This is going to come as a shock to most all of you: I used to not like pit bulls.
I know. Hard to believe, innit? But it’s true, Scout’s Honor. I thought they were ugly, number one, and number two, vicious. I didn’t need to know anything else.
Well. Then as most of you know, I met a dog that changed all that. He was 5’10”, had blue eyes, and a propensity to drink too much. Hahaha. But honestly, a love of pit pulls was spawned with that relationship and the love of the bully breed certainly outlasted the marriage.
Sugar was my first encounter with the Staffordshire Terrier. We pittie people say that to throw people off. Pit bull is a generic term used to describe a bulldog with certain characteristics, like a muscular build and block head. Sugar was papered out the whatsit. She was one of the most pedigreed dogs I’ve ever known.
And dumb as a river rock sittin’ on the bottom, growin’ moss. (Credit to the late Uncle Dale)
She honestly didn’t have enough sense to get out of the rain. She could eat more than any dog I’ve ever seen, which is unusual for a dog that’s never been starved. She was steel gray, and virtually impossible to see after the sun went down. Loyal, loving, and impossibly stupid, she would lope around outside and then all at once collapse in a heap. She wanted to fly worse than anything- vultures and chickens drove her crazy. Anyway. I loved her, regardless. I never felt like she would one day snap and eat my face off.
But the possibility was there, I guess, if she ever got really hungry.
Now, Lightning Bug was a different story. He was an intact male who had had a terribly hard time in his short three years on Earth before entering life here at the Plantation. He got brought in straight off the chain, half starved. He’d been shuffled through several different homes…if you can call his multiple residences a home. Regardless, I eyed him warily for three days before I ever dared to pet him. Despite his rough past, he showed me nothing but the purest love and would lay at my feet after running off energy in the yard. The only time he’d open his mouth on my skin was to lick my hands. He would take treats so gently that I came to hold them in my mouth and make him take them from me as a party trick.
Once, he hadn’t been here long, he was barking at the meter man. I couldn’t call him back to me, so I had to go out in the driveway to collect him. This did not set well with me, as I was not dressed for company and was barefoot. I won’t have a dog that won’t mind. And so I stomped out there across the gravel, snarling and rabid myself. LB cowered, seeing my determination and the waves of rage pouring off me. I jerked him up by the collar while my former husband was hollering, “Oh no! Amy! You better let him go, he’s gonna eat you up.” My response: “HE’LL DO IT ONE TIME AND HE BETTER MAKE IT COUNT!!!!”
I am here with all my appendages and no facial scarring to tell you the dog never snapped at me. I drug him–with his two front feet off the ground (he was short and stocky and I wasn’t going to bend over to make his life more comfortable and give him traction)–down to his runner chain.
Lesson taught. Lesson learned. Forevermore LB would turn on a dime to me mid chase of anything. He would also come get behind me if a certain alpha male was getting onto him about one misdemeanor or another. I had earned his respect, and he earned my love. I never once worried that he would bite me or attack someone unless they were intruding on us.
I have a fence. I do not have a constant parade of people in and out of here. I do not take my dogs to stores to socialize. When hunting LB’s successor, I was clear that I was looking for a guard dog as well as a friend. I knew I wanted a pit bull for many reasons. Most people are intimidated by them, absolutely. But they’re also the number one dog in shelters. They are the most widely bred dog. And they are the most misunderstood, hated, and prejudiced breed by people out there.
Why is it we blame the weapon? A shooting- the guns fault. A drunken brawl? The liquors fault. A dog attack- clearly the dog’s fault. No. The common denominator here is the person. That dog was taught to hate and maul. That drunk made the decision to have too much. The gun’s trigger was pulled by someone who couldn’t control themselves.
I am deeply sorry for the family of the victim of the recent pit bull attack. My most sincere condolences. It is tragic and a horrific way to die. I pray for peace and comfort and I hope that you get the justice you seek and freedom and forgiveness in your heart.
But please don’t place your complete blame on the dog. Blame negligent owners. And I can understand why you would have a fear of these dogs the rest of your life. I assure you I am not a part of the “brainwashed mob” as I’ve seen an eloquent commenter name pit bull lovers. But I will tell you again, as many of my long term friends and readers know: my first dog was a ChowChow. He never bit me. I had him from a puppy. I was seven when he came into my life, and twenty when he exited. I once pried a baby bunny rabbit from his jaws. He did once bite a male kid who jumped in his face and hollered. I wanted to bite him, too. I saw dogs every day in my line of work for thirteen years. I was bit on the job one time, by a Chihuahua, whom the owner assured me was “fine”. When the little sucker clamped down, she laughed and insisted he never did that before and was just playing. I have been bitten two other times, both by Chihuahuas, and both by dogs owned by family members. Pound for pound, I have no doubt they are the meanest dogs out there and I wouldn’t give you a nickel for all of them. You won’t catch me trying to pet another one.
I am positively SICK TO MY BONES of people who claim to love dogs and then share “yet another attack by a pit bull”. Remember the baby killed in Kodak last year? It was a St. Bernard. That got hushed up in a hurry after the breed was made public. You can take your pick of stories of German Shepherds, Rottweilers, and Dobermans. But you might be surprised to learn that Cocker Spaniels are rated among the most aggresive breeds and prone to bite. I stand by my personal experience with Chihuahuas. I doubt many bites get reported since they are probably much less severe compared with those from a bigger dog. (But my hand was bruised for days on end). You can find supporting documentation for whatever you decide to look for. But remember when searching most popular breeds: AKC doesn’t recognize bully breeds. While you’re out there digging up dirt plug in “nanny dog” in your search. https://www.fataldogattacks.org/
I would take my chances in a locked room with fifty hungry pit bulls than I would with some of the human race at a five star restaurant.
I guess I take my chance every day coming home to this wild child, who could lose his mind and bite my head off at any time. After all, he was starved and mistreated and he is extra large with great big jaws and he sure does have a scary bark. Eeeek. I really should just go ahead and have him put down before he takes a notion to eat me alive.
People are animals. People are vicious and malicious and full of hate. People are closed minded and pure evil.
And some people have enough sense to realize not all dogs are bad, just like not all people from Alabama are inbred.
Go Vols! And if you want pit bulls outlawed, go kick rocks. I will not publish comments that are spewing venom at this post because IT’S MY BLOG THAT COSTS ME $300 A YEAR. GET YOUR OWN BLOG.
Love to the rest of you from Appalachia, ~Amy ❤️
I had to give my dog one last pat
And rub those velvet ears
Just one final time before I left my sanctuary
And I had to be extra careful walking down the path
As it had rained last night and
Jewel colored leaves were stuck making my way slick
Then I stopped to have a discussion with my neighbor
About the woolyworm she found on her porch
Which of course led to talk of the impending winter
And so then when I finally got in my car
Without my coffee
I had to find just the right song to start my day
And as I drove in
I was mesmerized by the fog rolling steadily across the mountain
It wasn't so much the colors that stopped me
On the side of the road to take a blurry picture
As it was the way the light was sparkling so clear
With the mist continuing on its journey
Nothing delaying it
Unlike myself
Who had been interrupted half a dozen times already
It is Fall Break after all
But I didn't go to the beach
I stayed right here
Where I belong
And I thought of how some people get it
And it's second nature to use certain phrases
And it's musical
These mountain ways
So anyway
That's why I'm late
And it didn't help that I hit snooze twice
I don't want To straighten my hair To trade my glasses for contacts To lose weight To wear trendy clothes So you can say I'm pretty I also don't need your acceptance I just want to be left alone To drink my coffee in peace And enjoy the wind on my face Because I don't care enough About my appearance To leave the windows up Have you realized how deprived You are And how limited to liking certain things Just to fit in When you tell yourself You're standing out I wish you would sing Like nobody's listening (Because they're not) And if they are They just wish they had the courage to sing Like you're doing And have fun In that abandoned fashion I wish you would dance Even though you wore the wrong shoes And it's so hot And you don't know these people All the more reason The blisters will heal The sweat will dry And the people will forget If they remember at all Eat the cheese The doughnuts The cake The steak Drink the liquor The cheap wine The mountain dew that's no good for you Hold the hand Make the call Because you get one trip It's not easy to be a nerd In a party crowd To be a gardener In a city To embrace your contentedness In a room full Of money hungry Power tripping Hustlers If only You could just be As happy with ourselves As our dogs are I don't tend to measure success With money Or possessions I measure it In tranquility Moments that give me pause And when it rains It's another blessing Even if it rains On my picnic Or my freshly washed car I don't want to pick a season I want to enjoy them all I want to see something different Every time I look around I want to wave at strangers Like Kindergarteners do And not temper my excitement Even though it makes you uncomfortable I want to gallop across fields on horseback And wear gaudy hats And slurp oysters And drink beer And live life with abandon Because We Only Get ONE.
My commute to work sucks.
It doesn’t suck because of roadwork, or a road that NEEDS work. It doesn’t suck because it’s choked with air pollution or that it’s an exceedingly long drive. It doesn’t suck on account of the view or a particularly narrow and windy path.
It sucks because people are in a hurry and there are way too many of them.
I drive through school traffic the second I leave my driveway. There are four literally on top of me, and Kings Academy on one route I take to get to the highway. If I go Boyds Creek I contend with another school. There is no way to win. Every. Single. Day. I contend with tailgaters and road rage. I don’t care to tell you I travel 10 mph over the speed limit and I always have at least one car during my journey following so closely I cannot see their headlights. It’s often I’m not even the one holding up traffic; I’m in a long line of travelers just trying to get there. It gives me major anxiety and I honestly don’t know what to do about it. There are limited places to pull off the road and let them pass, but what good does that do when there’s another one blasting up through there to take their place? I don’t know the solution. There is often a county cruiser sitting at {the former} Dr. Bradley’s or at the old stockyard but I assume they have a hard time differentiating between people following placidly at their pace and the jacklegs who came flying around three or more cars to get that far ahead. It’s infuriating and dangerous. They put my heart in my throat and I just want to get out and give them a slap worthy of Scarlett O’Hara and a speech channeling Julia Sugarbaker. They clearly have no respect for human life to drive like that. I find it’s the same ones every day. I wonder if their momma knows. I wonder if they got it from her, or their dad. These people look to be all ages. I wonder how they’d feel if it was their best friend in the car they’re so intent on passing.
Anyway, on to this morning.
So I’m sitting here (in traffic, it goes without saying I’m ALWAYS in traffic) in downtown Sevierville in front of the bank. {If you don’t know which bank you’re obviously new here}. I was trying to breathe normally and unclench my grip on the steering wheel and remember that I love Sevier County, and the mountains, and most of the people, and thank God for Dolly Parton.
And there’s this bird.
She’s splashing in a big puddle made from the irrigation the bank has to water their landscaping. It’s right at the road, at the entrance into their parking lot. The blinding morning sunlight is bathing this bird as much as the water and she is having a big time. She’d duck under and flip up and water droplets flew like Queen Elizabeth’s diamonds through the air. She’d fluff her feathers and the spray was wondrous. There was another bird sitting in the grass on the edge, awaiting her turn. The puddle was big enough for both of them, I don’t know why she didn’t join her. But soon, another bird flew in. And another. And another. Soon there were six little common gray starlings flipping and preening in that one dirty mud puddle. Common and dull colored, yes, but it was miraculous how gorgeous they were and it transformed my vision on this morning. I was so disappointed I didn’t get a picture (it wouldn’t have been anything special though, I don’t have the ability to transform ordinary scenes to gorgeous photography like some of my friends and family). I felt momentary sorrow for the birds, that all they had was this very public drainage puddle to get clean in, but then I remembered the river, and it’s just right there, and plenty of little streams and ponds around. Maybe the birds were sent here to lift our moods and show us something beautiful in a very public place. Maybe they liked being exhibitionists and the center of attention for this moment in time.
The light turned, cars begun to roll forward, and the birds flew away. I wondered if anyone else enjoyed the scene as much as I did. I wondered if the birds came back when the light turned red again. I hope I get to watch them again next week. And I hope that I remember this moment each time somebody makes me lose my religion in traffic again.
I didn’t get a picture of the birds, but I did get this picture yesterday morning leaving Bojangles. It brightened my morning, too.
Deep breath.
You just gotta take what you can get.
We’re lucky there’s so much to get on a regular day around here.
I hope that my words never seem disrespectful. I usually feel the need to purge and sometimes it’s about sensitive subjects. I have been labeled a sensitive soul, because I tend to cry at the drop of a hat. But in the meantime, my smart mouth is forever earning me the label of…well, you know. You’ve heard. I AM strong-willed, I have no lies to tell.
I say all this because I didn’t take a picture today. It would have been disrespectful to take out my phone and snap one, no matter how badly I wanted to remember the beauty of it. I have only my words.
I go to a ton of funerals. I don’t see it as morbid. I was raised up in funeral homes like some kids are raised in church. Seems like somebody all the time was dying. Holly Hills, Berry’s, Atchley’s, Rawlings, McCammon-Ammons were the ones locally that we frequented. Once I started working at the Co-op, we occasionally branched out to Newport and Morristown. College friends laying their parents to rest were sometimes surprised to see me turn up, not understanding that I was raised to comfortably attend these events. It doesn’t matter if it’s Greeneville or Cookeville or Murfreesboro. I will come. People don’t seem to understand that you don’t have to know the person who passed, you might love someone who loved the deceased. You go for them. You might have not talked to the deceased in ten years, but fifteen years ago you were thick as thieves. You go for them, for that time. You go because you care, one way or the other.
I promise you will never forget who attended the funeral of your loved one. You will forget who attended your sixteenth birthday party, and you may get hazy about who was at your wedding. You won’t remember who made it to your daughter’s fifth birthday or her ballet recital or your son’s first Little League game.
You don’t forget who came to hug you when your daddy died.
I sometimes will be the only one crying at the receiving line, as the family eyes me with pity while they manage to hold their own tears back.
Funerals are as unique as religions. I’ve been to all kinds: ones like a tent revival, where I thought the preacher was gonna keep us there till the sun come up, and just when he wound down another stepped up to continue. Funerals where if I hadn’t seen the body my-own-self I wouldn’t know who the preacher was preaching about. I’ve been to funerals that wasn’t a funeral at all– like my Grandmother’s– where we all just stood around, not looking at her because she didn’t want us to anyway, and telling funny stories. She was buried in purple silk pajamas, if you wanna talk about strange things at funerals.
I’ve been to funerals where the family was already Into It, and it showed. I’ve stood at grave sites while the husband dug his wife’s grave in his shirtsleeves, and where the grandsons pitched in covering their Mamaw up.
Plenty of those, out in the country.
Funerals where the procession to the graveyard was led by a tractor, or a jeep, and once, a boat on a trailer. Amazing Grace played on a bagpipe, songs sung by women who could crack glass. Led Zeplin and Elvis and of course, Patsy Cline.
Funerals for old men, primarily. Women with cancer, teenagers in car wrecks. I’ve never had to see a baby buried, and I hope I never do.
I have now attended four military funerals.
They’re the ones that squeeze your guts out. They’re the ones where you learn about their other life.
The first one was for a coworker of mine, one Delmar Maples, mechanic and janitor. And Marine. A sunshiney day on a rocky hillside in Caton’s Chapel.
Doves.
21 shots.
Wailing.
The second was for my college friend’s Dad. It was at the Mason Lodge. Fired the canon. Presented the flag. My friend was pregnant and I remember her rubbing her belly and a big tear rolling down her cheek.
My Uncle’s best friend was next.
Brass on asphalt.
Bite of smoke on the frosted breeze.
Taps.
Cheryl looking straight ahead, chin proud. As she should be.
Stronger than me.
And today, John.
We gathered at the little stone chapel next to the Veterans Cemetery overlooking the river. A humid morning, fog still hiding out on the riverbank. We found respite under the maple trees and watched birds wheel until it was time to file in. Flag at half staff. I found a farmer from the valley to talk to while we waited. He hadn’t known John stood at the casket of John F. Kennedy. He’d known him for decades, farming right alongside in the mud and snow and heat. But he hadn’t known that. None of us did. We knew about the hay, and the weather, and the cattle. We knew the man who devoted his life to agriculture. We were learning he’d also devoted it to the United States of America, his church, and his family.
I was full circle again, sitting beside Judy Godfrey, the one who introduced my family to John when I showed his sheep. Judy, that I serve with on the library board. Judy, that instructed me at the library summer camp when I was six or seven years old.
I clenched my jaw.
John was laid to rest in a steel John Deere casket. I don’t mean that it is simply green. I mean that it is BRANDED John Deere, complete with emblem. Dedicated to the end.
His remains were up front, between the American Flag and the Tennessee State Flag, with other service flags as well. His John Deere casket was covered with another American Flag.
We sat.
The salute.
Firing
Firing
Firing.
Taps.
Silence.
All at attention as the flag was folded and presented to Miss Glenda. She smiled a quavering smile, accepted, nodded.
Sniffs.
The officer saluted, long and slow.
My nose dripped and pressure built behind my eyes.
The grandson rose and read Paul Harvey’s So God Made A Farmer.
Of course he did.
And he didn’t get hoarse until the last paragraph. And there wasn’t a dry eye in the chapel.
His granddaughter read Ecclesiastes 3:1-8.
His son-in-law told some jokes. Yeah, we agreed, wiping our eyes, he knew John.
Yeah.
As I left I could hear John saying, “let’s go eat.”
And so it was today, when we buried John Huff.
Have you ever been treated as an outcast? Like you were the only kid in your class who wore glasses, or had freckles or curly hair? Or maybe you were a transplant from some far away city into a rural type town. Have you ever felt like you were the only one? And so, since you didn’t have anyone to talk to, you turned to books. And in books you found others just like you, a kid who had glasses and curly hair. A kid who had divorced parents. A country kid in a city school. A kid who wanted a dog but only had two goldfish in a glass bowl on the kitchen counter. You identified with these characters because they had things in common with you, and it seemed like a miracle because you were all alone until you discovered this book that appeared to be written just for you.
Some kids are fortunate enough to have parents who talk to them, who pray with them, who teach them right from wrong. Some kids aren’t fearful of talking to a teacher, or a church leader, or maybe they trust a neighbor or relative with their deepest secrets and use them as a moral compass. But some kids don’t have that. Some kids only have books as friends, and as allies. Some kids only have books as a means to justify feelings or to trust with their heart.
Maybe these kids use their library after school, unsupervised other than the library staff. The PUBLIC library, which is for EVERYONE.
It’s a wonderful, magical place where you can travel to anywhere you’ve ever dreamed by simply opening the cover and flipping pages. There are books on our mountains, present day, and what it was like living in them over a hundred years ago. You can travel to ancient Egypt, or the Netherlands, or even outer space and the Jurassic period. You can travel to a place that isn’t real, except in the author’s and readers’ minds. You can be anyone – a gold miner, an acrobat, a gorilla who skates. You can be a billionaire or a hobo or a teardrop in an ocean. There’s something for everyone.
And as a member on the board of trustees for our library, I intend to keep it that way.
The library staff is not trying to indoctrinate any children. They are not trying to brainwash or be subversive and make kids out to be anything other than what they are. They are trying to reach the teenagers who feel like all is lost and they’re alone with these new feelings of who they like.
I keep thinking about when I was a young girl and I was sitting at my desk in class. I looked over and another girl had a book laying on top of her textbook. She wasn’t reading about our lesson. She was reading this other book, a book about when your parents divorce. I saw it, and I thought, “hey, me too, I wonder if that book could help me.” I don’t remember if I ever read it, but the point is, it was there if I needed it. Because Lord knows your parents have their hands full coping with their own trauma than to deal with the fallout from a twelve year old kid caught in the crossfire. So having feelings validated and being told what to expect and what is normal and what isn’t rational could certainly be beneficial.
Kudos to those of you who had supportive parents, open relationships, and plenty of people to talk to. Not everyone has that. Some people only have books, regardless of age- be it five years old, seventeen, forty, or eighty. Bless the books, and bless the librarians who help get them into the hands that need them.
“Every book is a children’s book if the kid can read!” ~Mitch Hedburg. If you don’t want them reading it, I certainly hope you curtail their TV watching and video game playing. Lord knows that’s pure garbage for 80% of the programs shown. I also hope you are having all the hard conversations and teaching them your expectations and your religious beliefs. Don’t let them float. Don’t expect someone else to do it for you. And don’t get mad if they learn their own ways for themselves because you were absent. They have their own mind, and it can be filled with all sorts of things, whether you approve or not.
“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.” Charles W. Eliot
Soil is one of three things, when we are evaluating pH. Acidic, alkaline, or basic. Depending on what you’re growing, you could want any one of them. You modify your soil by using lime or sulfur. But sometimes you just leave it alone and it’ll straighten itself out over time.
“Hold whatcha got.”
How many times have I heard those words? My earliest memories are of working on the farm, stretching fence. “Hold whatcha got,” because I wasn’t strong enough to pull any more, but I could hold what was there. I might have to bear down and dig in, but I would hold.
I am stubborn as an oak when I need to be. Stubborn as a deep rooted thistle, more like, seeing as how prickly my disposition is.
“Hold whatcha got.” As I grew up, of course I made friends. Sometimes it was hard to stay friends when we had a difference of opinion or new people moving in who were brighter and shinier. But if you have a good friend, you better keep them. I’m proud to say I’ve had my best friend in the whole world for thirty years now. She is definitely worth holding onto.
“Hold whatcha got.” Now it was money. This is probably the most recurring mantra for holding on that I would hear in my life. I had saved, but it still wasn’t enough for that saddle, or those shoes, or that ticket to a show. Maybe a relative would come along and help me out, but more often than not I just had to keep saving, and hold on to what I had.
“Hold whatcha got.” Working cattle, hemmed up, or maybe one twisted in the chute. Maybe a cow in labor, struggling. Holding tails, holding the headgate, holding the rope. Just hold. Help is on the way. Don’t let go, and don’t try to be a hero. Just hold on.
“Hold whatcha got.” Ordering products for the Co-op and needing more…but knowing a big sale was coming up if I could just hold on to save some dollars…maybe direct customers towards other products that work to clear some old inventory and hold on to what I had.
“Hold whatcha got.” Helping a friend move: opening a door, letting down a tailgate, taking part of the load.
Your marriage. If you care about it, hold on.
Your religion. You may not understand, and you may be close to losing hope. Just hold on. Things might seem bleak in church when your preacher decides it’s time to leave, or if the organ player runs off with a deacon, but just hold on, it’ll settle.
Sometimes staying static is boring and as Americans we’re conditioned to always be hustling, to want more, to always desire to achieve the highest goal. It’s exhausting, honestly.
When we look around us, it’s easy to see those who are doing better- plenty of people with monstrous houses, multiple houses, three or four cars, boats, RZRs, vacations, horses, campers, you name it. All the necessities and plenty of extras, and everything is the finest money can buy.
It’s also not difficult to look around and see those less fortunate- those driving raggedy cars, houses a-shamble, failing health. They’re holding on by a tenacious thread.
My house is old. With age comes deterioration. There are plenty of things that need to be updated or simply fixed. I would like to have a deck along the back and a screened porch. But the truth is, I can’t keep what I’ve got maintained. I detest mopping and cleaning baseboards and sweeping the basement. I’d love to live on the water. But the thought of packing up and finding a place is daunting. I hate even scheduling an appointment on the phone, forget finding a realtor and getting a loan and all that jazz. Sometimes less is more and I sure don’t want to get over my head.
As time goes by, we lose it all. Our life basically erodes, just like soil. We start out with a big family, and people divorce, people die, people move away. Friends are the same. Some come, a few go, until we’re left with a handful at the end with whom we share interests or maybe just a proximity. Our health starts strong (if we’re fortunate) and then gently wanes. Our intelligence….we build and study and learn…only to forget more and more as we age. None of these can be changed. You can’t hold people, you can’t force people to stay. Sometimes the loss is too much to overcome and you have to simply stop it from getting worse by shoring up and stabilizing. Holding whatcha got means I won’t add to your load, but I need you to do all you can to hold what you’re already straining under.
I say hold what you got. Times are so hard right now, groceries through the roof, building materials out of sight, and gas prices the highest we’ve ever seen. I wouldn’t want to be buying or selling in this market. Be determined, be strong willed, be gritty.
So if you have something….hold whatcha got.
When I say I love East Tennessee, I mean it.
I love possums waddling across the road and chickens scratching in the ditch. I love roadside produce stands, how when in doubt we fry it, the sunrises and sunsets, the drone of the katydids in July evenings, the Friday night high school football pride that transitions to a love for the Big Orange, how we bleed orange from birth– if you’re raised right. I love the mountains on display at every turn, the proud mindset of all us mountain people who continue to find a way to get by. I love the lightning bugs, bringing just a little magic to twilight. I love the Junebugs too. I love a lazy Sunday anchored in a holler on the lake, and a fiddle playing breaking out at a family reunion at Metcalf Bottoms. I love the festivals celebrating every season and holiday. I love Jack in the Pulpit and the history of our hills and valleys. I love the books that pour out of people after they visit just once. I love the poetry on the tongues of every native. It’s a cadence, it’s a way of life, our storytelling is communication of our love of the land. I even love the funerals, and the hellfire and brimstone preaching. I love bats on the wing and swallows diving for skeeters. I love that you always know somebody no matter where you go. I love Girl Scouts hawking cookies at the grocery store and craft fairs with alpacas. I love signs for vacation bible school and potluck suppers and fish fry fundraisers.
I love people who work with their hands.
I love the pull of home when I’ve been away more than three days.
Summer and oppressive heat brings out the Southern Romantic in me.
This is a lily next door at my aunt’s. It’s her birthday, by the way, and she’s had a rough few days. Prayers for a better year to come! There is always hope, faith, and love. But the greatest of these is Love….and biscuits!
I sit here
On my ugly porch
(it has multiple cracks)
(and needs pressure washed)
(and painted)
In the dusk
Trying to read
But my book is dull
And my across-the-street neighbor
Is walking
Up and down his driveway
I have observed five trips
So far
But I am also watching my dog
Who has made four rounds of the perimeter
While I have eaten Oreos
So many I lost count
