip my mattress, that way it’s all done and I don’t have to think about it. My couches sure don’t look as nice as they did before Chester came into my life and home, but I’d rather have his company than perfect furniture. Anyway, I don’t know how this place got so dirty. I’ve barely been home this week! Of course, last week I cleaned on Thursday, in preparation for a working weekend, so I guess those two days made a difference. But I’m all caught up now and feeling cozy with my Scentsy warmers burning and meatballs in the crockpot and my big galloot of a dog snoring next to me ♥️

Now to finish this book. One I’ve been wanting to read just became available so I gotta get this one knocked out.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Writing prompt for today is pin cushion. Two words, like that. I always thought it was one.

I guess if you’ve ever seen an allergist, you’ve felt like a pin cushion. Don’t they jab and scrape you with little needles? I don’t know; I’ve never been. I’ve often felt like I needed to. I tell you, though, my doctor sure don’t care to draw blood. And I don’t give it up easily; they always have trouble hitting a vein. So they make a pincushion out of me. They feel bad about it, though, so that helps. And I make them nervous because I tend to pass out if they talk about how my veins roll or hide or any number of circus tricks. I swear I drink all the water for twelve hours before, and no alcohol. I’m just a crappy veins person. But once they hit it, I’m a free bleeder. One of my doctors told me once that was because of my Irish heritage.

I’m sitting on my porch, feeling every inch my age, with my glass of red and my Nora Roberts book. Oh well. I am who I am. I rarely read Nora Roberts…this is Dark Witch; I checked it out for Halloween. It’s set in Ireland so it appealed to me.

It feels so late! But it would still only be 8:00 on “old” time. I had been cleaning on Friday afternoons, but I find it difficult to clean when it’s dark outside. So I guess I’ll leave that for tomorrow, after coffee.

It’s a nice night. I’ve had to get my quilt, though. If it wasn’t for spiders and slitheries, I might sleep in my hammock. I wonder if I could without falling out. Doubtful.

Three day weekend, three bottles of wine. No coincidence, but poor planning, since I already started and it’s merely Friday. Oh well. I’ll prolly go see JA at some point, and he’ll keep me in beer.

I will tell you, it’s hitting a little different on this “new” time. Oh well. I’ve got nowhere to be, no responsibilities for a change. I could go tear down Pigeon Forge’s displays tomorrow, but I already know I won’t. It ain’t worth the drive and aggravation. But it’s like I told Kay, it’s nice to know I’ve got a job. ♥️ it’s been a long week. I deserve this.

What do y’all wanna hear about? Don’t email it; I have no idea how to check this account. Well, that’s a bit of a fib. I have it written down, somewhere, but no desire to look it up or do it. Just text me.

So I posed the question to Angela tonight, what books would she take on a desert island? Mine are, of course, Gone With the Wind, Ocean at the End of the Lane, and Lonesome Dove. I’m sorry to say the Bible would come in fourth. She said she grew up staying active and wasn’t much of a reader, so she missed out. I will never miss an opportunity to recommend Peter Pan, any Mark Twain, and Catcher in the Rye, although my ex-husband hated it. He was wrong about a lot of things. She said her first series was Mitford, and it was comforting. I get that, but I hate she was ahead of Babysitter’s Club and Saddle Club. Those saw me through some long summers.

I have come to the end of the bottle, and it is now an acceptable bedtime. What a relief! Goodnight.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

So much for getting home on time. As they say, what goes up, must come down.
It was the tearing down of what I put up Saturday and Sunday. And it was even hotter today than it was then. It’s ridiculous to be sweating that much at 6:00 on November 7th. But here we are.

I’ve been scrolling writing prompts, because I am bored to tears with journaling. It ain’t like I’ve got some big exciting life to write about. It’s more about staying in the habit, and since I spend the majority of my time alone, I’m all I’ve got to write about, hahahaha. Or my disgusting coworker and I don’t want to relive a moment of being in his midst.
So in my searching for something new, I discovered it’s National Novel Writing Month (or as they call it online NaNoWriMo. I thought I had stumbled on some Japanese). If only I were the type of person that could write with a plot in mind, and come up with some twists and conflicts. I am not that sort of writer. It’s also Aviation Month, so I guess I could tell about my various flights (not all of fancy), or the time I tried to take Lightning Bug to the Wright Brothers Museum in Outer Banks. Or about where I’d fly to if I had my own helicopter.
But the most typical prompt I’m finding is being thankful and grateful. It makes sense, being that it’s November. Emily and I send each other three thankfuls every morning, so I’m already doing that.
But upon consulting my Pinterest, I’ve found more. One is simply, “aloe vera”. The self reflection ones included “in the mirror”, and “5 words I’d use to describe myself because…”
I may get somewhere with these.

I’m only at a two minute read time, so why not do them ALL????
Not the novel one, though.

So lets see. Flying….
My first flight was to Lincoln Nebraska for a Co-op trip. It was no great shakes. I was game for Vegas, Texas, St. Louis, I don’t know where all we went. There was one memorable landing, I believe it was San Antonio, where the wind proved a bit of an issue and we had a rough go touching down, but not enough to make me sweat. Although I much prefer takeoffs, where you can tell you’re just going faster than the speed of light and all I want to do is go even faster.
Another notable flight was coming back from Seattle, where I held a $200 glass octopus in my lap the entire time. He was too valuable to pack. Chester broke him with his tail two or three years ago. The original artist is still alive and well, but not interested in repairing him, sadly.
My first helicopter ride was fortunately, not Lifestar, but in one of the tourist helicopters. Lisa took me on my birthday in 2022. It was a great time. We flew over the lake. I intend to take another one sometime over the mountain to look at the fall foliage. I missed my window of opportunity last year and this year both.
Outer Banks was disappointing all the way around. I was looking forward to touring the Graveyard of the Atlantic museum, but it was closed for Covid, as was the lighthouse. What a bummer. Many places are dog friendly, so when I pulled into Wright Brothers and was turned away because of my toothy passenger, it was just another nail in the coffin. LB wasn’t able to walk very far by that time, anyway, but still.
If I had my own chopper, I’d definitely fly to JA’s instead of driving across the mountain at his every whim. He seems to forget I’m not 10 minutes down the road. But I’ve cut back to about once a month, so it ain’t too bad. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to see him and the fine reverend and Jessie Jackson more often, just that I’m not willing to make that trek. I’d also fly it to Kevin’s, but I guess it’d have to be a pretty good size helicopter to make that nonstop flight. I don’t know. I don’t know much about fuselages and helicopter mileage. I guess that’d be something I’d need to study up on before embarking.

Aloe vera has kept me from being mighty uncomfortable on more than one occasion. I take me a leaf (stem? leg?) or two in a Ziploc bag when I go to the beach. To buy it in the grocery stores is an expensive endeavor when I have pots and pots of it at home. I give tons away, too, because I can’t seem to kill it like everybody else does. Emily asked me my secret this spring, and I told her, like I tell everybody, “Forget about it. Set it outside, don’t water it unless we have no rain and it’s 100 degrees for a month. Pretend it doesn’t exist.” And guess what?
It flourished.
I guess that’s why aloe and I get along so swimmingly. I don’t like to be bothered, either. I’m kinda prickly.
I went back to find her exact words: “I’m thankful that I somehow got lucky enough to befriend the aloe growing master of Seymour and thanks to her sharing her complex method of leaving it outside on it’s own, my aloe is prospering. I know I mentioned it yesterday but its brought me so much joy it deserves a thankful post” That girl cracks me up.

Now, onto the thoughtful ones:
So when I look in the mirror, I see:
A woman who is courageous because I’ve never ran.
A woman who often needs help with her hair, because even after I spend time on it, it still doesn’t look as shiny and sleek as Christy gets it. I use the same product, it stands to reason it should behave for me, too!
A woman who loves without apology, whether it be my dog, my friends, my books, my food, or someone I can only love from afar. I love, and I won’t be ashamed.
A woman who could lose a little weight because my legs sure are jiggly.
A woman who isn’t scared because there’s nothing to be scared of. Life goes on. You can get ahead, get out of the way, or get left. It’s going forward. Might as well grab hold and steer the best you can.
It’s tiresome, to be sure. But it’s worse to be scared.

Love from Appalachia,
~Amy

Sure is good to be seein’ red again. I felt a weight that I didn’t know I had been carrying fall off me this morning as I read of the good news. It’s so funny, the headlines on major news sources. They sure don’t waste much time pointing out that he’s a convicted felon, or any other number of half truths. It makes me sick, and why I don’t read or watch the news. You never know what you can believe.
Facebook is zero fun today, as well. Both sides are showing their ugly faces and I just had to disconnect.
Everybody knows my pick, anyway: Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
And my dog.

So I’d been in high spirits all morning, then I got a Facebook notification as a reminder to check my memories. I did so, and there it was, my favorite person in the world has been gone for three years. I knew it, I’ve been preparing for this day for a couple of weeks now, but with the excitement from the election, it escaped my foremost thoughts. So I had to sit here and cry a minute, as I remembered.
But all hope is not lost. I had him for a long time. I soaked up his wise words, and his sometimes hurtful ones as well. He just tried to make me tough. And I guess it worked. I cry over less now than ever. It seems it’s just not worth the energy, and plus, it makes my eyes puffy and my mind foggy. And no amount of tears will bring him back. I wouldn’t want to, anyway. Not to this world, not to this pain.
Is it a coincidence we’ve beat Alabama twice since he’s been in Heaven, and that Trump has been reelected?
…..
I’ll leave that for y’all to decide.

I was sitting here reflecting that today is the only day I’ve not had something going on, besides work, in a week. I was looking forward to going home and snuggling my dog.
And then Christy text, wanting to know if I had supper plans.
Le sigh.
I haven’t been able to hang out with the Finchums in over a month for one reason or another. And she asks so nice. Of course I have plans, I have plans to eat.
“No, but I didn’t eat lunch till 2:30, so I’m not sure I’ll even eat supper,” I replied, giving myself an out in case she wanted Mexican.
She says they’re not eating for a couple more hours and Lindsey wanted to share something with me about a job opportunity. Well, of course I must hear the good’ns news. I promised to come visit, even if I didn’t eat.

I walked through the threshold at ten till six and barely got in the door when greeted by Christy, hugging my neck off. “I have missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright and a big smile stretched across her face.
And you know what? I believed her. I felt the love radiating from her.
And so I settled into my customary corner of the couch, and prepared to be inundated with all the news.
And good news it was, on the whole. As expected.
They’d already eaten supper, shocker, but offered me a tater. I opted instead for one of the Reese’s cups I saw scattered on the table as I came in. ONE.
Lindsey showed me her new Christmas tree, and all the settings of lights it boasted. I’m needing a new tree, and I liked this one a lot. I need something to suit my mood and this would fit the bill. The branches were made of a more durable rubbery substance instead of that typical thin-as-paper pine plastic needle crap that sheds like a Siberian Huskey.

Once home, I braved Facebook again, for the final time. A mistake, to be sure. Why do people think they need to express their opinion? I believe the world was a better place when we kept our religious and political beliefs to ourselves. I don’t NEED to know who my neighbor or customers vote for. We’re not changing anybody’s stance, all we’re doing is continuing to hurt people we actually CARE about by the name calling and saying they must believe in this or that, because that’s the candidate they supported.
Nobody is saying we agree with everything their candidate of choice says. NOBODY. We’re just picking our poison. You decide which issues are most important to you, and then you base your decision with the candidate whose views most align with your own. This is not a difficult concept to grasp. Just because your best friend thinks ketchup goes on steak doesn’t mean you have to go along with that and eat ketchup on your steak. You can’t agree on everything with everybody. Just do the best you can. It’s called the high road, keeping your mouth shut when you have the option to say something. Just don’t. The great Mark Twain once said, “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

First Tuesday of the month and that has meant one thing for over ten years now: library board.

This month was hosted by the Friends of Kodak Library. They served us a delicious holiday meal, the first one of the season for me. My favorite was the turkey, so moist and tender, and the pumpkin pie. I did not get a biscuit, mainly due to the fact my plate needed sideboards already.
We had two ladies hastening to join our ranks, and good thing, because it’s gettin’ to be slim pickin’s for a quorum each month. We have two members who have moved, and one who has evidently forgot she is even on the board, since she’s been to precisely one meeting all year. I hate it when people shirk their duties. It falls on everybody else to pick up the slack. And since she is a person I know outside of board, the other members and directors look to me to provide explanation.
I never was one for making excuses for myself, let alone anybody else.

The Kodak Library is a cozy space. Old, yes. In dire need or some renovations? Surely. But they’ll have a brand new building in a new location by this time next year. I guess it just reminds me of the old Seymour Library, when they were on the bottom floor of that building next to where the Dollar General Market is now.
Listen to me. “Used to be”. I’m 80 years old, I swanny.

Another thing I enjoy about board is simply talking books with the other members. Not much more than, have you read this or that, and I loved this one so much, and this book still lives inside me, and I devour everything by this author, and I discovered this book just last year, et cetera. We were talking about what people classify as pornography (in one case it was a coffee table book about Lady Gaga) and Sharon made the comment, “Fifty Shades of Gray was awful! It was horribly written, with no plot!”
“Oh, the third one’s the only one that’s any count,” I said, and everybody giggled. It occurred to me then that I had just admitted, out loud, in board, that I read pure trash. And I didn’t even have the decency to blush. Oh well. I agree it’s poorly written garbage.

I love sitting there, watching patrons come in, moms holding the hand of their little ones, dragging her to where “their” books are.
The library faces new challenges every day. They have trouble getting funded, this is a nationwide problem. Luckily we have some talented grant writers within our ranks, so that helps. But you have to know where to look to apply. Censorship is at the forefront of issues, as well. Since funding is low, it’s hard to find staff who’ll work tirelessly to put materials in the hands of patrons. It’s not just books, y’all, our libraries offer all kinds of services and items for lending. Instapots, hiking backpacks, WiFi hotspots, DVDs, even carpet cleaners! And you can make a commercial, make something on the 3-D printer, talk to a lawyer, fill out unemployment forms, and sometimes they have clothing swaps. There are author signings, crafty Thursdays, movie nights, cookbook clubs and chess clubs and beekeeping meetings. There is almost ALWAYS something going on. And who doesn’t love story time? It’s a place to be around like minded people, you’re sure to find common ground with someone there. It is a place where all are accepted and safe. You can be with a group, or tucked up in a corner, nose buried in a tome of your choosing. Or a comic book, the choice is yours. Or maybe just using the free internet. The library has been a source of many things, for many people, for many, many years.

It’s unusual how much I enjoy my solitude, or so I’m told.

I don’t think it’s unusual at all, for someone who is an only child, who was raised on a little farm in a small town, with no immediate neighbors.
I don’t think it’s unusual at all for someone to enjoy working alone when, for thirteen years, they worked in a store that was a hub of the community, with a constantly ringing phone and never ending flow of customers and sales reps. Or for two years at a job trapped in a small room with three other people, handling emergencies only.
I don’t think it’s unusual when I never had any children or roommates, apart from a husband for several years, who was largely independent himself.
I don’t think it’s unusual when your preferred and primary pass time is reading.
I don’t think it’s unusual when you’re someone who finds most people opinionated, brash, loud, obnoxious, rude, and nosy.
I don’t think it’s unusual when someone finds solace in the outdoors and wildlife or a companion animal.
I don’t think it’s unusual for someone who gets anxious in crowds, like concerts or sporting events.

I may not have the typical characteristics (I call them trappings) of a traditional life for a 45 year old lady, but I have a full life, filled with friends I call family, family I call friends, an exuberant dog, some volunteer work, and a library crammed with books.

Sean Dietrich wrote about canned music the other day. I am discovering new ways every day that illustrate my age. For instance, grocery store music. I really like it! It’s the music of my generation. I reckon everybody eats, so why are they playing “my” music? I’m not complaining; don’t misunderstand me.

He wrote, in part, “Still, it was the 15-year-old girl beside me who delivered a remark which stuck with me: ‘There’s noise everywhere you go today. We as a society don’t know how to embrace silence because we’re trying to drown out how lonely we are. We’re lonely because we’re separated. Technology separates us, politics separates us, social media separates us. Noise is one way to hide from each other.’”

It is exceedingly rare to see a group of people together without their cell phones in their hand. A few months ago I was out with some friends. We were eating at the Cheesecake Factory, where the booths are too close for comfort. It is impossible to have a private conversation, not that we were trying. I did take note of the young couple seated at the table beside ours. They were engaged with each other, smiling shyly at each other’s remarks. They didn’t look to have that much in common, going by dress. He was in Wranglers and work boots, she in a flowy dress, sandals, and a sweater that slipped off her bare shoulder. But they leaned toward each other and maintained eye contact.
She didn’t finish her entree, and got a to-go box, but they split a piece of cheesecake.
No evidence of a phone on either one, or on the table, until she excused herself to the restroom and he made a quick call to let someone know they were headed their way.
When they picked up their belongings to leave, I couldn’t help myself, and leaned over to them.
“Pardon me,” said I. They turned to me with uplifted eyebrows and equally open expressions. “Forgive me for interrupting your delightful dinner, but I just had to compliment you two.”
They both broke into small smiles.
“It is so rare to see a couple of any age sit together and share a meal without either being on their phones. It’s all ages, but especially those of your generation. Look around,” I gestured. “You’d be hard pressed to find a table that doesn’t have them laid out.”
“We just enjoy each others’ company,” the lovely girl said.
“And it shows. Please make every effort to continue to do so,” I petitioned them. “People are lost without their phones anymore.” Literally and figuratively, I thought.
They graciously accepted my compliment and made their way out into the summer evening.

I could dwell on my losses, or I could embrace all the love I’ve had. I’m choosing love. I try to always choose love, even when I don’t choose forgiveness. I’ve found myself singing again the last few days. I’ve found my laugh is coming easier, and the tension in my shoulders lessening. I’ve looked for, and found, that happiness has always been patiently sitting, waiting to be chosen over my anger, over my hurt. Through the years, when faced with one trauma or another, I find my best healing is done on a solo excursion. I didn’t have that indulgence this go round, but I found my peace on my porch, where I sat for hours on end, watching the trees bud, then flourish with leaves, then turn, and now they have blown away.
I may be alone, but it is rare for me to be lonely. And that makes all the difference.

I just got home. I feel like the middle of the night.
It’s 8:19.

I tell ya, though, South Knoxville is no place for two white girls past dark. It probably ain’t no place for us in the daylight, either. Crackheads on every corner. People on bicycles trying to cross Chapman, and not at a redlight or anything, just all willy-nilly.
What was I doing in South Knox on a random Monday? My cousin text and asked if I wanted to go eat. She’s too bougie for lowly Seymour fare, she was opting for The Kennedy or Kerns. I told her as long as she was driving, I was game (but fingers crossed we weren’t going to The Kennedy or I’d have to eat watercress soup like Phoebe). Luckily, she chose Kerns where we’d have more options. Now, funny thing, I was wanting anything but Mexican (I’ve learned to specify because all my friends know I willingly eat it, so everybody wears me out on it). I was leaning towards pizza, which I rarely want. And this food mall had pizza. But Chelsey steered me away. She said it wasn’t very good. However, she’s way pickier than me. I didn’t discount them yet. The burgers were tempting; I’ve been wanting a good burger. I’m always wanting a good burger, truth be told, but I can get that any old time. There was Cuban, and sushi, and Mexican. There was Korean and coffee and macarons. But I landed on African. The gentleman cooking was the most engaging fellow there, and it smelled the best.
I studied the menu at length. It seemed pretty standard, apart from knowing what jollaf rice and a few other things were. They offered chicken, beef, and lamb. I could only pray it wouldn’t be too spicy. I decided I’d handle this like I did B-51 Chicken when it opened. I stepped up to the girl behind the register who had, thus far, avoided eye contact. I smiled. She kept her face pleasant, but neutral.
“Hello. I have no idea what to order,” I told her honestly.
“The most popular is the chicken and jollaf rice,” she stated without preamble.
I shrugged. Safe enough, it sounded like. “Sounds good to me.” She gave me a choice of breast or thigh and leg.
“What sauce on the side?”
“Uhhhh….what are my options?” I asked, searching the sign.
“What sauce on the side?” She repeated.
I’m clearly at a loss.
“It’s on the side,” she said.
“Okay, whichever you think.”
“No, hot sauce,” she finally spoke loud enough to be heard over the thumping music.
“Ohhhh!” I laughed at myself.
She was unamused and asked for my name.
I repeated it twice, then spelled it, because it sounded like she was saying “Ermine.”
“My accent’s pretty thick,” I explained, unapologetically.
And of course, when you go to pay, it asks for gratuity. What exactly am I tipping? You are punching my order into the computer. I am standing here waiting on my food. I carry it to my table. I throw away my garbage.
The drink was a canned coke. I should’ve gone to the bar for a fountain coke….if they even offer them. One can of coke is not sufficient for African food when you’re liberal with the hot sauce that started on the side. I did not think washing it down with craft beer was a good decision, either.

My cousin opted for Cuban, and was disappointed. No surprise there, she’s almost always disappointed when we go eat. That’s why I refuse to pick a dining establishment when it’s she and I. I will not take responsibility for her finicky taste buds.

She mentions she plans to vote tomorrow, but doesn’t know anything beyond the presidential candidate.
“Oh, you didn’t vote in the Primary?” That’s the tricky one where you gotta do your homework.
She didn’t, and reminded me she had text me about her card’s address being wrong, but it was correct on the website, and her license was right. I had told her all I had shown in recent years was my license, so she hadn’t bothered updating it, but was prepared with an electric bill. So I told her not to anticipate an issue, plus this was the “easy” ballot, just pick the ones with (R) beside their names, that way the House and Senate would align and bills could get pushed through faster with less debate.
She’s looking at me with a funny little smile and I thought, “Oh dear God, no….”
So that turned into a discussion that I could have done without. And her entire argument was, “I just hate him so much.”
“That doesn’t make her qualified,” I said plainly.
“Well, I don’t know that much about her policies, but I know that he wants to outlaw abortion, no matter what.”
“That is patently untrue. He doesn’t want federal involvement, he wants it decided at state level. And furthermore, he’s against late term, not all, not for medical justification.”
I can see Chelsey wavering, knowing she’s on unstable ground and has not verified anything for herself. She’s voting on emotion, as so many people are. I brought up the issue of taxes, since she is self employed, and asked her to think back five or six years. She said her business wasn’t as lucrative then, and she didn’t know what tax breaks she got. She stated she wants less government involvement, and then in the same breath went to talking about dyes and GMO products, and how in Great Britain they have the same products without all the “harmful additives that make products cheaper”.
And here is where I shine. “Ok, and those are available here. So you want that to be the standard? You want less sugar, but you want it to be a controlled substance. You don’t want people to have a choice. You want everybody to have what you want, only. Isn’t that just more government influence?”
She looked stricken for just a second, and said that she “felt” that the government were the ones responsible for allowing all the unnecessary chemicals to be included now. I shrugged and told her if that was the case, she could ship it in, or grow it herself. Her eyes dimmed as she said that wasn’t affordable. Coming from a girl wearing Prada, that has a housekeeper, that has everything delivered from coffee to groceries, and that just bought her husband a Breitling watch. I didn’t even know what the watch was, but figured it was expensive since he made a Facebook post about it. Not that I’m not happy for her and all the things she can afford, but don’t tell me a necessity is too expensive when you flash all the charms of your “successful” lifestyle around.
Which brought us to “free” healthcare, like the “truly great” countries overseas. Again, with the government involvement. Nothing is free. Most countries have a cap, and many limitations on providers. Also, once you reach a certain age, the benefits only go so far to keep you alive.
She wouldn’t quit, and brought up illegals and Harris’ stance on the borders. I nearly choked as I told her to look at the Google image of the “Mexican Freeway”, the “path” across the border that is so well traveled and worn it is visible from space. “And this is why healthcare is so expensive here, and car insurance. You go out here, an illegal hits you– even though I don’t think they call them illegals now, they’re all ‘documented’– but they don’t carry automotive insurance. So they hit you, but they don’t have insurance, so your insurance has to pick it up. That’s why it’s always on the rise, to cover uninsured drivers. And they’re driving nicer cars than you and I. Because they can afford to, because they don’t pay insurance and so many of them are paid cash for their work. And that’s so when they get hurt on the job the owner doesn’t have to claim them, he just says, ‘I didn’t even know that guy was here, I’ve never seen him before, you know they all look alike,’ and presto, no workers comp claim, it saves him from liability. But the taxpayers pay- they pay for his healthcare. When someone comes across our borders, they automatically receive $2000 and free education and healthcare. They’re treated better than our veterans. The people who pay for insurance will always be paying for those who don’t. The more that come in here, the more we have to pay. There’s your democratic economics.” I then went on to explain how the parties flipped in the late 60’s and 70’s. This seemed to be an eye opening lesson. Her rebuttal was some comedian who made fun of Puerto Ricans under the Republican name.
I sat back and rubbed my face. “They’re all morally corrupt. It’s all a game. What concerns me is not appearing intimidating to other countries, like Russia and Iran. I’m seriously surprised they haven’t bombed us already under Sleepy Joe.”
It went on for a few minutes and I know I didn’t sway her, but I hope that I influenced her to hopefully think about the future of America and what life could be like if we had four more years of a puppet. It’s scary, and I don’t want to dwell on it, myself.
I got an ice cream and came back to hear her telling Rob that I would have left her sitting there if I had driven myself.
I wouldn’t have. I’ve never been much of a runner. But I sure wish we had found other subjects to talk about. I respect her too much to let politics wholly divide us, but it’s hard. I so wished my Uncle Dale was around to talk to her. I don’t stay abreast of legislature like I should, like I did when he fed me the most pertinent information. There’s just too much garbage to wade through, especially without being able to trust news sites.

But onto an immediate issue. Chelsey informs me, that for future visits it was important to know that this venue doesn’t have free parking. I was perplexed, as we had simply driven into the lot, there was no kiosk or arm barrier. She tells me there are cameras that take a picture of your license plate when entering and exiting, and they send you a bill in the mail. “And you have to install their app to pay it.”
“Oh bullshit,” I replied, instantly incensed.
“Well, you get two hours free if you eat here,” she added.
“And how would they know that?”
“The restaurant gives you a QR Code to scan.”
“Neither of mine did.”
“You might have to ask for it. The bartender gave it to me last time.”
I’m positively livid. I saw NO signs anywhere, inside the building or out, about the parking charge. Lots in Gatlinburg, Knoxville, New Orleans, basically anywhere you pay to park are heavily placarded, many times at the front of each space. And that’s with the barrier arm to get in and out of the lot.
So we go outside and I’m avidly searching for signs. I saw THREE, about 8×10, with gray and white lettering. Not what you’d call hi-visibility. Can you imagine getting this ticket in the mail???
I did dig my receipts out, and they both do have the code printed at the bottom. However, the ice cream girl asked me if I even wanted my receipt. If I’m paying cash, I let it slide. If I’m using my card, you better believe I want it. It’s proof of service or product rendered. What if they debited more than what the cost was? I need proof of what I got. But if I were normal, I would only retain it long enough to match it up with my bank, so a day or two. Then I would get this ticket in the mail and no way to prove I ate there. Oh, calamity.
So don’t say I didn’t warn you. If I were you, I’d just stay away. It ain’t worth the rigmarole. Plus, the clientele is….well, let’s just say I didn’t appear to have much in common with the people wandering around.

We had fun singing 90’s rock on the way back; we do a pretty good rendition of The Cranberries “Zombie”. And what’s a mini road trip without Alanis Morrisette? She was appalled as I was that my coworkers are unfamiliar with her.
It was good to see my cousin but there’s a reason it’s bad form to talk politics, religion, and money. I won’t let tonight leave a bad taste in my mouth but I will be more careful from here on out. We’re all just picking our poison. No candidate is perfect. God bless the USA.

Love from Appalachia,
~Amy

Up and at ’em extra early! I did finally rest good, thankfully. It’s a relief that DST falls on the weekend I do manual labor! I wasn’t as sore as I was last night, but these old bones and muscles were reluctant to do their job without protesting this morning. But I’m good now, fortified after two cups of delicious creme brulee coffee. You may want to try it, it’s Walmart brand. I just put sugar in it, no creamer. It doesn’t need it. I don’t use a lot of creamer anyway. I got my sheets washed and dried but didn’t have time to get them on the bed AND eat breakfast, so of course breakfast took priority. And I was still 15 minutes late getting on location. I was inwardly dreading what I might find. Would the grout hold??

Wonder of wonders, the grout and pebble tile and fireplace were all one solid piece this fine morning! Everybody had their projects so I went back to mine.
The millions of mums.

It’s a never ending task. But the bumblebee? Well, she flew off (all honeybee workers are female, so it stands to reason bumblebees are, too. I just momentarily forgot) about the time I got settled. So I guess it was just her bedtime last night. Bless it. How long before they hibernate, anyway? It seems awfully late in the year to go around hunting flowers.
I clipped and I pruned and I sneezed and I sighed, and before long I had another big trash bag full. The shabby mums were in a sorrowful state indeed, but they looked better than they did last night and really that’s all we could hope for.
And then Kay came over and culled, culled, culled. I was hurt. I had done my best. I agreed, a few were beyond saving, but the majority could be salvaged. We’d just have to squish them up.
I was vetoed.
And so, like so many other mass market consumables, we trashed them and more would have to be bought. Starting over, instead of just making the best of what we had. And what we had wasn’t half bad. But this is the corporate world, and they wouldn’t settle. My argument was, they wouldn’t even KNOW.
But I’m just the labor, not the decorator. She doesn’t pay me for my opinion (although she would argue that she does, since she often asks for it, but when I disagree with something, she doesn’t listen, so we’re back to my original statement).

I finished algae bear inside. Here he is.

It was a constant tat! Tat! Tat! of the staple gun as Vern and John took turns attaching the shakes to three sides of the fireplace. It really looks great.
Kay directed placement of more pumpkins and got the centerpiece laid out on the table. Somehow she wound up with peace sign placemats instead of American Flags, but there were no more hiccups that I got wind of in Mum World, apart from no tiny pumpkins, like I told her yesterday but she insisted. All we lacked was mulching, the cornucopia, dressing the bears, and procuring the hot dog sticks and we’d be done with outside. We decided it was time for lunch (30 minutes after she mentioned she was starving, but this is typical). Lunch at Zaxby’s. Brentley couldn’t have been more thrilled. We were talking about other popular chicken establishments and he declared, “It ain’t as good as this heaven,” and I about fell out. That kid, I swear.

“Lookit them pigeons,” I pointed out as we sat on the bridge waiting for the light to turn. They reflected a purple iridescence from their feathers. Quite pretty, for a pigeon.
“Those are pigeons?” This, from Kay, peering around me.
“Yes, that’s why I said, ‘lookit them pigeons.’ If they were crows, I woulda said, ‘lookit them crows,’ or like yesterday, when we saw that hawk, and I said, ‘lookit that hawk’.”
She giggled, despite herself, and tried to cover it. “Well, I thought they might be doves.”
“They’re pigeons,” Amanda assured her.
“Why do you try to argue with me? Anybody else in this truck will let things go. You know I won’t.”
“You’re the only other redhead.”
Like that explained it.
We drove past three grocery stores and I don’t know how many gas stations to go get water from Dollar General on Chapman Highway. Why am I complaining? It pays the same. And, as a bonus, there was an entire display of Little Debbie Christmas Trees in the main thoroughfare. Kay has never had a LDCT, and today was initiation into the addiction of the working class. We bought two boxes, six gallons of water, and three cases of bottled water. $36 and a backache later, she and I had it loaded in the bed of the trusty blue Chevy and back to the convention center.
Where she promptly disappeared to put a fire out with her company who were attempting to set up a booth.
Vern blew the straw mess into a pile that we swept into garbage bags to use for filler.
I ate a Christmas tree cake.
John packed up his tools.
Amanda and I argued about the best way to do the mulch.
Brentley loaded it on the cart.
Kay didn’t show.
John and I came to agreement on how to spread the mulch.
We all spread the mulch and it worked out great, with a bag to spare.
John wanted to use it to fill in some thin spots.
I objected, we needed to save it for the cornucopia and the edges of the canoe.
Time stretched on with no Kay.
Vern and John chomped at the bit wanting to get at the letters to see if they had survived a year in storage.
I said we needed to free the crated bears.
The guys wanted to GOOOO.
I wouldn’t let them leave with all the pumpkins, because we still needed to build the cornucopia. So I selected the ones I thought would work best and sent Vern and Amanda on.
John and I went to the back to gather the bears. We saw Kay but didn’t disturb her, she had a clipboard and business face on, pointing. Danger.

We dropped the bears at different points we thought were close enough and went back for the big boy.

That was fun. John just wallowed him up on the cart while I stood there, useless. Just call me Jake Right Now.

That accomplished, we loaded the cart in the U-haul and waited.
And waited.
An hour and twenty minutes had passed since Kay abandoned us. He said this wasn’t nothing, one time it was ten of them and it was six hours in the holding pattern.
“She knows we’re out here. Just wait,” was his advice.
So we did.

Then here she blew, made no mention of the mulch, and thought we were waiting on her to load up and go to Pigeon Forge. Not hardly. She almost freaked out when I told her the pumpkins had left, until I showed her what I had kept. I reminded her of the cornucopia, and she reminded me of the display where the balloons were going. Dang.
But we had just enough.

The bears she deemed “perfect” (I winked at John) and we took pictures, tweaking here and there, and loaded up what was left. “Do we not need these pansies?” I asked her.
“No, there’s more at Pigeon Forge. Six flats.”
Okie dokie, sounds good to me.
The last things remaining were dressing the bears (pray the totes are at PF), spraying the straw with flame retardant, and the dang hot dog sticks.
But press on.
We took the new road, Jake Thomas, over to Teaster. It had been a long time comin’, and was hitherto untraveled by me. It was pretty exciting.
“So what’d this used to be?” Kay asked.
“Knobs,” I answered, at the same time Abby said, “Nothin’.”
It was good to have a straight road. Cattle hadn’t roamed here since the 80’s, to the best of my knowledge. I remember when my mother worked at Belz mall you could go out the back doors behind the food court and see some cows, sometimes. Of course I would have preferred horses.

There were no pansies at Pigeon Forge, apart from me, when I saw all the watering that needed to be done pronto tonto. Our consensus last night had been we wouldn’t worry about them, since goal was to be up there by 12, one at the latest.
Well, it was past four and a feels like 90 degree temperature in the sun. Everybody was looking a little droopy, including us.
I went to dumping water while everybody else went to see about the dreaded letters. Thanks guys, I got it. My best little soldier Brentley stuck by my side. I think he was crushing. I shall use this to my advantage, like any good Southern Lady. In other helpful news, the security guard inside the front door was much nicer and accommodating than the jerk manning the ones at Sevierville.
And the view is much better, too, as the Greenway runs right below the convention center and there were lots of people out, taking in the sunshine and walking dogs. Or, in one case, pushing a dog stroller with a Doodle mix panting happily. And people say Chester is spoiled. HA! The leaves were still pretty, and you know I’m happy to be near water of any kind.

After showering all the plants with six gallons of water, I went inside to see what fresh hell awaited us here. The Pigeon Forge Convention Center is a monstrosity. Like, almost Vegas caliber. You have to walk awhile, think you’re almost there, check your compass, and then walk some more. I finally located my crew just where I hoped they’d be, the same place our crap was piled up last year, miracle of miracles. They had just then managed to procure some staff with a pallet jack to move the letters to their temporary station. There didn’t seem to be any unwarranted excitement, so I returned to my rat killin’. Unfortunately there were no spigots here, either, and the sinks were too shallow to fill the gallon jugs. So we had to bust into the water bottles.
It wasn’t long before I was summoned. Kay wanted my opinion on the flowers in the letters. Well, she said she did, but she doesn’t, not really. Because I was for taking them out of their pots, giving them a substantial trim, and cramming them in there. Together with the ones she deemed unusable from Sevierville, I thought we’d have enough.
She put me in her stead, playing Twister with mums so she could decide what we needed, be it shims or new flowers or just a miracle from above. Probably all three, by the time it’s said and done. She counted and counted again and then Amanda counted behind her, getting a different number each time on the estimated amount of mums we’d need to complete the letters.
Hand on hip, she emitted a big sigh. I looked at Vern, who was contorted in a similar fashion opposite me. “Are you as uncomfortable as I am?”
“Yes,” came his immediate reply.
I stood, grasping my mum, grabbed his, and placed them on the cart. And went back for the rest of them while Kay puffed and blew and John adjusted his toolbelt. I had had my fill.
As I walked away, I could hear her say, “I think what we need to do is I need to take Amy to the Home Depot and we need to get about 60…but I can’t get that many in the truck…John, what about…”
And so it goes. I went back to my solitary task of deadheading. I envisioned a day I would not have to look at another mum. Which would be tomorrow, praise be.

I didn’t get much peace before here came Kay to collect me for our jaunt to Home Depot. It was approaching six. “Are they even open?” I wheedled, trying to get out of it.
“Till eight,” she supplied, sounding sure.
I checked the Google. Sure enough. I was stuck.
But then came the question of how to get Amanda and her minis back to her car, and then Kay decided to go to South Knoxville first and get what they had, and then picking up whatever she couldn’t haul tomorrow from Sevierville. I could already smell my freedom. I was gonna make it.
Amanda couldn’t look at me for cracking up. I don’t have much of a poker face.
We loaded up and just hit Dolly Parton when a dinging commenced.
“Oops, I need gas,” Kay said, like this was totally unexpected.
“Anytime you drive this thing, you need gas. And you never drive it, so do you have goblins?” I asked her, thinking of the night after the fair where I sat alone at Bluff’s for twenty minutes, wondering how I had managed to lose her in two miles at 10 o’clock at night.
We whip into Food City and guess who’s there, but good ol’ Vern and a half a load of pumpkins.
Kay manages to get the gas, even though she said it wasn’t happy she didn’t want to scan her Valucard, and we’re back on our way. I told them if my office had a shower, they could just drop me off there and I’d worry about my car tomorrow.
A few little accessories added to the bears in the canoe and we called it a night. I can’t say I am upset about going to my desk job tomorrow.

I am sure y’all have found this account of my weekend positively enthralling and made for the movies, but hey, we can’t all be jetsetters, sipping wine in the south of France. Some of us have to work to afford our dog and beer habits. Plus, I sit on my porch enough. I don’t mind helping a friend. It’s just a bonus she pays me. I’d help her anyway. She can’t help she’s crazy. Like I told Brentley, all the best ones are ♥️

Love from Appalachia, with all my 2000 aching parts,

~Amy