My Grandmother, even though I didn’t realize it until she was gone. Not really.
She divorced her cheating lying husband, even though she had a new house to pay for and two kids to bring up. She worked night shift at a factory and still found time to go dancing in her gold shoes. She had her hair done every Friday morning, smoked Marlboros, wore Chanel #5, and caught her granddaughter a toad in the well house. She carried a .38 revolver, glued on false eyelashes every day, and raised Angelfish. She loved fresh long stemmed red roses but always killed houseplants. She cheered for the Vols and the Cowboys and cussed like a sailor when Alabama scored or she dropped food in the floor. She would drink bourbon while canning green beans. She was a registered Democrat that voted Republican most of the time. She nursed her baby brother to health and took care of her mother till the end. She counseled her granddaughter and made her stand up straight and become a well rounded woman through beauty pageants, guitar lessons, and clogging competitions. The only thing I ever knew her to be scared of was snakes.
So here’s to all single mothers and dads. I really don’t know how you do it. I can barely feed and raise myself, let alone another human.
Poets
Poets are
Poets are supposed to be clingy
And thoughtful
And introspective
And in love
Poets are dreamy
And indecisive
And flighty
And flakey
Poets speak softly
Poets are heartbroken
And have sad eyes
And wear their solitude like a badge
Poets are willowy
And wispy
And don't eat much
Poets are lyrical
Poets can while away an afternoon
Just sitting in one spot
Looking at a blade of grass
Poets are made of secrets
and whispers
and stardust
Poets have a disheveled appearance
So at least I've got the hair right
Do those two words conjure dusty corners and musty smells? Do you think of lamplight and heavy drapes and threadbare cushions on antique furniture? Do you envision leather bound tomes, heavy as bricks, piled on every surface and crammed into shelves that reach to the ceiling? Do you picture bespectacled old women, peering at you from under steel gray buns when a book from your pile slips to the floor, causing a disruption? Do you conjure up card catalogs and rainy afternoons and periodicals enjoyed by a large potted plant? Perhaps you are remembering hours spent in your school library among books on spaceships and whales with rainbow posters on the creme colored cinder block walls. Maybe you remember being slumped in a plastic chair at a round table with a chipped veneer finish, #2 pencil in one hand, the other in a fist at your hairline as you tried to determine what the differences are between porpoises and dolphins for your research paper.
Or was it college, when you were there in your cubby, scratching out an outline to your thesis and some grad student was being helpful and surfing through ten weeks worth of newspapers from Chicago’s Great Fire on the microfiche to help you. You were taken into the archives by a lady who probably painted lines up the back of her legs during WWII. You’re tapping away on one of those newfangled Apple computers, the monitor the color of a cherry Lifesaver. And you hope you remembered to save your work on a floppy disk before you went to the bathroom in case some oblivious Freshman came in and closed your Word so they could connect to AOL and surf the chat rooms.
Or maybe now, you use the library and its daily programs for your family. There’s plenty going on. Maybe you’ve joined one of their book clubs. Maybe you’re there for a meeting with your sewing group or chess club or photography friends. Maybe you’re there to check out some movies or a TV series because you don’t have Netflix. Maybe you came to use the 3-D printer or make a commercial in the green room or you’re talking to the genealogist about your great-grandfather’s role with the CCC’s in the National Park when it was being established. Maybe you’re there to pick up the latest JD Robb book or dropping off the backpack that they loaned you for your hike over the weekend. Maybe you’re there for an interview with a local business that’s trying to keep everything neutral or hush-hush. Or maybe you needed to send a fax for a dime, or use a computer to update your resume, or you’re out of data so you just draped yourself in a hallway to use their WiFi. It’s kinda like church, where there’s always something going on. I get overwhelmed just looking at the weekly schedule of programs and scheduling for the meeting rooms. I don’t know what you do there, because it’s protected, like your vote. The records are private. It’s a public institution, funded by the government and private sector grants that the staff has to apply for and pray to win. The library is free to everyone, regardless of age, race, gender, whatever. Anyone can use it as long as they’re open. Which, according to their website, is 60 hours a week. https://www.sevierlibrary.org/?fbclid=IwAR2PbI4WiG4b5nvZT6QG4L_3VwN3JT39UA0EQvDV6UWGCqp03gS8pTs3HhY
Monday 9 am-8 pm
Tuesday 9 am-8 pm
Wednesday 9 am-8 pm
Thursday 10 am-8 pm
Friday 9 am-6 pm
Saturday 9 am-5 pm
You can also view all their program information there, or swing by and pick up a booklet to hang on your fridge so you don’t miss a thing. It also lists events the Friends of the Library are putting on. They frequently host speakers about local interest topics (like a historical aspect of the community or unsolved mysteries) and have bluegrass and barbecues for fundraising. There are book sales and bake sales and at our library we sell commemorative tiles and ornaments. The director would probably sell you the shirt off her back if it would bring some funding into the library.
Did you know you don’t even have to leave the comfort of your couch to enjoy benefits of the library? If you’ve got an e-reader and WiFi, simply visit https://reads.overdrive.com/ and enter your library card number and it will set you right up with the electronic library, complete with magazines.
In addition to all the programs the library constantly hosts—oh, I should mention they don’t do these programs just to make themselves feel run to death and a little extra crazy–so many programs are required by the State to ensure funding, and the grant money is typically earmarked for certain programs or technology. So if you say, “well, cut back on some programs so that more people can be helped on the floor,” that’s not really an option. I also happen to know that the employees are stretched very thin, currently due to two being out on extended leave for family illness. That doesn’t count the daily sick, vacations, flooding/ snowing issues, appointments, and what have you.
So it blows my mind that people find so much to bitch about in a FREE agency. The biggest complaint is that the kids are loud. Well, of course they are. They’ve been pent up at school all day. And their parents work, or in many cases, don’t care what their kids do after school, so they go to the library, where they are guaranteed a peanut butter and jelly sandwich (at no cost, did I mention?), some time to do homework, or participate in a craft or activity. Or maybe they’re there to play games on their own device or a computer. Personally, I don’t care what they’re doing. If they’re at the library, they’re pretty much protected. Librarians aren’t babysitters, but there’s often an officer nearby and adults around. Yes, they’re annoying, screaming and running around, but if you want quiet time, I suggest you come before three or after 5. It’s as much their library as it is yours. And yes, they should be taught to be respectful. You go right ahead. I’ve schooled a few myself about door etiquette and nasty language. It may be the only lesson they ever get because clearly the parents aren’t teaching them and the library staff has a hard time enforcing it to the little hooligans while they’re trying to carry out their own responsibilities. I just hope they carry some fond memories of the library into adulthood. I hope they remember it as a fun place, where they learned a lot and felt happy. And I hope they give their time and invest some dollars into their library once they’re mature adults.
It never ceases to amaze me at the number of people who will take to social media after encountering an issue at a local business without speaking to a person in charge where the problem occurred. Everybody has a boss. Everybody answers to someone. The President of the United States answers to his cabinet, and essentially, the citizens, through the House and Senate. Maybe they’re self employed, but the Better Business Bureau will have an ear.
So it makes me very angry to open up Facebook to a community page and read a post by someone who felt unwelcome at the library. Someone who could have handled it right then at there when she felt slighted instead of getting on social media to spew her venom. What did she hope to accomplish? What do any of us hope to accomplish by doing this? If she had asked to speak to a person in charge she would have gotten the branch manager. I have no doubt that the issue would have been resolved right then and there. Had there been further argument, it would have been taken to the director immediately. If she wasn’t available, it would have been handled no later than the following afternoon. And guess what. Even if you didn’t feel capable with dealing with it right then, there are these great things called phones–you’re probably holding one right now–and you can dial seven or ten digits and get to talk to the person in charge. Or if that’s still too much for you, take to your keyboard. The director’s email is right there on the Facebook platform you’re using. I’m not saying the patron didn’t have a legitimate complaint. I’m saying that instead of getting behind your keyboard and blasting a government funded entity to a community at large, she should have taken it up with a person in charge at the time of the issue. And as for all the people that offered up their venom and rage, did any of them try to get it resolved? Or did they think it wouldn’t do any good and just kept it bottled up, changing libraries to avoid conflict? That’s not much of a solution in my opinion. I’m not going to start driving to the Subway on the other side of town because the one half a mile away has an employee who doesn’t wash her hands (just an example, this has not happened, I love Subway). The squeaky wheel gets the grease. Be the squeaky wheel. But squeak to the head honcho, not the trolls in internet land. They can’t help you.
You don’t know what these employees are going through. Did I mention we’re underfunded? The majority of the budget comes from the county, with some help on a State and very little Federal dollars. The rest comes through private donations and the aforementioned grants. Our library is Level 5. Our current population, per the Census, is 97,982. I thought I should share our circulation numbers just for awe factor. Total number of users for 2018 was 201,743. Total circulation for all resources was 430,914. That’s a whole bunch of people in and out of our library checking out a ton of materials. Just for summer reading there were 2,268 registered readers. 30,245 books were read by children. There were 165 programs attended by 6,587 people. But back to salaries. Several library staff salaries are not on par with other Level 5 libraries. How would that make you feel as an employee, knowing that someone with a third of your workload in another county is making the same (or more) as you do? You would leave, right? You would express your displeasure, as is your right, and you would find another job that hopefully pays better. And this happens every week. One day, less than a month ago, two quit in one day. And so here we are again, searching for a new qualified employee who can hopefully be depended on to show up for their schedule, to treat people with kindness, and to learn a new job, with constantly changing technology and evolving protocols, and to figure out how to quiet children without touching them or making them cry. And maybe your mom’s sick and that’s all you can think about. Or maybe your commute is stressful, but this is the best job you can find right now (and your check engine light came on a week ago). Or maybe you’ve found a lump in your breast but your insurance doesn’t kick in for another thirty days. Or maybe your roof is leaking and you just got a divorce and you don’t know who to call or have the money to pay someone to fix it, even if you did know who was trustworthy. Maybe your dog got ran over yesterday and you’ve had this dog since you were ten and you know he’s just a dog but he was YOUR DOG.
And while we’re here, lets talk about how blessed we are with our library. I recently visited one about an hour up the road. They are the ONLY place in town to send a fax. There is no Fedex, there is no Staples, there are no banks that have the capability for the public to use. They are one of two places in town with a free WiFi signal. The other is the hardware store. This library is staffed by one person, a few days a week. They don’t have the funding to be open for even 40 hours. This county has no McDonalds, no Wal-Mart, no industry of any kind, hardly. THIS IS IN TENNESSEE. IN 2020. I CAN’T SCREAM ANY LOUDER, PEOPLE!!!!! BE GRATEFUL FOR WHAT YOU HAVE!!!!!!!
You have to take the good with the bad when it comes to social media, I understand that. And there is no such thing as bad publicity. And I hope your library memories, whether they’re from this week or forty years ago, are fond ones. Now, go get your wallet and make out your check to Sevier County Public Library System. Thank you.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Did you mean to break me
Or just simply push
Right up to the edge
Calculating
And you hold my wrist
While we sleep
And you call my name
But I swirl
and spin
Out of your grasp
Because I know better
As to who
is breaking
whose heart
Copper Cellar. MMMM-hhhmmmmm.
Lorie is the reason for this new destination brunch spot of mine. And it is GLORIOUS. I don’t know how I’ve gone all these years and this place has never come up on my radar. I think the last time I went was 1998. And it was for supper, not brunch. Knoxville may have not even caught on to the whole brunch theme back then. After all, we are the scruffy little city.
Anyway. Copper Cellar is a fixture on Kingston Pike. They’ve been there forever, and for good reason. I can’t find a single thing i don’t like about the place. The booths are comfortable, the dining area is cozy, the waiters are all friendly. I like the ambiance in general. It’s usually groups out for something special.
For brunch, which i have now enjoyed twice in a month, they offer the following (and I’m sure much more that I never even saw)
- Belgian waffles with all the fixin’s
- Fruit
- Sausage
- Biscuits
- Gravy
- Eggs
- Sausage links
- Hash browns
- Fried potato cakes
- Spinach mac & cheese (heavenly, and I detest mac & cheese)
- Omelets to order
- Sweet potato bites
- Fried chicken tenders
- Fajita chicken
- Chips, guac, salsa, pico, sour cream, black beans
- Spinach maria
- Green beans
- Hash brown casserole
- Shrimp creole
- Rice
- Salad
- I think I saw lasagna yesterday
- Some other kind of chicken.
- Cheesecake
- Cookies, doughnuts, mini eclairs, all manner of little dessert bars
- PRIME RIB
That’s right. They also have a Bloody Mary bar, but I’d rather use my calories on prime rib & cheesecake.
Anyway, for $22, it can’t be beat. in my opinion, anyway.
I can get enough to eat. I’ve never gone hungry. I might not be able to eat quail and creme brulee every day, but I’ve always got meat and taters.
Food is obviously very important to me. It’s also a way I show love. I feel so homey when hosting a dinner party, and I love to be in my kitchen, especially now that I’ve updated the flooring and fridge. It seems like no matter the company, that’s where we gather. The kitchen really is the heart of the home. I cannot stand to think of people or pets going hungry. That’s why nearly every dog or horse I’ve ever owned has been pleasantly plump. Of course, LB passed plump about three years ago….
I miss cooking every day. I can’t hardly stomach leftovers more than once and not everything freezes well. And when I do freeze it, I never think far enough to label it, so I’ve often thawed vegetable soup thinking it was chicken taco soup…or, like last week, chili. That’s always disappointing. And I can’t eat cornbread fast enough to warrant making a whole pan, so now I’ve been without it for some time.
I’ve thought about volunteering at the local food ministry, but I have mixed feelings about that. I know that certain programs are misappropriated, and that people are forever abusing the system and I’m not so sure I could stand idly by with a smile fixed on my face and hand them $100 worth of food. I’d be better off with the kids over at the library for pb&j time. At least I know that’s money well spent and appreciated. Man, at the horror stories in this well-to-do county. Makes my head spin. Why do people continue to have children knowing full well they have no intention of caring for them? I assure you, your dollars are well spent within the library. Funding is always an issue, no matter the size of the library or the budget provided, they can always use more.
I better wrap this up while I’m still in the normal blood pressure range.
Well, I’m not as redneck as I thought. Because I didn’t murder my ex-husband. And let me tell you, he had it coming.
I had a hundred different ways to do it. No matter how it happened, it would have taken him by surprise. He thought I loved him too much to kill him.
My first thought was to kill him. I’ve told this story several times in the last year or so, and there’s always a moment of total stillness when I pause, just like after you take a shot of tequila. The moment of clarity, of slight pain when you’re just trying to breathe again, and thinking about the effects of your actions. It’s just a perfectly quiet moment. Notice, next time you’re doing shots. Then there’s the exhale.
Here’s the story.
It was only about 10:30, even though in the movies it’s always the middle of the night. I remember thinking that was ironic. And it was summer, one of those June nights, when no evil ever strikes. But it had. That’s the thing about life. It’s original and unexpected. It wasn’t storming, it wasn’t a full moon (but almost). I read the message and I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw up. I began to shake. And I pivoted on my heel and went straight to the bedroom.
And I paused.
He was snoring, the sleep of the unencumbered, the sleep of the remorseless. And he could stay that way forever. I thought of my pistols, but I was shaking so hard I would probably miss. I even thought there would be a little poetic justice to killing him with a weapon that he had bought me. The only other immediate option was the twelve gauge propped in the corner at the head of the bed. I could carefully maneuver it between his lips, maybe knock it on his teeth, gently, once it was in position in order to wake him up. And then I could watch his blue eyes grow more alert and widen as it dawned on him what I was doing. He would know why. And just when he went to reach for it, I could blow him away. But what a mess that would be.
I shrug.
The moment of stillness.
“Oh, Amy,” they all said.
There were other scenarios, ones where I stabbed him as he comes in for a hug, ones where I use a solvent to corrode his brake lines. I didn’t even have to have my hands on it, I could hire someone. There are Appalachian Witches who would share potions and spells and voodoo dolls. Or, in a fit of rage, I could simply smash him in the face with his baseball bat, plunging his fractured nose up into his brain. I can’t even remember all the ways I conjured.
But I had the wherewithal to remember that there are repercussions for actions, no matter how much they deserve it. And in the end, I simply prayed.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plPRmANJF_w (Closest video to my life during this time)
Let me tell you, prayer helps.
It may not be as swift as you need it to be, and when you’re getting through the hours a literal breath at a time, it moves excruciatingly slowly. And in the meantime, I drank. And I played Brandy Clark at a decibel that makes birds take flight. And I kept my sunroof open.
I didn’t have to be hauled off in high heels and handcuffs. I didn’t set fire to his residence. I didn’t bash him publicly on Facebook, I didn’t break down at his jobsites. I didn’t call his friends and family, screaming at them all that they knew and didn’t have the balls to tell me. I kept my cool and I held my head high, knowing I was better. Confident I am the best he will ever have.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lTUQOyiD0KM (How I WANTED to act)
This is not to say I didn’t melt down in the corner of a booth at Holston’s, surrounded by my girls. This is not to say I didn’t crawl in the floor and cry on my dog every night for a month. This is not to say my very closest family and friends didn’t see me with that starved look in my eyes. This is not to say I had control of my bowels. This is not to say I remember every day of that time. This is not to say I carried on reading and watching TV and listening to music. It’s surprising how innocent all the plots and words seem until you’re looking at a disaster in your personal life. This is not to say I didn’t lose a few friends along the way because they’d never seen me like this before and my brain didn’t fire just exactly right for awhile. This isn’t to say I didn’t fantasize about taking my own life. This isn’t to say I could even eat one meal a day or sleep more than two hours a night for weeks on end.
But I will tell you I strengthened many relationships during this time.
I learned who I could trust. I got up every day and put on makeup that never budged and I forced myself to act normal in public. I fed my dog and I paid my bills and I told myself every night that it would be okay. At first I said it over and over, 3600 times an hour, in the darkness and stillness, curled on his side of the bed. And I still tell myself that. Because it will.
I will not break.
I kept waiting for it. I thought this will be it, this heartache will kill me. I will hopefully have a stroke or maybe one of those well-timed blood clots that will go straight to my brain or my lung and that will be the end of Amyloo. And that would have been okay. But it never did happen. My heart didn’t stop beating, and I didn’t shatter into sixteen million pieces. The human heart is quite resilient.
I’m stronger than I thought. I am one classy bitch.
I am still Amy.
I thought I had changed. I thought I needed someone to back me up, someone to lean on. Turns out, I’m the same as I always was. Maybe I adapted to being more dependent for awhile, because I didn’t have to do everything alone. But if I did, I came right back around to the mentality of “I’ll do it my damn self.” I have a friend who once said, “If you’re waiting on Amy to change, you might as well cut bait. She’s the same now as she was ten years ago.” And that was ten years ago, so now it’s been twenty and I’m essentially the same. I still vacation alone, eat in restaurants alone, go to parties alone. If I took a notion to go hiking, you can bet I’d do that by myself as well. I have no qualms about attending programs or going to the movies solo. I was afraid I had changed. When I got to St. George Island in September of 2018, I sat in my room and cried, just knowing I had made a terrible mistake. But I freshened my makeup and hauled my happy ass over to the restaurant closest to me that had live music and oysters. And I ended up having the time of my life that week, it was almost a meditation. And when I went to Charleston last Thanksgiving, alone, I would like to tell you there were no tears. I was walking down Bay Street and I just had to stop and marvel at how happy I was. And I cried. I’m still here. And I’m still Amy. Maybe more so than I ever was.
Gulp.
Probably not ever. The first thought I had was my relationship with God. I talk a big game but I’ve not had my derriere in a pew for many moons. He may forgive me, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try harder. My list of sins is extensive.
Then I thought back on the days when I trained people at Co-op. “Now, this is how you’re supposed to do it, but I do it this way because it’s faster, but don’t do as I do, do as I say.” But I guess it all worked out, they kept throwing me new people like fish to a Sea World dolphin.
I hope that everybody knows where they stand with me. I like to think I have honest relationships and if we’re good enough friends we can have an adult conversation and work out a disagreement. Especially if it’s someone I’ve known for 22 years. It’s a struggle to understand being dropped after that kind of history, but it happens. And you just have to let them go.
Nothing makes me madder than making plans with someone and they drop you last minute, or worse, don’t show up. I don’t know why you would commit to doing something if you had no intention of following through. It’s a big deal to get me out of the house on Sunday. But if I tell you I’ll be there, by George, take it to the bank. Ray Ball once told a man in my line that if I tell you it’s Easter, you better start hunting eggs. I understand that life gets in the way sometimes, but I’ve found that it’s traditionally the same people who will stand you up over and over. And they’re typically the ones whining they never get to see you, or need a night out. As you can imagine, I have a hard time sympathizing.
If I say those three little powerful words, you better believe I mean it. I don’t throw out that kinda verbiage to just anybody. And there are different degrees to my love, of course. I don’t love my friends the same way I love cupcakes. I don’t love my dog the same way I love takeoffs in airplanes. I don’t love books the same way I love hearing you say you love me. But I still love all of these things.
People can tell you they love you romantically, but if they don’t check on you, if they don’t tell you to get home safe, if they don’t put their hand on the small of your back to steady you…if they don’t reassure you of their love regularly in some small ways…then trust their actions, not their words.
Love cannot be bought. Love has to be shown. And food is a great indicator of love. Especially if it’s homemade.
I suppose we’re all human and prone to mistakes and oversights and breaking hearts. Life is challenging, but it’s also exhilarating and sometimes tragic. It will pass. There will be many dips and curves and screeching halts. And maybe that’ll help us notice how much sweeter it makes the high times. That’s where appreciation is born.
Go forth, and be merry!
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Evidently goals don’t equal priorities. Maybe I should have read through this list a little better before I committed. There I go, jumping in feet first, as usual.
#1 Be happy Sometimes this is hard….but only if I compare my life to others’. And sometimes it’s easy….when I compare my life to others’. A double edged sword. I once read somewhere that if we all threw our problems in a pile, and saw what everybody else was dealing with, we’d jerk ours back right quick. I believe this in my heart and soul.
#2 Be thankful This is easy. I did 30 Days of Thankfulness on Facebook several years in a row. But just to remember, and list, even if it’s the same things every day, it doesn’t make me any less thankful. I AM thankful for running water and indoor plumbing and my big soft bed and my cozy house and my lovely job and all my friends and family. I AM thankful for the food in my belly and my strong legs and my determination and willpower. I AM thankful to live in this great country and pray when I want to and salute the flag and honor my President and read any book I want.
#3 Be Truthful This does not mean I’m gonna go shouting it from the rooftops, but, as always, be careful when asking for my opinion. Most of y’all know this. I’m ruthless without even realizing it. But I’d rather have the truth any day over a lie. Any. Damn. Day. Don’t spare my feelings. It hurts a thousand times worse when I find out from someone else. So show me the same courtesy. The truth will stand when the world is on fire.
We’ve already been over this….again, patience….Reminds me of that joke of the jackass and his master in the desert. I’ll tell it to you sometime in real life if you’ll remind me.
I want to see Graceland. I’ve always loved Elvis. But for the longest, I didn’t really have anybody who shared in this interest, and if they did, they’d already seen it. Evidently for the majority, this is a one and done trip. And I understand that Memphis isn’t the best city to be alone in, so I needed a road trip buddy.
I still don’t know if I have that. I’m wanting to stay at The Peabody. This is a historical hotel, and it is a bit pricey. But if this is the only time I’m ever going to visit Memphis, I want to live it up and make the most of my time there. I don’t want to drive over from wherever I’m staying and risk missing the ducks’ pilgrimage. I don’t want to have to trust a shady Uber driver to get me from the bars on Beale back over to my VRBO across town. I want to be able to stagger down the sidewalk and into the lobby of my ritzy hotel.
I want to immerse myself in the culture of jazz and see all the things that make it the Delta. I haven’t spent much time at all in West Tennessee, just passing through, so I want the full experience. I want to gawk at the mighty Mississippi and smell the mud and maybe take a ride on a paddleboat through its murky passage. I want to look over fields of cotton, hot and dry, and talk to an old black man on the wood floored porch of a gas station at a four corner dirt road intersection. I can find one. I want to try barbecue everywhere I go and drift dollars down into saxophone cases. I want to sweat and sing and stare into neon lights and wonder where my life will take me if I have the pleasure of living another ten years.
And I want to eat at the Bluebird Cafe.
I expressed my concern to a fellow Elvis fanatic recently about getting to Graceland while it was still there. I’m not convinced that he’ll have enough of a following a decade from now to warrant Graceland being maintained as a museum. She’s confident his fan base is strong, however. But I’m not taking any chances. I gotta get there. To me, it’s now or never. Just like he said. I might even rent a convertible Caddy for cruisin’ while I’m there.
