Writing Prompt #752 You’re the last person on Earth… but somehow the internet still seems to work.
I don’t even know where to start with this one. Like, how would it even be possible for me, of all people, to be the last man standing? Highly unlikely. I’m more apt to be struck by lightning and hit the lottery in the same day. Because lemme tell you, I’m looking forward to my big reward and have zero interest in fighting tooth and nail to merely survive. But anyway, here we are, plunged into this story because I decided I was short on inspiration tonight.
************************
After four months in my home and observing no other humans, I decided to take the show on the road to see what I might find. The wildlife certainly seemed to be enjoying having free run of the place once again. I’d seen my first ever bobcat, loads of deer, turkey, birds of all kinds. Foxes, rabbits, and even a bear. I had found myself constantly reaching for my Redfield Talus binoculars (a gift from last Christmas before humankind ceased to exist), so often I generally just wore them around my neck. I was continually searching for any movement, human or animal, in assurance it wasn’t just me and Chess in the great big world. It appeared I was the last person in this neck of the woods, anyway.
Searching for other humans would have been easier in the winter if we’d had snow, that way I could just look for tracks and follow them. But winter is much harder to survive than the other seasons, so I’d bemoan lack of companionship at a later date. It was never that important to me, anyway. Fortunately it was May, and the heat had yet to really set in, so I could still make use of daytime hours for traveling. Every day I went a little further. It was so odd…no dead bodies, anywhere, roads free of cars, it was like life had paused at two in the morning, everyone raptured from their beds.
Everyone but me.
The internet still worked, my phone still updated daily weather and time, Facebook was still active, but of course there were no updates. Sometimes I felt like I was just a click away, like I had gone up a channel on the CB radio and had failed to notice. Like life was still going on without me, on a different wavelength. Brings new meaning to a day late and a dollar short. No mail arrived mysteriously, and that was fine by me, anyway. Good news rarely travels by United States Postal Service.
So I made my way through the neighbor’s house, finding no one, and decided to go where I have always gone to calm my heart and set things right: the library. If anybody would know what was up, and better yet, how to fix it, it would be librarians.
After a couple of hours of walking (conserving gas in my car for when I really needed it and wishing I’d kept a horse. Horse thievery is still a hangin’ crime, as far as I know, so I didn’t even wanna borrow one) I arrived at our newly remodeled branch. The doors opened soundlessly for me and I entered reverently, calling “Hello?” fully expecting Janet to poke her head out of the glassed in partition. But she didn’t, and neither did anyone else. I had never known our library to be so lifeless. Tears sprang to my eyes anew. This was it, then. No sign of life. I wasn’t going to walk to Walmart, because the type of life found there in normal times was best left to sort itself out, anyway. I sat down in the Childrens’ Room and had a good sob.
Then I pulled myself up, walked over to Kroger, and helped myself to every bag of mint Milano cookies on the shelf. Then I swept all the chocolate and caramel Ghirardelli squares into my wagon and headed back home. I hadn’t been taking more than I needed at any time from any stores, just in case. But I was having a Crap Day and needed all the chocolate.
The thing was, I was no Will Smith, out here with a transistor radio and a cool dog. I had the dog, but no radio. That’s really the only difference 😁 But I needed to get somewhere to figure this out. Someone, somewhere, knew something. Surely. I decided a trip to the county seat was in order. I could walk in the Sheriff’s Department and demand answers. And if I was faced with cinderblock walls and filing cabinets, as expected, then I’d just help myself. And if that didn’t work, I’d take myself next door to the courthouse. And then TVA, because I was definitely gonna need to figure out how electricity worked. I’d probably have to put in a few hours on YouTube for that. And you know, it’d be great if I could figure out how to keep us high and dry.
I headed to bed with the best laid plans. I was going to fix the nation. I was going to unearth the cure. And I was gonna find out the truth about UFOs and Pearl Harbor, once and for all. I hoped there was time.
As was my nature, I checked Facebook one last time before calling it quits for the night. To my surprise, I had one notification, the first in four months.
A friend request.
From Sturgill Simpson.
Be still, my faint heart.
🤣🤣🤣 I’m done, y’all. Sci-fi ain’t my forte. Y’all feel free to write whatever ending you want.
Love from a fully staffed Appalachia,
~Amy
Writing Prompt #475. You’re asked by the love of your life to define what love means to you.
What is love? Baby don’t hurt me…don’t hurt me…no more…
Love is time. Love is effort. Love is listening.
Love is saving the cabbage stem in a little bowl of water all day for the one who enjoys it most.
Love is sacrificing something you enjoy doing to do something the person you love enjoys doing. Like sitting on the beach under an umbrella all day when you burn like a lobster and you’d much rather be touring old houses and being gently buffeted by porch ceiling fans, hung from haint blue ceilings. Or not going fishing, but instead taking your wife to the beauty parlor because she’s nervous about driving on the highway.
Love is a dog who meets you at the door even though you’re an hour late.
Love is bringing you a Sprite with the good ice when you’re sick.
Love is starting your car for you on frosty mornings.
Love is telling your children no, even though it hurts your heart, because you know it will benefit them more than giving in.
Love is tulips on a Tuesday in April.
Love is coconut cream pie like your granny made.
Love is picking them up from the airport at one in the morning, even when you have to be at work at eight.
Love is simply good morning texts with a blowing kiss emoji, but also making sure you’re ok when you had to cry a little bit when you learn your friend had to put their dog down.
Love is carrying in firewood and making sure the generator has gas before a winter storm.
Love is not posting unflattering videos when they have their wisdom teeth out.
Love is a koozie from the beach, just because.
Love is loving you, warts and all, as my friend Rhonda says.
Love is, “I don’t know why I called you, I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Love is lighting up when you see them, and craving their touch.
Love is rubbing aloe on their sunburned back, or rubbing your legs even though you haven’t shaved in a few days.
Love is help doing whatever needs doing, without being asked, like carrying in groceries or picking up sticks in the yard.
Love is feeling safe in expressing true feelings or thoughts and knowing the other person won’t judge you. It’s not holding back truths, because true love won’t desert you, just like Journey tells us. Love is also safety in knowing they fully support you, that they have your back against the rest of the world, that they will back you up, no matter what. Love is a partner.
Love is a best friend, a dog, God, a horse, a river, parents, your children. Love is passion and comfort.
There is probably no one less qualified to write about love than me. I don’t have a marriage of fifty years to smile smugly about…even though those who make it to fifty are rarely smug. It’s the twenty-five year veterans who think their world can’t be flipped upside down. I didn’t even get ten before I learned otherwise. I didn’t have a Cleaver family upbringing. I didn’t have hordes of cousins or a neighborhood gang of friends. I didn’t have unconditional love from any traditional source until I realized I had it in Lisa. No matter how bad I screw up, no matter how hateful and cross I can be, no matter how much I get onto her about certain lifestyle choices she makes, Lisa loves me. I know this. She’s the truest friend I’ll ever hope to have because she knows it all and still loves me. And if I said, “come”, she’d come. I’d have to do all the diggin’ on account of she knows I would, (and she wouldn’t want to wreck her manicure), but she’d help me drag.
I was talking to a good friend of many years tonight, telling him bits and pieces about how this blog was coming along. You ask people what their version or definition of love is and you’re very likely to get some of the best stories ever. His parents were much older when he came along, and they were of the generation who didn’t show much, if any, outward affection. His mother stayed home and kept house and his father farmed. It was an existence without flowery declarations on social media, no flowers on the table for an anniversary because it was more important to stay current on the Co-op bill. There was a diamond on her hand and a new washing machine if the other one started making a racket. There was a new Oldsmobile under the carport every few years, something safe and reliable. For him, there was biscuits and sausage gravy and pot roast and mashed potatoes and cornbread and clean, white, pressed shirts. As it goes, his dad became ill in his later years. When they’d brought him home from the hospital and installed him in the hospital bed in the bedroom, his dad said to him, “What do we need to do to the living room so when I roll over I can see your mother?” Later that same day, his mother said to him, “We need to move that chair in case John needs me so I can get to him.” She hadn’t heard heard her husband’s comment earlier, and the chair had set in that same exact spot for thirty years. They moved it that day.
We need six friends to carry us when we’re gone. Most of the time we’re lucky if we’ve got one to hold our hand while we’re here. I know love. It’s all around me. Love can be one of the scariest things to admit to, putting your heart on display like that. Offering it up for all the world to see. But you better tell people. They need to know.
And this, my friends, is why Valentines Day is hogwash. True love is in the every day, to the last day.
LOVE from Appalachia,
~Amy
Where did the day go, I ponder, as I sit down to type this out. One fingered, as it was brought to my attention the other day. Even turning my iPad sideways and trying to type still feels wrong.
Today went right on along, lost on the highway with Miranda singing about pushin’ time. Sometimes songs will rip your heart right out and show it to you, pulsing in its grip. Songs are poetry, and poetry is songs. Jewel is a prime example of that. Life is poetry. Sometimes it’s carefree and whimsical, sometimes it’s brooding and murky. Poetry is not just O Cap’n my captain stopping by the woods on a snowy evening. Poetry is Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss and Guns ‘n Roses singing about rain in November.
Dinner was consumed at 10:30, because I wasn’t feeling like breakfast. Which meant I ate like a hobbit the rest of the day. Second lunch was eaten at 3:30, followed by hot fudge cake at 4:30, scarfed down in the Hobby Lobby parking lot. And then, in an effort to even things out, I had a salad at 7:30.
And that was my day, in food.
So as not to short y’all, I have selected from my book of prompts a little something. The other two I landed on were about zombies and gangs, and I just wasn’t feeling zombie-ish.
Writing Prompt #27 [WC: 40] Write a poem that describes all that is beautiful to you.
Carefree
Cantering
Carousels
Glistening stars
All the trite items of romance
But also gut splitting laughter
After being so serious
Delicate touches
And suffocating hugs
Paired with kisses
That knock me off balance
Mountains to sea
Even in the rain
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Writing Prompt #8 How’d you get that scar? Most everyone has a scar. Talk about it as if it you were about to get that scar for the first time. Scar free? Then you need to invent one! Or talk about another person’s scar as if it was your own.
Oh, at the scars I have. I guess the most unpleasant one is the deep tissue muscle scar I got when I was 16 or 17, when my horse accidentally kicked the dog snot out of me when I released him back into his field. He didn’t mean to, I know. He got me in the head, too. And NO, that isn’t what caused me to act this way. I was already crazy. And no, I didn’t know why it didn’t knock some sense back into me. Anyway, the scar was on the inside of my right thigh, visible through much of my twenties as a half horseshoe shaped indention. Then I got fat and you can’t tell it anymore. So is it still considered a scar? Would it come back if I lost a bunch of weight? The world will never know, because I’ve eaten eight chocolate chip cookies today.
I’ve also got a scar on the top of my foot from where my water glass fell off my dresser and busted and a shard sliced right into me. It hurt like the devil dickens and I had a field visit to go on that day. I bled through my boot and never said a word. I did go get a tetanus shot a few days later, though, because I was going to the beach and you know how nasty saltwater is. I should have gotten it stitched up but I didn’t so here we are.
The worst scars are the ones you can’t see and I’m covered in them. All the scars I carry on my heart. As we all do, from people we love that have hurt us or that have left us, and sometimes both. Scars that remind us to forgive, but not to forget. Scars make us tougher…but I do wonder if the heart is meant to be scarred…wouldn’t we be freer to love if we didn’t remember the last time we got hurt? Would the love be purer, fresher?
I dunno. Sometimes I feel like an ol’ junkyard dog, matted and mangy, skulking and distrustful, with bared teeth and pieces of ears missing from long ago fights. Other times I’m a tattooed nymph, flitting away before I can be caught in my mischievousness, rubbing a spot where the arrow nicked my backside again. And sometimes I’m just Amelia, jaded but willing to try one more time. Sighing as I apply mascara, knowing it’s no use, my glasses shield my eyes from anybody who might give a second glance. What’s one more scar on this heart of mine? What am I supposed to do, sit around waiting on something to happen to me? Nah, kick start and throttle down. Might as well get a broken bone or two. It makes for a more impressive story.
They say love is a battlefield. So what is a war?
Kickin’ and a-gouging in the mud ‘n the blood ‘n the beer~Johnny Cash
Tattooed and scarred in Appalachia,
~Amy
Writing Prompt #6 Describe the perfect home. Make that home come alive; put yourself in your mind in that place. How large or small is it? Where is it located?
I’ve often thought about this very thing, as I believe we all have. I remember playing MASH in grade school with the notebook paper folded to fit over our fingers. What was it called? Chinese something catcher. Anyway, mansion-apartment-shack-house. Of course mansion was the one to shoot for. Back in those days an apartment was out of the realm of our comprehension, and we didn’t know a mansion in Seymour until the Creutzinger monstrosity was built. I could see my dream house clearly, probably pulled straight from Gone With the Wind: a Greek Revival with the two story columns, dark red brick, circular driveway, a Juliette balcony off the master bedroom, swimming pool (mine would have to be indoor, or at least covered with tinted glass to keep me from frying like an egg), stables for my many breeds of horses (at least seven: one for each day of the week), a greenhouse, and the river out back. There would be magnolia trees lining the alleé, a black wrought iron gate with scrolls that would swing back from the monogrammed center to admit you after you cleared entrance via the intercom system. The fences would be curvy brick, except where they were black wood plank. Back then I admittedly never gave much thought to the inside, as I would always be out riding. I’d have a Morton building to ride in when the weather was less than ideal. But obviously you always figure on four or five bedrooms, with an en-suite each for those kind of houses. I’d have those great big tester beds with the sheers or drapes around them. It was all so old-fashioned and romantic. Of course there’d be a wondrous library, with dark wood and a rolling ladder that stretched to the second story. I’d have an enormous carved desk and all leather bound edition books. It wouldn’t be complete without a widows walk for viewing the property. I don’t know where this stately home would be located, probably South Carolina or Georgia.
Yeah, big dreams. It still sounds really nice, but I know I’d never be able to keep up with a sizable house, let alone a barn housing seven horses! I’m too lazy to keep up with one. Eradicating the dog hair around here is a full time job. Of course if I had the means to afford that kind of home, I could likely afford some stable hands to clean stalls and a maid for the house.
Instead, here I am in one of the few homes I’ve ever known, the house I grew up in, the home my grandmother built. I’ve made it my own; I have the yellow kitchen and the solid red front door, and the cozy library. There’s a creek out back, but not big enough to swim in. There are no stables or barns at all anymore, and I have to get out in the rain to open my chain link gate. But it is fully home. I have all the space I need, and Chester has plenty of room to run. Thanks to the fence, I don’t worry about him. I do wish subdivisions hadn’t encroached all around us, and I wish people wouldn’t use Amy Ivey Avenue as a shortcut between Chapman and Boyds Creek— or, in the very least, I wish they’d slow down— but on the whole, I feel fortunate to have this place. It’s home, and it’s filled with things I’ve accumulated from traveling. You won’t find Hobby Lobby knickknacks and filler here. You’ll notice my sweetgrass baskets and worn books, certainly. The pride of the place is obviously my farmhouse table that demands you to notice it right away, set with my pretty paisley placemats and a green bottle of wildflowers. That table hasn’t been here long, compared to many of my other things, but it has seen its share of good memories 😊The brightly painted abstract oil from a local artist hangs against the yellow wall. The hallway is lined with pictures I’ve found in antique shops and various little hole-in-the-wall retailers. There are things I’ve made and things I’ve just collected. My seashells from the seashore and sand collections adorn the top of my chest of drawers, and Scarlett and Rhett are scattered throughout. Mermaids are not confined to just the bathroom, they’re alongside Mardi Gras memorabilia in the library. Quilts draped on many surfaces, both for comfort and decor. Lots of well loved objects from one end to the other, and most of them I can still give you the story or provenance of. It smells of coffee and bacon more often than not, and apple cinnamon candles in the fall. Usually the State of Tennessee flag is rippling in the wind, and if it’s summer I try to have something bright in the planters.
I don’t want to be afraid to spill. I don’t want a “theme”, I am certainly not interested in shiplap or farmhouse white aesthetics. I want to be comfortable, and I want you to be comfortable, too.
Do I wish it was bigger, more impressive? Not really. Could I use new living room furniture? Absolutely. But my ratty leather furniture still serves its purpose and what’s the point? Chester would ruin anything in a few years. If you’re here to judge me on the state of my possessions or how sterile it is, you’re not here as a friend to me. So…sorry about the dog hair, just don’t wear black pants. I’ll let ya borrow a lint roller before you get back on the road. I promise I tried. Or we can just on my porch and crack back a few Ultras and watch the lightning bugs and people driving too fast. The stars and the moon usually put on a pretty worthwhile show if you have a mind to snag a quilt and lay in the middle of the yard on your back, or so I’m told.
Home is where the heart is and the grass is pretty green here, if I do say so myself. That’s why it’s so hard to pry me out of here on the weekends. It’s what home is supposed to be, a cocoon of safety and comfort.
In conclusion, the perfect home is warm, both in ambiance and temperature (unless it’s July, then you might need a sweatshirt 🤣), the perfect home has plenty of cheese and wine and natural light, the perfect home is also home to a dog. ❤️
Love and coziness from Appalachia,
~Amy
“You are moonlight,” I told him
Present and dependable
Calming above all else
The peace it brings knowing it will be there tonight
Even if nothing else will
The moon is not often showy
It is humble
Orbiting Earth
Letting her steal the show
Shining as a backlight
But with an irresistible pull
Whole or partial
Even when it cannot be seen
It is felt
It is powerful
It is unstoppable
There is no such thing as too much moonlight
You cannot burn from it
It will not blind you
It just lights the way
It guides baby turtles home
It is in every bedtime story
It is stalwart
And steady
It is not fickle
Or vain
Moonlight is romantic
And I feel the pull now
To just let it
Where would I go
What would I do
Drown
In the things I cannot say
In the daylight
We must wait for the moon
And the moon
Will wait for us
So tell me: are you a car sitter? Why? I get it if you are early for an appointment. It’s more relaxing to sit alone in the comfort of your car than a germ riddled waiting room full of coughers, smokers, and dopers. But I see these people that I feel like sit in their car for extended periods every time they get in their car. I mean, I like Maggie a lot, but I don’t wanna hang out in her. I want to go places—fast—but not just…sit there. Unless I’ve caught one of my favorite songs on the radio, which is unlikely, since I rarely listen to the radio.
Are they evading responsibilities of family? Kind of hiding, saying, “I’m still at the store,” which technically isn’t a lie. Even though they could have left fifteen minutes prior. Do they not worry about being approached by unsavory characters? I don’t like to idle. I feel exposed in parking lots. Somebody could slash your tires, rendering you immobile, then slash your throat.
Nope. And I don’t even watch true crime shows.
Anyway. Just something I’ve observed that I don’t understand. The list is long of things I study on but never come any closer to figuring out.
Chapman Highway is still riddled with potholes. For every one they fix three come to its funeral. There’s a deep one at the Wye. And today I passed a car, just past it, sitting on a rim. I am unsure if the two were related but odds are good. At any rate, it was one of those days it was a relief to get home amongst the tailgaters and recklessness.
Full moon tonight and it’s really something. I just hope it lets me sleep. Currently drinking a glass of wine to help ensure a few zzz’s. And rubbing Chess’ ears always helps relax me. This poor dog sure endures a lot of that. I’m not sure I’d be so accommodating if I were in his….paws. I still owe him a trip somewhere for National Love Your Pet Day or whatever the heck it was.
Cold bright moon of February
Proud and bold
Drawing oceans
Changing hearts
Questioning minds
Awake in your dreams
Behind glass
Not untouchable
But everything will break
And you’ll have to cross it
Barefoot
And alone
Reaching eventual peace
And happiness
Brighter than the sun
And sparkling
But darkness in between
Last night is catching up to me. I might select another writing prompt for tomorrow so you don’t hafta endure my rambling of the mundane same ol’ thang. ‘Cause it’s just Chester Hair Eradication Day.
Love and moonlit nights from Appalachia,
~Amy
I understand now, 53 days in, why writing daily is important. And why it is crucial to stay on schedule. It is a dedication to a craft and it builds discipline. I thought I had about as much discipline as one redhead can contain, but there was evidently room for growth. Because I will say that about 30% of the time, I could have found a reason to skip writing. But I made a promise to myself to do this, so here I am.
I heard a time or two today “if you’da just kept your mouth shut…”. Other variations include: “You was broadcastin’ when you shoulda been receivin’” and “Mrs. Ivey, something to share with the rest of class?” “If you’d hush, I’d tell ye!” I’m sure there are others that evade me from over the years.
Yesterday after work, I parked myself at the only joint in town that serves pizza I will willingly eat. Gatlinburg Brewery. The beer is ok, but the pizza is off the chain. Or hook, whatever the current lingo is for Very Good. You better git yer goin’ britches on and try it soon. Through the week, this month only, they offer buy one get one. So go! Here’s a handy link https://gatlinburgbrewingcompany.com/menu-1 the Leaf Looker and the Basic AF are my favorites. I got the Spinny Dippin’ last night and added red pepper flakes but I think the sauce needs to be garlic instead of Alfredo. Just my take.
Tonight I’m headed back to Blackhorse with Kay so thought I better knock some of this out so I won’t be up till midnight. I don’t plan to drink anything heavier than beer; I’ve drank a little something every day this week and just ain’t feelin’ it. I’m not telling Kay, she’ll be disappointed. Not that I’m a different person with alcohol, but you know it’s not much fun drinking alone. She won’t notice after two or three glasses of Sauvignon Blanc, anyway 🤣🤣
….ok, back home now. I did have an espresso martini with white chocolate. I’d been craving one for awhile, and to appease Kay I did order one. But I didn’t really want it. I told myself it was dessert…even though I drank it before I had my meal 😁
So on the way down 411, I noticed something I didn’t notice last week because I went another way down and when I came back home it was dark. But at the mark on the road where Officer McCowan was tragically killed, a memorial of sorts has been erected. There was a cross, draped with blue tinsel and flowers arranged. On every wooden fence post bordering the road, there was a thin blue line flag. I imagine this was done by the landowners, or perhaps his brothers in blue. Many down that way had blue porch lights. It’s nice to see a community band together, but it came at a mighty high price. Kay and I discussed how fortunate we are to live in an area where we typically feel so safe. And how jacked up some people are. But there’s still a prevailing sense of security, because we know justice is going to be served. I hope that no count thug is terrified. I hope he’s shaking in his shoes every waking moment. I hope they don’t let him have shoes. I hope his dreams are haunted. I hope he feels hunted. Because he is. Like we all said for the Channon Christian and Christopher Newsom, hell, turn ‘em loose and let Gary Christian have his way. Or any of the rest of us.
And that main piece of total trash is still sitting pretty in jail, awaiting execution. Since 2007. And that’s something else to grind gears about. Here’s a link to a local news source, in case you aren’t familiar. But you can also wiki it. https://www.knoxnews.com/story/news/crime/2017/08/24/archives-horror-christian-newsom-killings-focus-what-happened-chipman-street/597805001/ it still turns my stomach and makes me clench my jaw. I hope hell is fit to receive those demons.
Driving down the scenic highway, I was struck, as I often am, by the rolling farmland. And how hard one particular landowner has fought the urbanization and imminent domain of the projected Pellissippi Parkway. How many hours of lost sleep has that farmer sacrificed, how much money and time has he sunk into defending what he and the generations before him scraped to buy and tend? How many people have admired a sunrise or sunset over his property, and watched cattle graze and corn tassel? How many rolls of hay have been put up and how many times does the combine traverse harvesting soybeans? How many hours does he toil? Are there grandkids? Is it in a trust? Will it ultimately matter?
People don’t take pictures of subdivisions. They take pictures of farms, of clean fields, of well kept barns. Everybody wants to live here but that means we’re just gonna be another Cleveland if we don’t protect what we have. I suppose growth is a necessary evil, but I don’t have to like it. The belching guy on my left last night at the pizza joint was from Washington State. He thoroughly enjoyed telling everybody in earshot this fact as he shoveled food and beer down his gullet. “Everything is so expensive here. We’re going back for a few years, get some money saved up, come back here, and hopefully marijuana will be legalized here by then.” Big dreams, this one. And a big talker. I could tell his girlfriend had reservations. I hope she wizens up before she moves across the country with this blow hard.
At any rate, here’s to the sunny slopes of yesterday, as Gus says.
Love (and resentment) from Appalachia,
~Amy
So I’ve got this book, “1000 Writing Prompts”. It’s been super beneficial when I’m stuck in a rut. I asked my friend to pick a number. Immediately, “Seven.”
My favorite.
#7. How were you named? If you feel that your name is boring and the story behind it equally so, make up a name and come up with an interesting story behind that.
I honestly don’t know how I came by Amelia Marie or Amy, either one. I also can’t believe I’ve never written about it. But I haven’t.
I reckon Amy is a common nickname for Amelia, even though Rhonda said if she had named me Amelia and people insisted on calling me Amy, she’d pinch their little heads off. I think I chose to go by Amy when I started school because I had a hard time making the “e”. I got to be lazy before I ever got started good. What I don’t understand is why we didn’t spell it Ami, because that would have been my initials, and also a bit perkier. I remember mom often telling me it was a good thing I was born a girl, because if I had been a boy, she would have had to named me Maynard, after my dad. I can think of nothing more mortifying. I made the mistake of repeating this to my then-friend Jena, who promptly told it all over the Co-op because, let’s face it, it’s hilarious. It stuck. There are a select few former Co-op employees who still call me Maynard: Bobby Joe Cole 430, Bob Huskey, Pink, Hobbs, Watson, & Robbie Houser. One day, my mother visited me at work and overheard some of the guys teasing me.
“Why do they call you that?”
I looked at her incredulously. “Because I made the mistake of telling them that’s what you were gonna name me if I had been a boy.”
She looked horrified. “I would never! That’s an awful name!”
And yet, here we are, over twenty years later, and I’m still stuck with it.
I didn’t like Amelia Marie for the longest. It just seemed pretentious. But as I’ve gotten older I like it much better, and realize that even though it’s a flowery, romantic name, it’s a heckuva lot better than what some people are strapped with. If I’d keep my mouth shut, I could probably pass off as a presentable lady and not a hillbilly. Alas, I am what I am. And there’s no chance of me keeping my mouth shut.
I remember once when I was very young, I was complaining about my name to Uncle Dale, who was, of course, poking the bear. “It’s not funny! I sound like a pilgrim ship! The Nina, The Pinta, The Amelia Marie!!” He thought this was absolutely hilarious, and got to calling me Pilgrim from that day forward. It didn’t help I was a pilgrim in a school play around that time, either.
This photo hung on his workbench as long as I can remember. When he passed, I was down there looking for something and realized my picture wasn’t hanging in its usual spot. I got to digging around and became a little upset when I couldn’t locate it. I did find my high school graduation announcement, which was baffling, since I graduated in 1997 and that house wasn’t built until 2001. Anyway, a few months later, we were in the safe hunting some documents and came across a Ziploc bag with an envelope inside. Within the envelope was a picture of Brenda in a bathing suit leaned up against the GTO, and this one of me 🥰 He’d just been keeping it safe.
The Pilgrim lives on, as I still call myself that reciting stories or repeating words of wisdom I heard over the years.
And now you know the story of the Pilgrim, Amelia Marie.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
I just opened a bottle of Meiomi, so I figured I better start on this 🤣
Today was uneventful, on the whole. Just the way I like it. I ran through the Chickalay drive thru for some minis on my way to work. I ordered ten, but ate six. I probably could have eaten all ten if I had set my mind to it. Work was quiet; most of my coworkers were at a conference in Knoxville. I didn’t feel that the topics would benefit me, in my current role, so I just went to work. And good thing, I had some visitors and a few phone calls to return. I just wish those girls up front were what they advertised to our landlord. Oh well. I don’t expect them to last. I’m not gonna waste time being mad about something I’m not going to deal with. I am gonna tell Charlie all about them when he asks, though. And he will ask.
Boy, this wine is good.
Today is National Love Your Pet Day. When will these nonsensical holidays cease? Well, then I guess we’d just have a bunch of regular days and some people find it hard to celebrate on normal days. Not this girl. But Facebook memories have alerted me that I do typically celebrate the wonder that is Chester. So I guess I need to do something a little special for him. But tomorrow, as I have already put on my fleece pajamas and am consuming the aforementioned wine. He appears to pretty happy laying across my lap playing with his moose, anyway.
The sun was absolutely blinding all day. And I loved it. I’m looking forward to reading poetry on my blanket outside on the grass. I’m looking forward to dogwoods blooming and all my fun summer clothes.
The commute home went surprisingly smoothly, I could hardly believe there were no near-misses and no tailgaters. A miracle! I was thinking it doesn’t take much to make me happy. Just not getting run over.
Do you have friends you talk to every day? I have several. And they’re all different. Some just send Tiktoks , others text, a few call. But if any of them go more than 48 hours, I’m sending out distress signals. Others I talk to once a week, or see about that often. You gotta check in on people. I’m guilty for not always reaching out first, but I do at least answer. And I’ll also admit to sometimes not having to have a conversation when it’s been a bit of a taxing day, or, conversely, a quiet one without many interruptions. Because I’m selfish. Just think, 8.5 hours at work, plus another to allow for the drive. One hour to get ready. Eight hours asleep. Must blog. Must attend to Chester and other household duties. Doesn’t give you a lot of time for idle chitchat. Not that I’m busy every single second at work, but I am guarded about taking phone calls. And it’s hard to text and tally figures or write emails if you’re having a texting conversation. I’m just saying is please give me a little grace if a message goes unanswered. It’s not that I don’t love you. But if I open it while I’m doing something else….well, can I just blame being a Gemini and leave it at that? It’s too much to keep up with, all this social media crap. I should have given it up for Lent but I’m posting my blog daily there and that feels like cheating.
Anyway. Don’t tell Chester today was his day. I’m a slacker. This is a prime example of why it’s a good thing I never had children. I can see me now: “Your birthday?? Well, whoopie! I reckon I did all the work, bringing you into this world! Where are my presents? We’re gonna do what I wanna do!”
Yeahhhhhhh.ll
At least tomorrow is Wednesday. Monday slipped right through, didn’t give no trouble, which is always a plus.
I feel like arguing if anybody desires a lively debate. But I’ll warn you, I’m mighty sleepy, so I’d prolly let you win.
I did not proofread. All errors are my own. And Meiomi’s. 🙃
(Postscript: corrected several, three of which were autocorrect on my iPad, which should not count)
Good night, good morning m and good luck from Appalachia,
~Amy
