I just momentarily sniggered at myself because I thought I had been naming them 2023 and nobody had noticed, but I went back and looked and no, they’re correctly labeled 2024 and I’m the idiot. Per the usual.

So, just sitting around, waiting on the snow. I dunno, seems like they only hit it half the time, so we’ll just have to wait and see. It’s coming from the west, so it’s a crapshoot. Out of the south and you better hold on to your hat, it’ll be a big ‘un. I’m down to two eggs and four slices of bread, but I’ve got lots of everything else, except tomatoes. Oh well. I’m sure it will be fine. I’m just praying the power stays on because I don’t have much wood. And if the pipes freeze I’m for sure up a creek without a paddle. But there’s no sense worrying about it now, because I ain’t going out to bust wood. I need to go buy a generator, once and for all. But it always seems that other things are more pressing. Generators are like tires. Necessary, but not fun.

Finally finished my first book of the year. What should have taken one day stretched out for three whole weeks! As I wrote on my Goodreads review, it wasn’t terrible, it just wasn’t very good. At least not for me at this age. Had I read it in my early twenties, oh sure, absolutely. But I also wonder if it was riding the coat tails of Dolly’s book because it had a similar plot— main character’s alias was Rose, big music star, falls for small town guy. Yes, that’s right, a Hallmark book. Whatever, I’m on Harlan Coben now. He’s been popular with several of my friends, so I’m looking forward to this. I don’t know how I got caught up in that other, but when I find out who put me on that, I’m gonna…. Well, I don’t know, and I doubt anyone will fess up at this point.

My dog is snoring beside me. I took a serious nap today but two hours later I was ready for another one. I think I’m part bear— only wake up to eat and don’t emerge from my den until the freeze breaks. I was sitting here, mindlessly scrolling on my phone tonight and I was like, “oh yeah, my blog”. At least I don’t feel pressure to come up with something super entertaining. Y’all are just patiently waiting me out, I can feel it. I just wanna know if I can do it. I am very much looking forward to entry #365. Well, actually, this year being a Leap Year it will be #366.

I think I hear ice pellets. I hate to move to look, because that will disturb my dog, and you know what they say about sleeping dogs.

I could do with some snow cream…

We watch the weather 
And prepare for the worst
Run the bathtub full of water
But not for our thirst

Get your washing all done
The blankets piled up
Charge your phone and the radio
Curl up with the pup

All the baking is done
The candles are lit 
Books to be read
And now we just sit

My eyelids are heavy
I’m torturing myself
I don’t need to worry
It’s bad for my health

Enough of that garbage. It’s here, and it’s laying. Probably wake up and it’ll be butthole deep to a ten foot Indian. I don’t care. It’s January, it’s supposed to be cold and gloomy. Let it snow. ❄️

Goodnight from Appalachia,

~Amy

It is weathering outside. It has been weathering weirdly all day. I went to work, anticipating the weird weather, but was woefully unprepared for just how weird the weather would become.

It started off frosty and cold, with a stunning sunrise in certain parts of the county. It wasn’t long before it had warmed to about 50, which has a tendency to make me suspicious of what’s coming. Nader weather.

Sure enough, about 12:30, here it was. The house behind my office has been under a near-constant remodel since early spring of 2020, and stuff was flying off their house in every direction. Time for me to hit the road before it got any worse. Thankfully my board is understanding in such matters, so I packed up my laptop and away I flew.

So I’ve been curled up in my late Uncle Dale’s chair all afternoon, pecking away at the minutes and sending an email or two. What with the long weekend, and not really fully back at full throttle after the holidays, nobody is expecting much.

Anymore, it is constantly on my mind what I’m going to write about each day. This morning, as I started up the road, I spotted a horse on the hillside in a red turnout rug. I thought I might write about it…which would evolve into some story or another about one of my past experiences with horses.

Then I stopped by Bojangles for breakfast, and the Mountain Dew was from the bottom of the barrel, and therefore undrinkable, so I decided to dump it outside on the grass instead of pouring it down the sink. I was jostling my purse, IPad, grocery bag with some stuff in it, my Scotty Kiger water bottle (think Stanley cup…hahaha…Stanley cup), bag o’ breakfast, and my rancid Mountain Dew. I removed the lid and sorrowfully dashed the offensive Dew. Then I could throw it straight in the big trash can outside and not have that in my hands when I went to unlock the door. Yes, that’s right, I had my keys out, too. Forgot about them when I was listing all my pack mule accessories. Anyway, the lid is now separate from the cup, and so I must flip open the garbage can lid while juggling all the other junk. It would have probably been easier to just go on inside like a normal person and use a normal trash can. But me, I like things difficult and exciting. So I whip the lid up to the wheelie trash can and manage to get the lid from my drink in there. I do it again to throw the cup in there and suddenly it’s coming a rain shower of Mountain Dew on my head.

I guess I didn’t get all of it out when I flung it onto the grass.

So now what was left is residing in my still-wet-from-the-shower hair, my sweatshirt, shoes, purse, Bojangles bag, IPad, grocery bag, water thermos, and- oh yeah, my keys.

Le sigh.

Nothing to do but eat my breakfast and dry off the best I could. I rationalized that it was mainly just carbonated water, anyway.

It never fails when I do something stupid like this that everybody in the county comes to see me. Sure enough, had just gulped down my last Bo-round when the handymen showed up. Then a member of my board. And while I’m on the subject of my appearance, may I also mention I had not applied one dab of makeup and my wardrobe was a hoodie, jeans, and Hey Dudes. And I already told you my hair was still wet. So obviously I wasn’t looking my best prior to the Mountain Dew incident. I still needed a few signatures for my petition, so what the hay, let’s walk over to the library and get the rest. They usually see me at my better, if not best, let’s just squelch any idea they had of what kind of person I truly am and give them the real me.

So that’s what I did. And as I was walking over there, I thought again of how nice it is to be in this part of town, where I can do things like walk to the library on a nice day (it hadn’t become blustery yet). I often walk over to Planning/ Stormwater/ Water Department too. And on occasion, dispatch. There’s just something about the simple act of traveling on foot that appeals to me. I guess that’s why I love Savannah and Charleston so much.

I still need one last signature, so that’s why I’m sitting here, waiting on my aunt to get home. I’m quite cozy in this big chair in this quiet house with all the deer looking at me from their various positions on the walls, but I’d also like to be home, rubbing velvet ears. Even though he’d probably be bouncing around, driving me crazy, wanting to play tug of war. I’m sure my aunt will appreciate coming into her home all lit up for a change on this windy, rainy day. So I sit. And I write. And my IPad is still a lil sticky.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

This is turning into a JOB. I have had a 12 hour day, with two meetings and lots of running around. I just want to brush my teeth and go to bed. But I have made a commitment and I intend to stand by it. Just like the people at the gym tonight. I saw them, well, rather, I saw the parking lot, and I thought they must be giving away free cupcakes to draw that many people. Then I remembered it was still early January and that explained everything. So I continued to Zaxbys and then ate a vanilla zinger. Hey, somebody’s gotta keep the industry alive.

Hung out at the Co-op today for awhile, trying to garner signatures for the petition for the election ballot. In many ways, Co-op is the same as it’s ever been, but in other ways, it’s totally different. There are new faces every time I go, but they’re still a friendly bunch and I feel certain I would fit in with most of them. The tire shop isn’t the bustling place it once was, but I believe the mechanics they have now are problem solvers. I had so many fun times there within those walls, and I’m faced with a memory every time I turn around: Willie allowing me to pull the breakers down at the end of the day if we met at the time clock, the time an entire gallon of Red Cell fell off my buggy in the hallway, coating the tile floor and the Tennessee Crème walls, running fertilizer tickets with the numbers written in giant font so Richard could see them without his glasses, the conference table lined with paper bags with each employee’s name written on them for collecting Christmas cards, all the customers who would come in with a joke or the latest gossip. Hair salons are to women what the Co-op is to men. Yes, I miss a lot of things and people, but so many aspects of it I surely don’t.

You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to find 30 people who own property in Sevier County. Co-op employees drive from Washburn, Morristown, Maryville, I don’t know where all. Unbelievable. I don’t know who lives here anymore! I went to my other old stompin’ grounds, the dispatch center, and only got two more. I’m gonna hit the library tomorrow and make it a trifecta.

My dog is by my side, his breathing steady and even and it is making it that much harder for me to keep my eyes open and type. I wanted to write about reassurance tonight but I know I’m about to drop. Maybe tomorrow. Tomorrow, tomorrow……

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Chester is absolutely, positively, 110% wanting to go outside.

There is a skunk outside.

Chester will not be permitted outside tonight.

My house is haunted, in case you didn’t know. My ceiling fan will sometimes turn by itself. I thought it was doing it only when the heat or air was blowing, but it’s not turning now, and the heat is blowing. Last night it wasn’t turning, but the chain pulls were moving. Tonight, all is still. I can watch, as I am ensconced in my library chair and have an unobstructed view. It’s weird. And no, I haven’t had windows open to change the air movement one way or another. The only other fan is in my bedroom. There is no explanation, apart from ghosts. So ghosts it is.

People like it when I write about them. People like attention. I do, too. I’ve thought all day that I would write one sentence each about ten people and let y’all guess what was written about whom. And then in coming weeks I would elaborate as the mood hit me.

#1. A strong redhead who rides a proud red horse, prefers Sauvignon Blanc (but not Kim Crawford), who can mingle with any crowd, anywhere, anytime.

#2. A quilter, a baker, but not a candlestick maker, at least not so far as I know.

#3. A halfback Yankee who has a penchant for Christmas lights, Halloween decorations, and is an advocate for firemen, dispatchers, my writing, and the Kodak Branch Library.

#4. She sleeps a lot but she’d help me hide a body.

#5. This one will melt down if the phone rings but doesn’t shy away from page long texts, she loves cozy mysteries and Steven Tyler, and has a sweet tooth as big as her heart.

#6. Once upon a time, he told the funniest deer hunting stories, caught the biggest fish, and could whistle for a dog using the gap between his teeth.

#7. He drives the prettiest dump truck in the county, is a little backward and shy, is methodical and conservative, appreciates longevity of products and common sense in people, likes John Deere tractors and horned Hereford cattle, but above all else, is supremely humble and kind.

#8. Drinks bourbon and Diet Dr. Pepper, hits Signature Status at Chickalay mid-year, lives in the most droll city this side of the Mississippi but his cooking can’t be beat and his porch alone is worth the drive.

#9. Rode a buckskin horse, loves fancy things, can talk for three hours about absolutely nothing at all with someone he just met, and never backs down from a selfie with strangers.

#10. He loves taking pictures of vast mountains and tiny fungi, reading Stephen King, eating anything that won’t eat him, writing short hair-raising stories, and was the most famous dispatcher of 2016.

I don’t think anybody can name all ten, but it was fun thinking up some key traits of some of my favorite people.

I’ve got a busy day tomorrow so I will end this one here.

Love from Appalachia with the skunks and the haints ,

~Amy

My best friend has been in Texas all week. I’m actually not jealous, because she’s been spending time with her sister-in-law and brother. Her sister-in-law has been given a Stage IV pancreatic cancer diagnosis and so Lisa felt the need to be by her side for a time. I think it’s been a good visit for both of them. They had some late night cookie eating bonding moments.

She was flying home today and the Houston Hobby hub has been a cluster. First they landed from Midland, but had to sit on the plane waiting for a gate for over an hour. Lisa had been looking forward to her hour and a half layover to get something to eat. So that was shot. Luckily, her other flight got a late start boarding or she would have probably missed it. Then she had to sit on that plane at the gate for an eternity. And it wasn’t a weather delay, evidently they’re short ground crews. The Southwest flight tracker online was telling me they had departed, but then Lisa starts texting me and sends me pictures from the window and they’re still on the ground. So that would be frustrating if you were depending on accurate information from the airline. Also, their times had been skewed all day, and I don’t mean on account of time zones. Like, seven minutes into the future they’re listing that the plane had landed.

Life would be so much easier if I weren’t a worrywart.

But all this got me to thinking about how I used to really want to be a flight attendant. Or as we said back when, “stewardess”. It seemed so exotic and adventurous. Fly here and there, see the sights, meet tons of cool people from all walks of life. It seemed like a dream job for me, since I loved to travel and see new things and meet interesting people. I wasn’t tied to home, really, and I didn’t have a husband or children. But I never pursued the dream, and it went in the pile of other professions I thought I would enjoy: ballerina, veterinarian, sea turtle rehabilitator, lighthouse keeper, author. It would surface every now and then as the career that got away. I love to fly, but let’s be honest, if somebody got smart with me I’d probably throw coffee in their face. And if they were next to an emergency exit, Lord help them.

Maybe I should have considered being an Air Marshall instead.

Anyway, one day I was talking about missing out on at least trying it for awhile and my aunt said I should put it out of my head—I was too short. And she’s right, I don’t know why that never occurred to me. I don’t take a carry on, ever, because I can’t reach the overhead bins. I mean, I can, but if it was to shift to the back, I’d definitely have to ask for assistance. And I don’t do well asking for help with anything.

There are lots of prerequisites for making a flight attendant. No visible tattoos, no concealed tattoos bigger than a credit card, ability to push a cart averaging 250#, ability to stay calm in a crisis, a pleasant attitude, a neat overall appearance, ability to lift 60#, job history for the last decade, credit score…I mean it goes on and on and on. Delta is especially strict. Let’s face it: my hair alone lends a disheveled look unless Christy has had ahold of it, and I wouldn’t be able to put her in my carry on every day. And we all know how wide my ass is. That’s a hazard in itself, never mind adding some lecherous drunk guy to the mix.

All this brought to mind one experience at the Nashville airport. At least, I think it was Nashville. Wherever. I was in the queue, waiting to check my bag and get my boarding pass. Each agent was working two customers at a time. They had a light above each side that would come on when they had a free spot. I was at the head of the line, watching fixedly like a bird dog for my turn. A customer walked away from the agent, but she still had a customer on the other side and she didn’t turn on the light.

Some jerk face three or four travelers back started screaming at me to move up. And sweet, naive me, who takes zero shit, screamed back. “I will, when she’s ready, because the light isn’t on,” I hissed, instantly pissed. I’m not a seasoned traveler, but I can read and follow direction and this guy was a total ass. And as soon as the light came on, I went, and there was no delay in the action. But the rude dude kept giving me dirty looks and I thought to myself he’s the reason weapons aren’t allowed on planes. And good thing, because I was feeling a little stabby, myself.

So flight attendants have to deal with that kind of garbage day in and day out and I didn’t do so hot with that on the ground at the Co-op, I can’t imagine faring any better in the sky.

Even with the hassle it is today, even though my luggage got lost and rained on in Atlanta, even though I spent the night in a plastic chair in Salt Lake City, even though I thought we were gonna crash and burn upon touchdown in San Antonio, even though a child kicked my chair from Portland Oregon to Atlanta, even though Chickalay grilled nuggets smell like hot cauliflower marinated in skunk juice when you’re trapped in the seat next to someone eating them, I still love to fly. Can’t y’all just see me up there in my sensible black flats and my laminated safety sheet, using two fingers to point out the exits? Dang it. Why can’t my wingspan be just a few inches longer? I’d quit today and take to the skies! ✈️

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Today was certainly…brisk.

I walked into work this morning, fully expecting to sink into the warmth of my cozy little office, but instead I could nearly see my breath, and at the same time my nose almost fell off. Luckily the landlord always answers his phone and has handymen on retainer, and they could get out there today. While I waited for it to get to be time for them (does that make sense?) I took myself to the hardware and purchased a heater. Then I took myself to the Cracker Barrel and made a complete hog out of myself on the “Grandma’s Sampler”. Grandma’s Gluttony, more like. And to think, I was disappointed there weren’t biscuits 🙄

Anyway, it’s so comforting to simply sit and sip coffee in a Cracker Barrel and watch people. There will be your retired senior citizens, traveling in pairs, as couples. There will be groups of ladies catching up. There are families, and young moms with babies, meeting their own mother for a few minutes of peace and being waited on instead of catering to another’s needs. There are road-weary travelers, and people on business, some still caught reading a newspaper at their table. And then there’s me: displaced from a frigid downtown office. Alone but content. Smiling at the life bustling around her.

My waitress’ name was Jamie. She had a big lipsticked smile and four stars on her apron. I checked. I always check. She kept my coffee topped off and brought me one to go, while cautioning me about the lid. I wanted to be friends with her. She seemed like a responsible sort, the type you could depend on to water your plants and feed your cat if you had to stay in the hospital. I don’t always get that with Cracker Barrel waitresses, but I feel like that should be part of the gold star standard.

Back at work, I plugged my heater in, donned my crochet fingerless gloves, and wadded up under my ultra soft crocheted blankie my friend Susan made me a couple of years ago. All was as well as it could be.

So the heating unit got a bandaid, I didn’t catch pneumonia that I know of, and it’s supposed to rain like the devil dickens in the morning. And the wind will be a-whippin’. So I’m glad I’m not a pioneer woman having to worry about keeping the fire going and water boiling and all that business. I would have never made it. Besides, my hair would have never gotten along with a bonnet. And if wasn’t the cold, it woulda been the heat. I tell ya, I’m a creature of comforts. I need central heat and air and Hobby Lobby and Texas Roadhouse. Today taught me something else as well: always look your best. My grandmother had tried to instill that in me, but obviously it didn’t take because Lord, my hair. But today I was presentable, and oh so thankful, as I was out traipsing about town. Plus, handymen.

I can see that I’m going to have to set aside a time every day for this, and put my phone on silent for a block. I end up putting off writing till the end of the day, mainly so I’ll have something to write about, but it never fails when I sit down to write I’m tired and instantly frustrated with every text and phone call. It’s not fair. I love that people have things to share with me. I love that my friends want to talk to me. Maybe I should write in the morning, fresh from dreams, with a hope that the day will bring only good things.

You know, my delusional state before I contend with school traffic and the general idiots who travel Chapman Highway.

But I have enough to do in the mornings, which is work my Wordle and drink coffee. Oh, and rub Chester’s velvety ears. Very important.

I sure wish I had some exotic tropical vacation to take right now. I know that would kickstart my creative gene. And give y’all something way more interesting to read than what you’ve been having to slog through. Maybe I just need a new activity. I am NOT taking back up spin class, though, I’ll tell you that right now.

I’m a bit tired of being on the hamster wheel, of always being available and dependable and good ol’ Amy. I’m glad to be that, most all the time, but I definitely need a break. I sometimes wonder who would show up at my house if I let all calls slide to voicemail and all texts go unanswered for 24 hours. ….and in all honesty, I’d really prefer to let them go a week. I just feel that I’m carrying a lot and 95% is not even mine to carry. And the ones that ask me to carry the most…well, sometimes they don’t realize I could use some help carrying my own. But grace. Grace. That’s what friends do. We’re all tired, no one always remembers to check on one another like we should. And this time of year is especially hard. All the twinkles and glitter and cheer is packed away for another year and we’re all regretting spending so much, eating so much, drinking so much. It’s the excess that wears us down.

It’s going on ten and I just want to wash my face and crawl in bed. I was up till midnight last night, and back up at six. I’m too old for that crap. And it wasn’t even for anything good. (Don’t ask me to define good, it’ll make your ears turn red). Anyway, goodnight and best of luck with the weather tomorrow. It’s gonna be yucky. I gotta dig out my thick socks.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Happy Sunday! I have been quite productive today, if I do say so myself. And I do. I know you’re not supposed to toil on the day of rest, but I really wanted to get the tree knocked out and peace and order restored to my home. I didn’t get around to mopping (maybe by design, maybe I’m pooped) but accomplished pretty much everything else I sat out to do. I need to be putting forth more effort on reading, but maybe this week I can settle in and do some of that.

Speaking of reading, it pains me to see someone apologizing for a lengthy post on Facebook. Guess what? You aren’t forcing people to read what you’ve written. It’s not literature class, they’re not obligated. Just like I’m not obligated to look at 80 pictures of your grandchild. I rarely see anybody apologizing for that, by the way 🙄 So stop apologizing! Say what you want to, with as many words (or pictures) as it takes! It’s your page.

Another thing you don’t have to apologize for is not taking calls. And not answering text messages right away. Sometimes you just don’t have the energy for people. You know what a phone call is about: they’re wanting to gossip or ask for a favor. An innocuous text asking what you’re doing is leading. I hate that so much. You’re under no obligation to tell anybody what you’re doing, what you’ve done all day, or why you didn’t answer the phone. “I didn’t want to” will burn, but it might cure them of their nosiness.

Now I’m off track. I was gonna talk about reading. My friend Emily asked me the other day who instilled my love of reading. Well, my mother did. She read to me in utero, and she ran me to the little Bookmobile once a week over at the bank. Every now and again, if I was lucky and her car was running good, she’d take me to the big library in Sevierville with a real childrens’ section. I could check out 15 at a time, and that was all my little bluejean satchel could carry, anyway, but they didn’t last me more than a few days. And if am recalling correctly, I read most of them twice. My mother encouraged me to read all the time, and continued to buy me books well into adulthood. I am eternally grateful for that. Reading is a gift that transports, and no one can ever take it away from you.

It’s funny. Just today, I was having a conversation with a dear friend about reading. He’s one of these that claims he doesn’t like to read, but he’s all the time got his nose stuck in farming journals or gun magazines and what have you. He says he’s only read one book in his entire life, and was ashamed to admit what it was. Listen, I’m judgmental about most life choices, but reading material is not one of them. He finally admitted that the one book that ever captured his attention was Where the Red Fern Grows. And he was a bit surprised I was familiar with it. Which prompted me to tell him exactly why I know about it. And if you went to Seymour Middle School, your story is the same as mine.

Mr. Hamilton, my 6th grade science teacher, would read to us for a few minutes every day. Or maybe it was once a week, I can’t remember now. And in those minutes, we were not in the crème-tiled classroom with the brown metal door with chicken wire glass that led into the greenhouse. We were not pimply, pre-pubescent smelly children, trapped for another 45 minutes sitting beside a guy who picked his nose. We were wild children, running with our dogs in the forest, in search of adventure.

I wonder how many times he read that book over the course of his career, standing behind his wooden podium at the front of class, flicking through the small, tattered paperback, and licking his finger as he turned the well worn pages. I wonder how many children sat spellbound, hanging onto every word, and groaning when he’d quit for that session. How we’d beg for just one more page! Not just because we didn’t want to do real work, but we loved that story. And we loved being read to. I don’t think you ever get too old for that. I remember being read to in 5th grade, too, by Mrs. Greer. We were plenty old enough to read alone at our desks, but Mrs. Greer knew the way to children’s hearts. We’d gather at the front of the grey carpeted classroom, sit grouped in a half circle Indian style (or as they say now “criss cross applesauce”), and she’d pull her swivel chair over and read a chapter or two. We made our way through Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, Superfudge, Ramona Quimby, and Queenie Peavy. I loved Mrs. Greer, even though we all were cruel, awful children and made fun of her, from her old fashioned beehive hairstyle that had a greenish hue, to the glasses she wore on a chain. Mrs. Greer had us enraptured and she did her best to make us lifelong readers.

My junior year, there was Mrs. Tipton. I think that was the year we had our choice of summer reading books. There was a list of a dozen or so, and we picked three. I know I picked some Mark Twains. And maybe Peter Pan? I’m high on adventure and fantasy to this day. But Mrs. Tipton made us understand that perhaps when a book didn’t entertain us, you could appreciate it for other reasons. Just like life, sometimes books teach us a lesson.

But Mrs. Tipton also recognized my writing ability. Once she gave us instructions to write a persuasive essay. Evidently I wasn’t paying attention and instead, I wrote a page about trail riding. It came back with an “A” and a note at the top, explaining that I hadn’t followed directions but she was giving me the grade I deserved. I guess in my own way I did persuade…I persuaded her to give me a good grade.

My friend wasn’t so lucky in teachers that guided him. He was too backward to speak up and get help, and has a tendency to fade into the background still to this day. He was passed over and never led to enjoy books. He thought that, on the whole, books are dry tomes filled with lengthy words and plenty of pretension. It makes me sad, because he’s missed out on so many years of filling his brain with fantastic stories. He didn’t know plenty of authors write like me, southern and down-to-earth. But I’m working on him. Now the hard part will be getting him to sit down and slow down long enough to get lost in a story.

How many people have only read the books that were read to them? Is this why audiobooks are so popular? Because it unlocks a core memory from our childhood? It almost makes me want to host a gathering once a week and all of us take turns reading our favorite books to each other. It’s such a wonderful feeling. It’s a hug, but with words.

I’m hugging you now, friends. Please let me know if you ever need a book recommendation. I’ll try my best to find you a great match. I promise to not give you a slog.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Faulkner wrote “As I Lay Dying” and I’m inclined to pen “As I Lay Trying to Sneeze”. I love to sneeze, but they’re so hard won for me. Conditions have to be precisely right: no noise, must have plenty of bright light, and nobody looking at me. So generally I can only find release at home. I can sneeze in front of Chester.

Today has been a very satisfying day all around, even without adequate sneezes. I got most of my Christmas cleared away, I just lack the big tree. I got laundry caught up, but I’ll have to sweep, dust, and mop tomorrow. I fixed those little hot ham ‘n cheese sliders for lunch and was quite pleased with them until Kevin started sending me pictures of his chicken & waffles and later, prime rib. To be so nice, he sure can be a jerk. But to be fair, he did invite me up. He’ll be sorry if I ever get a helicopter.

I’m wondering about something and want your take, as I don’t have the experience to answer it myself. Feel free to text or private message via Facebook. I can’t promise you I’ll answer an email on here; I’m not sure what I did with my passwords. Yes, I know I’m supposed to just have them stored in my noggin, but get real.

Do you think anyone knows your spouse better than you?

Obviously the longer you’re married the better you’ll know each other. Well, maybe not….I see plenty of couples who are almost like strangers. All you gotta do is look around any restaurant. One, if not both, are usually on their phones. And not just on it, lost in it. Driving down the road, same thing. I know my best friend knows me better than my ex husband did. And no, that’s not why he’s an ex. But Lisa and I shared so much more history…and she cared more about a lot of things that he just didn’t concern himself with. And same for me, his formative years were as foreign to me as raising a child. I’ve always found myself rolling my eyes when I see those wedding invitations that say, “Today I marry my best friend”. I’m a firm believer in needing a best friend that isn’t your spouse. #1. Because you’re gonna need someone to complain to about them. And #2. There’s some stuff that the opposite sex just won’t get. Be it cramps, or trying a new recipe, or how you’re lusting over a pair of shoes, you’re gonna need a bestie. And sometimes you just need a sounding board. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a very honest best friend to rein you in when your crazy starts escalating to a detrimental stage.

I told a good friend today that I wish he could find a strongly opinionated woman to date, because most women seem to be scared to argue with him and it ends in disaster. He coasts along oblivious, and then bam, things are not fine and he’s thunderstruck. But to be fair, the women haven’t given fair warning, or at least not in words he can understand. I told him I didn’t know why nobody argues with him, I kind of enjoy it, myself. But I also don’t live with him so it’s easier to be truthful and voice my opinion without fear of The Pout. But I wouldn’t put up with that for long, either, so here we are.

I guess I’m just saying communication really is everything. I feel like the people who know me best are the ones I’ve known the longest and talk to the most, on a daily basis. We talk about the big things, the little things, the mundane, and the stupid. We’re just woven into each other’s lives. I read something once about how the person you love should know how you take your coffee and your mixed drink, and they always know when to bring which one. Or something like that. That’s a little thing, but it’s true. I think of pure love as how strongly I feel about my dog. Of course he’s never told me he loves me, but he shows me daily: he’s always happy to see me, he is always near and loves spending time with me, he likes to sit beside me, he protects me, he makes me laugh. All without saying a word. True love is caring about someone else’s happiness more than you do your own. And you can’t do that if you’re selfish. You can’t love if you’re guarding your heart. I think you have to be open with your feelings, even if you’re scared you’re gonna get trampled. You might be surprised to learn they’ve just been dying for you to say it first. I don’t know that love is work, because if you do what you love, you should be enjoying it. Love is sometimes about sacrifice: sacrificing your time and your feelings. And the longer I’m around, the more I believe in the Five Love Languages. I’m all about Acts of Service. But I still want to be touched and told how much I mean to them.

I hope our chances at love never run out. I hope it’s never too late. I hope that everyone understands that “matters of the heart are often complicated”. My good friend Emily said that to me awhile back and it nearly knocked me off my feet. They sure are. The only cure for love is to love more…and if you just can’t find it in your thumpin’ gizzard to love another human, go rescue a dog. They’re easy to love and they rarely argue. (Just when it’s time for heartworm preventative. And they’ll take it, eventually. Out of love.) And they are SO appreciative. You never have to wonder if they love you.

Go forth, be blessed, and try to spread some love or at least good cheer.

And if you can’t do that, learn a joke and tell it. People love to laugh. I was going to tell a time traveling joke, but y’all didn’t like it.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

One thing about it, these titles are easy 😉

You might get a poem today. Or you might not. Let’s see where this goes.

So concludes the ten days of Christmas and tomorrow I will begin tearing down, bad as I hate to. Yes, I could leave it up for another month, or heck, all year, but isn’t that what makes things special? The anticipation and the overall looking-forward-to-it-iveness? So I’ll pack it up. Sigh. Something is going on with my big tree’s lights, anyway, so best to get that taken down and out of here before it burns the house to the ground.

I was coming down the ol’ pike today (as my beloved late uncle called it) and I noticed a delivery type van pulling into my aunt’s driveway. It was a little late for the mail, and I hadn’t ordered any packages and I figured she hadn’t either. As I get closer, I decide it wasn’t a true delivery van at all, as it was a bit worse for the wear, and not in the FedEx “I’m in too big of a hurry to run through the car wash” state of dereliction. I’m now watching from my driveway, and the driver hasn’t disembarked. He pulls around the loop and to the top of the rise and throws his hand up at me. I don’t wave back, because I can’t tell who it is and I don’t want to install a false sense of hospitality when I’d just as soon shoot you if you’re bein’ nosy.

And derned if he don’t pull out here. I open my car door to get out and shut my gate before he gets any ideas about encroaching on my territory. I have my bag, complete with Annie. Dude has the audacity to stick the nose of his van through my gate entrance.

I detest feeling trapped.

He waves again.

I narrow my eyes and continue to march forward.

He hops out and around the front of his seedy van. He makes some comment about the weather or what have you.

“Who you huntin’?“ I ask, cutting to the chase.

“Anybody with a hungry stomach and an open mouth,” he quips with a grin that hasn’t been seen by a dentist in a decade or five.

I narrow my eyes further at his riddle. “Oh, you’re selling food,” I say, gesturing towards his vehicle.

“Yes ma’am!” He crows, obviously pleased that I got his little joke.

“Well, I’ve just been to the grocery store,” I tell him as nicely as possible. I’m for anybody trying to make a living. I just don’t appreciate them doing it in my driveway. Call me territorial.

“I’ve got some really good deals…” he wheedles.

I make a shooing motion with my hands. “You best be on your way,” I tell him plainly.

“Yes ma’am. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” I echo. And I stood in the way to make it clear he wouldn’t be turning around in my yard. He backs away and parks at my neighbors. I beat a trail to the house to unleash the hound.

Dude is ringing the dinner bell on the porch next door when Chester lunges out and makes for the fence. So if he was casing the joint, hopefully that was enough to make him cross us off his list of potential sites.

Friendly, I ain’t.

I don’t really like pineapple. I’ve tried. I think I foundered on it as a child when my mamaw and aunt visited and then had an entire pallet shipped back. I like it IN stuff, like pineapple mango salsa, or with fish. I like ham & pineapple pizza (thanks to JA). But as a snack? No, thank you. In a fruit bowl? I’ll eat around it. Give me grapes, apples, and peaches. Or even kiwi.

I’m just sitting here admiring all my Christmas decorations for the final night. Back to drab and un-sparkly tomorrow, blah.

All for now. So no poem. You might have gotten one if I hadn’t gotten on the phone with a heartbroken friend. Heartbroken friends always come before exercising, even if it’s writing exercises. Here’s to tomorrow, when I’ve possibly spent part of the day pondering on something important and I can expound on deep, penetrating pensive thoughts and y’all don’t have to read more rambling crap.

Sleepless in Seymour,

~Amy