Oh, y’all.
So, I bought this beehive for work. Well, work bought the beehive. For an educational tool. It’s pretty cool, I have posters with pictures and fun facts in the frames. Way more fascinating than the dumb Enviroscape.
So I wanted to paint the beehive because it came as unfinished yellow pine. I wanted to paint it traditional white and then paint cute little colorful flowers all over it, like a meadow. And I’ve made two trips to Hobby Lobby for cute little bumblebee adornments and paint. And also, today, I visited Lowe’s for the plain exterior white paint. Did you know they make you pay for the little opener tool? 68 cents! I didn’t get one, I figured I could open it with a screwdriver. Where there’s a will, there’s a way, and generally, I can gather the will.
After the hassle of getting our tax exemption number input to their system, I have returned to the office with my wares. I take the items back to the supply room where my beehive is stored. I’m not going to paint today because it’s too late in the day to start, it’s dreary and overcast and I’m not dressed for painting, nor do I have a bucket. I envision a sunny day, me out by the picnic table in a smock and beret, paintbrush between my teeth, Beetoven and Chopin on my Spotify, birds circling my head like the Disney princess I long to be. But in this moment, I’m just getting all this crap off my desk.
I move a box and set the bags on top of the beehive. I go to move another box (it’s the SUPPLY room, of course it’s packed to the gills) and the Lowe’s bag crashes to the floor, and the lid pops off the quart of white paint.
Guess that solves the how-am-I-gonna-get-it-open problem.
Now, most people’s luck would hold and the paint would be mostly contained in the plastic bag. But you’re in Amy Land now, and that’s not how things work here. It is pooling all over the floor next to the desk and under the chair.
I have no towels here. I have no paint remover/ thinner/scrapers/ miracles in the closet. I am on my own, as always.
So what do I do?
Decide not to waste paint, use the floor as my tray, and get to paintin’ the beehive ’cause it’s right THERE. I reach in the bag to grab the big paintbrush. Of course there’s paint on the inside of the bag, that’s where the initial mess began. I get the plastic off and I’m already a disaster. I go to slapping paint on. In other words, hurriedly. Then I realize the beehive is assembled, and I don’t want the paint to dry while it’s put together, because #1. I need to be able to get to the frames, and #2. It’s too heavy for me to lug very far as a single piece.
So I start trying to move the pieces around without touching where I’ve already put paint. I roll the chair out of the way.
Through the puddle.
I realize if this stuff dries, I’m really in a pickle, and decide to go ahead and clean up as best as I can, wasted paint be derned. I grab a roll of paper towels and rip into them. I start scooping paint by the wad into the trash can, which I laid on its side in the mess to prevent further drippage. Then I try to use the brush as a device for moving waves of paint. It’s just a catastrophe. And I keep getting my hair stuck….that’s right, on the newly painted lid of the beehive that’s sitting across the chair. And everytime I went to get it unstuck, I used my hand, which was already covered in paint…and well, you can just imagine what I look like now. There is paint still on the floor, even after I used a whole entire roll of paper towels, both wet and dry, paint on the desk, paint on the chair, paint on my hands, arms, shirt, knees, pants, and toes, in my hair, and, last but not least, the correct destination: the beehive. It’s about 20%.
I mean. The floor just looks kinda milky at this point. I did call Charlie, the landlord, and confess my sins. He laughed at me, and then shared two of his own spilled paint stories. Charlie is super nice, and said he was just afraid I was calling to say the air conditioner went out again. I told him I had definitely been sweating, but that was through no fault of the air unit.
I guess the silver lining here is that the paint is white, and I’m very white, so it’s hardly noticeable on my arms and feet.
All paint is body paint when you’re me, I reckon. Yeehaw, y’all.
On April 25th, 2014, I visited two bedsides at the local hospital. One belonged to a friend who had just delivered a baby, the other a friend who was slipping from this world and reaching for Heaven. One room was joyful, with friends and family packed in among flowers and balloons, the other, quiet and nearly barren.
That was a difficult day. But one of my more eloquent friends so gracefully reminded me that it was a great blessing to witness both new beginnings and near departures. So I’m remembering those wise words today.
Yesterday afternoon, I was fortunate enough to witness my good friends’ daughter march across the stage, composed but jubilant, in her Valedictorian robe. There was much celebration and a few happy tears for this new adventure in Lindsey’s life. Lindsey is no slacker; she’s been brought up to be kind, first and foremost, and to study hard and work harder. Hard work pays off, and the little squirt is sitting on $50,000 in scholarships, not least of all from our beloved Patron Saint Dolly Parton. Next stop Rocky Top, as her mortarboard proclaimed. 5′ 2″, 105 pounds, and solidly 4.0 (even though she’s really a 10), FFA president and counter help at the Co-op, Lindsey is top of her class both literally and figuratively. She’s went from a timid little grasshopper of a child, to a poised young lady I would be proud to call my own. She’s decisive and sharp as a tack, giggly and gracious, unique and sweet. There are so many opportunities just around the corner for her, and the sky truly is the limit…but I think she’s gonna ground herself with conservation!! She job shadowed me one day this spring and with her potential and drive, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve got an engineer or soil scientist in our midst. I don’t care if she becomes a frog gigger, I’m proud as punch for everything she’s accomplished thus far. Please join me in congratulating Linds and praying for her in her next endeavor.
But this morning found me in the graveyard. It was hazy and working up to hot. Hayfield weather, and many gathered among us had already been there and were headed back after the prayin’ and the singin’ were silent. The cemetery, like most cemeteries around here, is laid out on a hillside, down a winding road that leads directly to the lake. The encroaching pines and blackberry brambles are barely held at bay across the narrow path.
You don’t notice graveyards driving down the road. You rarely know they’re there until you’re standing in them. I appreciated the passing motorists who took note of the vehicles parked on both sides of the road and coasted by, quieting their engines and radios until around the bend and over the hill. Had it been evening, a month from now, the preacher would have needed to shout to be heard over the katydids and locusts. But barely a breeze rusted the boxelders as Ray Ball and family sang a few for us. The preacher was a neighbor, a classmate, a friend of our Willie’s, someone who knew him well. “He’d find a way to fix it,” he said, ‘if he didn’t have the part, or couldn’t get the part, he’d make the part.” Yes, he would. But none of us could fix Willie when he was broke.
I suppose that’s just the way it goes.
There were over 200 of us there, by two different men’s count. There was no guestbook, no receiving line. There weren’t stands and vases and baskets of flowers set everywhere to lift the mood. There was no freezing cold funeral parlor air pushing through vents overhead. There was no video with snapshots of a life well lived. There was just-mowed fescue beneath my bare toes, and swallows diving for bugs, and a mockingbird that treated us to a song. There was a bumblebee that did a fly by and a little girl in a ruffled onesie that crawled at our feet. There were farmers, construction foremen, brothers, secretaries, linemen, and so many people who had worked with Willie during his 44 years in the tractor bay. Many of Sevier County’s blue-collar stock in clumps, some holding hands, some holding it together by a shoestring. There were 200 of us sniveling over Amazing Grace and the final words spoke over our good friend Willie.
When the largest farmer in the county takes time to shower, put on dress clothes, and drive himself in the middle of hay and planting season to the funeral of the man who worked on his tractor tires, you know the man we are laying to rest was more than a mechanic.
I hadn’t attended a high school graduation since my own, but, as you know, I attend funerals on the regular. Both hold a certain degree of anticipation for me. Funerals like this one were old home week. It made me remember all the times I took around various cards at the store. Could have been sympathy, or birthday (we celebrated Joe Woods’ every year, ’cause you just never knew….plus he liked a fuss made) or retirement. The mechanics never wanted to sign- “You sign it for me, my hands are greasy.” Me: “Oh no, you don’t. A little grease just shows that you’re doing your job. Here’s the pen.” {For the record, Willie always had his own, a red clicky Co-op one}.
Thank you Chris Cox, Smoky Mountain Farmers Co-op manager, for seeing that Willie deserved this farewell with the doors locked and the gates closed. Friday was always Willie’s day off, and I was glad to give him a Friday of mine. At least I got in the right car this time.
People with a disregard for common courtesy often like to tout that you don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. And this is sometimes true. But I know how easy it is to have your feelings hurt if you’re just left out in the cold with no explanation for behavior whatsoever.
So here is my explanation.
I didn’t call you back because you called later than I care to talk. I didn’t call you back because I already needed to call my aunt back, and I had no intention of doing that, either. I didn’t call you back because I was fixing supper, and I wanted to read a minute, and I still hadn’t showered, and I had an early morning today. I didn’t call you back because I was afraid you’d want to talk a long time. I didn’t call you back because I’d had a busy, socially filled-to-the-brim kind of day already. I didn’t call you back because I had company. I was talking to my neighbor. I didn’t call you back because I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to talk to you.
And there are your reasons, since you so desire them. So now I hope that the next time you want to ask someone why they didn’t call you back, you’ll remember how badly this hurt to read, and you’ll not ask.
So this is Christmas.
I don’t know if I can write this with a dry eye. I guess it’s not necessary.
It’s like this: Christmas is hard. None have looked like what I would have imagined even five years ago. Nothing is the same. But you know what? They’re all wonderful and magical and sometimes my life is so great I have to grit my teeth and close my eyes and make sure I never forget. Because, believe it or not, even I have dark days. So many people say I’m the brightest sparkle that they’ve ever known. And I appreciate that. But mental health can be a battleground between your demons and your angels and you have to find your path through.
So carry a machete and get to choppin’ because it’s not that anybody has a perfect life. It’s how they deal with the problems that threaten to overtake them.
Christmas can be an anxiety ridden time. Presents are bought that really aren’t affordable. Time is spent shopping for stuff nobody needs. The constant bustle of fulfilling obligations instead of reflecting on what the meaning of the holiday is.
What are your traditions? Baking cookies with your mom? Hunting the perfect tree at a nursery? Card games Christmas Eve? Holiday cookie swap with your neighborhood friends? Making a trip to Biltmore or Opryland with your closest friends? Is it Candlelight service at church Christmas night?
I go with the flow and try to say yes to everything I can. I missed the library Christmas party because I was out of town for another party, but luckily I got to attend a retirement luncheon today with the same group. It was my second retirement party of the week, actually. The other one was for an engineer at work who retired at the start of Covid and never got a proper send-off. It was in conjunction with our holiday meal which was actually prayed over, believe it or not. Federal employees praying, it really MUST BE Christmas.
After lunch, I went over to my new good friend Stacy’s and (semi) helped her decorate. We got distracted a hundred thousand times, but we did manage to get both trees decorated. This was my favorite, and I sorta welled up, because it wasn’t a planned party. It was just a normal Saturday and she thought enough of me to invite me over just to hang out in pajamas and do whatever. To be included and accepted into the core fold and have no reason for celebration….It was Christmas.
Last night I hosted a few of my good friends for a supper and crafts evening. It’s times like this I wish my house was bigger because I’d like to have alllllll my friends here with all my crockpots going (Rhonda always requests a traditional Southern menu: kraut & smoked sausage, fried taters, cornbread, soup beans, and my syrupy sweet tea). We had a wonderful time and I can’t wait till Christmas next year, we’ve gotta find another excuse to party before then for sure.
I talked to my bestie this morning and we exchanged compliments of a superficial nature (I like her eyebrows, she thinks I have beautiful skin) and it was nice to hear. We don’t have to live next door to be close in hearts (BUT IT SURE WOULD BE NICE, JUST SAYIN’).
Not pictured: Christmas party for work but I promise we had one and it was fun! It was pouring the rain but Miss Betty got to join us, thanks to Lynn going to get her. Always so good to see that sweet lady.
So THIS is my Christmas. It’s not Christmas morning with kids tearing into the latest electronics. It’s not burning up the plastic at Five Oaks. It’s not blow up Santas in the yard or a fancy sit down dinner with relatives you barely tolerate scraping silver on Wedgwood.
It’s friends. Maybe friends I see once a week or once a year, but it’s spending time with them.
It’s friends that became family.
It’s love, warts and all.
This is my Christmas.
And I couldn’t be more grateful.
You are all in my heart, even if we haven’t exchanged a hug or even a text this season. ❤️❤️❤️
We’re including 3 for your convenience. You’re on your own for the pursuit of the fourth.
🤣🤣🤣
There were many other quotes over the course of the night, and none are appropriate for public audiences 🤣🤣
So I set him free and he couldn’t contain himself.
Angela was the teacher and she has the patience of a SAINT. Because I would have killed me and Rhonda five times over before we even got our paper bag snowflakes made, forget about the fabric ones.
“All I see are dustbunnies.”
🤣🤣🤣
From the NFR party that I didn’t know I was supposed to dress for. So I showed up positively ROCKIN’ my Matilda Jane and Hey Dudes 🤣🤣 but it’s alright, I showed ’em ALL how to walk in 5″ hooker heels with a pizza box on my head while rapping some Eminem. #talent
I watched him
As he sat
In the top of a dead tree limb
Still strong enough to bear his weight
Gazing
For at least three hours
For movement
And the drizzle continued
I eventually missed his swoop
Rocketing earthbound
Or as he took to the wing
Hungry
And still in search
Of that elusive meal
A victim
Out scavenging himself
Thankful, Day 20
I’m thankful for my Aunt Bren. She has always been my fun aunt, the one who made me feel so grown up by taking me to nice restaurants, and buying me trendy clothes, and encouraging me to participate in activities that would determine other aspects of my life. She set an example of reading for pleasure, always with a book in her hand on the couch when Uncle Dale was watching TV. I looked forward to the nights I spent at their house (exempting the eve of the juvenile deer hunt) because we would stay up late, just talking or playing cards. Uncle Dale always thought it was so funny that we look so much alike: curly hair, glasses, fair skin…and another, um, attribute that I won’t mention here 🤣 People always thought I was their kid.
And I’m thankful for her sisters for always including me when they get together for holidays. That bunch is lively!! I can’t imagine growing up with four sisters. They share a very strong will but that’s where the similarities end. And that’s what makes it fun being around them.
Of course I still enjoy spending time with my Aunt Brenda. Of course she influenced me heavily, seeing as how I spent so much time around her in my formative years. We both enjoy poking around antique stores and craft shows. We discuss books we’re reading (our tastes vary, but we both still read voraciously), we swap recipes, and of course we used to join forces against Uncle Dale sometimes. Us girls had to stick together!
She’s been so strong this past year. She’s made new friends, made plans, and just put one foot in front of the other for day to day living. You ain’t got much choice when you lose the love of your life: you either go on or you don’t. I’m so glad she saw a way through. I know what a challenge it is. I know he’d be proud of these two little wimpy girls on the hill.
He better be!!
So I’m thankful for my Aunt Bren, who always had good advice for me (still does, when I bother to ask and not go charging forward), a heart of pure squishy gold, and a Christian spirit. I don’t know what I’d do without her.
Thankful, Day 6
I think I’ve talked about divisions before. Like, when you’re having a conversation with someone (or maybe just one in your head), about when something happened. I’ll often say, “Let’s see. That was when I was working at the Co-Op the first time.” So that means between 2001 & 2005. Or I might say, “That was after I got married.” Okay, so after 2012. Y’all probably use the birth of your children to figure stuff out. Our biggest life changing moment should be the day we are saved. That is a truly life altering day if you’re living right.
So this day is one of extreme importance as well, a day that lives in my mind as a mark on time.
It is the day I lost my Uncle Dale.
One year I have been without his guidance, his stories, his pestering, his laughs. One year has passed since I’ve told him any tall tales of my own, or eaten his grilled chicken and deer steaks, or performed a requested chore. One whole year I’ve lived with a new hole in my heart. As he would say, “All I know to tell you is you’re gonna have to get tough, Pilgrim.”
But all I’ve ever been was wimpy little girl.
However, in the spirit of being thankful, I can say I had him for 42 and a half years, and I’m thankful for that. I had so many fishing trips to the Clinch, so many “Pilgrim, come out here a minute, I need your help on something” (it’s the “something” that struck icy fear into the marrow of my bones; you never knew what it would be). I had 42 and a half years of short temper and head shakes when I did something he disagreed with (usually like I spent money eating out or on Christmas ornaments), all the exasperation about my horses and boyfriends who were so ugly they’d “kill corn knee high”. I had years of accompanying him to scout for a tree in which to hang his deer stand, hours of Patsy Cline and Rush Limbaugh and one ill-fated deer hunting trip for yours truly, which resulted in about 30 years of stories of me dying of hypothermia. I didn’t really want to shoot a deer as much as I wanted to impress him. Turns out I’m much better suited to fishing for trout and the “elusive yellow perch” than shooting graceful and elegant whitetail deer.
I had 42 and a half years of learning about football and politics and trees and how to grow squash (I knew all about tomatoes already, but I couldn’t make him believe that). I had years of continuing education about how Fords are the superior truck and lots of holidays where we fought over Shirley Pitner’s stack cake and dozens of hours spent on his front porch next door watching the clouds and birds and deer. Oh, and also borer bees. I had 42 and a half years of a gap toothed grin aimed at me. I had 42 and a half years of unconditional love.
I am thankful for that.
It hurts like the devil dickens. Because in the end, despite his best efforts, I’m still just a wimpy little girl.
I could write about unrequited love
Or barely suppressed hate
For I have both in spades
This unseasonable November day
But maybe I won’t write about either-
Since it’s expected
And will purge instead
Of the act of cleaning my teeth
Meticulously
Or how about
How badly I desire Oreo cookies
Perhaps I should be the one to say
That really the leaves weren’t that striking this year
At least
Not where I stood
But you are still waiting aren’t you
For me to fulfill the emotion
Held in check
Should I tell-
Neither are a secret
Not in the traditional sense
But no
It’s like how I have been wanting to watch a movie
But I won’t
Because then you wouldn’t have your poem
And have your poem you shall
I don’t remember what I set out to do
Because it is now January
All the color faded from the world
All the glitter and sparkles packed away
For another year
And where will it find me
I sat out
On my birthday
The halfway point almost
And gathered my courage
And walked to the edge of the yielding limb
And JUMPED
I couldn’t bring my words back
I didn’t want to anyway
And even though they weren’t repeated
I still know the truth
Even though you pretend you don’t
And yesterday
Proved something else I thought I knew
But it turned my stomach unexpectedly
More words that have been spoken
And won’t go back
Years of loaded looks
Harmless flirting
But is it harmless, really?
So here I am
Writing more words
Convincing myself it’s all real
That love still exists
But it rarely comes when you expect it
And even less from those you think
You want it from…
I never was much for convention
So this is for the cowards
I have tried to make it easy
But you still
Found a way
To hide
And I cannot be anything less
Than everything
I wish I could hate him
That's what the poems would say
If the poets were honest
Because it's too hard
I don’t have the energy
To be Scarlett
Nor do I have
The sensibility
I can’t help my heart
And it rarely helps me
But the poets will gather their will
And their quills
And find a quiet corner
Or perhaps a bench under a willow tree
To bleed their soul
And maybe
If they really meant it
They’d put rocks in their pockets
And walk steadily
Till they were over their heads
Dying beautifully
And tragically
Just like their poem said they would
Probably the daffodil
In their lapel
Wouldn’t even lose a petal
As they flung themselves off a cliff
But me?
In a rage
My hair wild and unbound and unbrushed
Flinging crockery
And maybe a high heeled shoe
Spitting venom
So harshly
My throat would be sore for days
Having a plan that involves
Kerosene and a matchbook
From a bar called
The Wayward Thistle
And a knife clenched between my teeth
And yet
I remember to be a lady
And so I sit placidly
With my sonnets
Writing about unrequited love
And bourbon cherries
Because peaches are overdone
Just like roses
I have sat
And I have lain
And I have wallowed
And I have stretched
Upon this couch
On this porch
Where I have heard children shriek on the other side of the fence
And sprinklers hiss and spit like snakes
And trains clatter and roar to their next destination
And watched
From this perch a few feet above earthworms
Tornadoes rip apart lives
Less than three miles away
And bugs fry on the blue light
Just there
And I have sweated directly underneath this fan
Guzzling beer
But it was worth it
Just to sit and be at peace
But this weekend
I have been wadded in a blanket
In the early hours
And it was perfection
With my red wine and book
As the night got deeper
And now
On my last night
I write this poem
And wonder why people need TVs
