I am finding it
Terribly overrated
To be an adult
A responsible adult, that is
Because all we do is
Get a job
(Smile)
Keep the job
(Still smiling)
Drive back and forth to the job
(Don’t kill anybody)
Go grocery shopping
To buy food
That has to be cooked
With other food
To be consumed
Shave your legs
Floss your teeth
(So you can smile)
Vacuum sweep mop
Dust dust dust
Mow the yard so the neighbors won’t talk
And you won’t have snakes
Paint patch plunge
Pay bills on time
Every time
Pick out insurance
(Which isn’t nearly as fun as picking out pocketbooks)
Separate laundry
Fold laundry
Match socks
Dry cleaners
Put away laundry
Weigh yourself
Critique yourself
Compare yourself
(Smile)
Don’t miss appointments
Schedule more appointments
Buy gifts
Attend events
(All the smiling)
Understand politics
Pick a side
Pick a candidate
Pick a team
Follow sports
Find a soul mate
(So much smiling)
Know how to sew
How to walk in heels
How to tame your hair
How to change a tire
How to say thank you
And I’m sorry
Grieve with grace
And dignity
And never lose your cool
Because you may never come back
To all this madness
If you go crazy
It would not do
For me to love you
To the point of distraction
As I am already distracted
And barely remember
To put on shoes
Never mind tying them
And anyway
Poets are fluttery souls
And you don’t want that
You should probably seek
Someone who is grounded
And knows where the flashlight is
In case of a power outage
I’d rather have candles anyway
March is Women’s History Month. There are plenty of notable women out there. I would like to share the story of one who directly influenced my life.
I’ll tell you about a strong woman in history. That would be the first woman to work in a farm store as a “salesman”.
The first strong woman to do so at the Sevier Farmers Co-op was Tuletta Myers. I hope she doesn’t mind me writing about her; I didn’t ask permission.
Women had been working at the Co-op, but back then they just wrote tickets. You’d come in to shop and one of the men would lead you around and assist you with whatever you needed- bolts, a new washing machine, rake teeth, fine china. They’d cart your purchases to the counter where a lady (dressed in heels and a skirt) would hand write your ticket on carbon copied paper, then total it up on an adding machine.
Y’all just take a minute to picture that. I’ll wait.
Yeah.
But in the mid-eighties, things began to change with the introduction of the computer. And the Co-op evolved as well. I imagine it happened all over the state around the same time. And Tuletta was our hometown girl. She practically had to beg people to let her wait on them. Not the women, no, they were relieved to find a lady that wouldn’t treat them like they were incapable of understanding. It was the men who were uncomfortable telling a woman they needed palpation gloves or asking her advice on hardware. Heaven forbid a woman know something they didn’t!! The first thing everybody wanted to know was where she was from, who her people were. Luckily, she was from here and not a transplant from some God-forsaken place like Knoxville 
She became the top roofing salesperson in the state because nobody knew anything about it and nobody bothered to learn until she came along. She found her niche. She began to clean cobwebs from corners nobody had touched in years. She studied about machinery and saw to it that there was ample supply of mower blades and pitman arms to sell.
She didn’t know about tack, though. I was probably the only chick in the county riding English and I’d go in to order a pad or figure 8 noseband (this was in the days before mail order State Line Tack was popular or attainable to me) and she’d just hand me her catalog and a piece of paper and I’d find me a corner and make a list.
She paved the way for more women to come on board and for it to be “normal” for us to know about more than flowers and birdseed. She taught me so incredibly much and she never cut me an inch of slack. We all called her the Dragon Lady for good reason. She was respected and feared. I can still hear her, catching me chatting with a friend, “You got time to lean, you got time to clean!!!” Still sends a shiver down my spine. She said while you were cleaning, you were reading. She wasn’t wrong. You’d be so bored with wiping herbicide bottle after herbicide bottle you had no choice but to figure out what it killed. She beat us all to the store and would be back in her office, smoking cigarettes like a diesel rolls and sorting through receiving documents in her Birkenstocks. She wouldn’t send a man in to do her work rooting for a misplaced item, she was on her feet and out the door before the words left your mouth. Tuletta was a trooper. She was a warrior of a man’s world. It wasn’t easy when I came to work the counter, but it helped she’d been there in that same spot, and she always has an ear to listen.
I hope y’all enjoyed the history lesson and I hope you were blessed to have needed and found Tuletta at some point during her tenure there. This is a great picture, displaying her dry humor and sarcasm. And she was in her element– INVENTORY.
When you’re seventeen, you don’t think about your best friend’s dad dying. When you’re seventeen, you don’t think about attending the funeral of your first boss. You don’t wonder whether the guy who owns the mountain where you ride horses is gonna die of cancer. When you’re seventeen, all you’re concerned with is boys, hair, and if you’ve got enough gas to run to Wendy’s. You worry about how you look in your swimsuit, and who is going to prom with whom. When you’re seventeen, you’re self involved with your own problems…and too young to realize they’re not problems at all, because they have zero bearing on the rest of your life.
But when you’re forty-one, you smile through tears as your best friend delivers her father’s eulogy. You remember the times spent with him as he patiently taught the two of you how to drive in their subdivision. The silver van with the emergency brake lever in the console. You think about how many times he drove you to Walmart because there was nothing else to do…sometimes twice in one day! You recall him helping move furniture and building bookshelves and baking cheesecakes. You realize how much he loved his daughter and how he impacted your life, too.
When you’re forty-one, you dress in black on a dreary Saturday and drive to a nearby church to pay your respects to the first woman who ever took a chance on you. You remember her saying she hired you because you were the only candidate to wear pantyhose to the interview. You wear pantyhose now. Not only because it’s proper, but because it’s Sue. You worked with her son at a job later in life, and you’ve kept in touch all these years later thanks to Facebook. The death touches you more than you would have believed. Especially more than you would have believed at seventeen.
When you’re forty-one, looking back on a man who offered you a cold beer from his wooden porch on a humid summer day, who told you which trails were best for your high-headed Saddlebred, who laughed as you bet against Tom Brady EVERY TIME, who is now laying in his hospital bed, just waiting….
To be seventeen again. When you think heartache is a guy asking another girl to dance. When your day is ruined because you can’t stay the night with your best friend. When you got a B minus on your Chemistry test and you know you’ll be grounded from the phone and the movies this weekend. When you have no idea what it feels like to attend three funerals in seven days. Back before you watched a man you care about tear up as he tells you about his last words to his cousin. Decades before you see your best friend get up to fix her dad a plate then suddenly remember he’s not there and sit back down. Prior to watching your friend in a black suit, standing beside his mother’s casket, with his arm around his daddy. That’s how you get wrinkles, and grey hairs, and why you treasure life.
Yes, I attend many funerals. I don’t know how to avoid them unless people stop dying or I stop loving. Sometimes I go for the ones I’ve lost, sometimes I go for the ones that remain. It’s all about the same thing: to show respect and to let them know they made an impact on me in some form or fashion. It hurts. It’s sometimes awkward. But I’ve never regretted showing up. I don’t say I love you enough and I never answer the phone. But if I have attended a funeral, there was love in my heart. And I am so sorry you’re grieving the loss of your loved one. My prayers are with you. It’s a beautiful, messy life, isn’t it? Better to be an angel. I hope my wings are silver, I can’t ever keep white clean.
To be a mountain girl
You must be cold as frost on the tin roof
And hot as cinders from the wood stove
You must be witty on your comebacks
And sharp as grandpa’s yellow Case knife
To be a mountain girl
You must be tough as a pine knot
And delicate as a monarchs wings as they pulse
You must be soft as spring’s peach fuzz
And hard as the fallen walnut
To be a mountain girl
You must know how to sew with catgut
And how to heal with aloe and plantain
You must be able to rise and bake biscuits
And rest in the heat of the day
To be a mountain girl
You must know how to bait your own hook
And keep up with who’s buried where
You must know who married who
And where their children scattered to
To be a mountain girl
You have to talk to critters
And go barefoot most of the year
You must know how to plant by the signs
And what made that track
To be a mountain girl
You will appreciate each day as it comes
And be grateful to the one who made it
You will prepare as much as you can
And give grace at every turn
To be a mountain girl
You should be capable of shooting straight
Both with a gun and your mouth
And you should have casseroles in the deep freeze
And a stack of cards to send in sympathy or thanks
To be a mountain girl
Is to know which way to the river
And where to dig sang
And hold the note on hymns
And pray for the sick babies
To be a mountain girl
You will carry your own knife
And can your own tomatoes
And bake your own bread
And mind your own business
My grandmother built this house round about 1960. She had beautiful #1 hardwood floors put in. After a time, she decided they weren’t worth the effort to maintain (she was under the illusion you had to buff and wax them on the weekly) and had them covered up with some truly horrendous mustard colored carpeting.
When she died in 2008, my first priority was getting that God awful carpet ripped up. A friend helped me with the biggest part, and I was tasked with pulling up all the staples and nails and cleaning the wood from all the bits of carpet cushioning before putting down some nice area rugs. This was a JOB. I did it all with a claw hammer and my trusty needle nose pliers. I love needle nose pliers. Some staples came up easily, some I had to really fight with. And a very small number got left forever because they weren’t coming out, no way, no how. And once that was completed I went over it with a paint scraper, then some sort of cleaning agent, THEN the floor polish.
Three bedrooms and the hallway is what I slaved over. I had to get done before my furniture was delivered so I worked way into the night through the week and every moment those two weekends to get finished in time. And it seems like I had to get my library painted too. And the walls had to dry. I had fans going nonstop. I would lay down and my arms would quiver with fatigue. I remember taking Tylenol but the burn was always present for those few weeks. I remember complaining about the pain at work once and my manager at the time, whom we all agreed was barely human as he showed no empathy, actually commiserated. He told me a story of the first house he and his wife bought and remodeled. He said they’d work awhile, and cry. Sometimes he’d be so frustrated he couldn’t work, and she’d pick up the slack. They took time about this way. I didn’t have anyone to rest me, but it didn’t matter. Once I was finished the floors truly gleamed. They were gorgeous. I couldn’t imagine covering them with that hideous carpet. In an effort to save time, I had neglected to pull the carpet out of the closets when I had pulled it out of the rooms. Nobody was going to be looking in the closets and I could stand the carpet in there long enough for my arms to recover.
As time went by, I did finally get it pulled out of my bedroom closet and the library closet. But the coat closet in the living room retained it until one night a year or two later when it started bugging me and I had time on my hands. I pulled it out but for whatever reason I didn’t get the tacking out around the edges. Probably because that’s the hardest part, especially in such a tiny space. It left all these little pointy nails sticking up. This bothered me, but not too much because all that’s was ever stored in there was old boots and it wouldn’t hurt them.
Years go by. I get married. He uses the spare bedroom for his junk. He tears the carpet out of the closet when he’s painting. And leaves the tacky strips in the closet, I imagine for the same reason I did in the coat closet: it’s a pain in the hind end.
Some time after he’d moved his stuff I was again faced with those strips as I reorganized my possessions. I decided that would be a good use of some pent up rage and went to find my tools.
Well, I couldn’t budge the stuff. It had been over ten years since I’d pulled the other and I had forgotten just how ruthless you have to be. And I didn’t seem to have the right screwdriver or pry bar for the job, anyway. I sighed and vowed to look for something more appropriate next time I was at the hardware store. I loaded the closet with beach paraphernalia and forgot about it until I needed something out of there from time to time and it would be hung on one of those prickly tacks.
I eventually did pick up a spackler spreader tool that I thought looked narrow enough to shimmy under the yardstick looking stuff but I hadn’t yet used it.
So today I get a wild hair to clean out this coat closet. I wanted to throw out some old shoes and I knew there were sweatshirts in there I’d never wear again. And as I got deeper and deeper into this abyss, I remembered the little tacks that were sure to stab me, lest I tread carefully.
So tread carefully I did. And then I decided to be productive, unlike the previous two days, or any of my Christmas vacation, and tear that crap out once and for all, no matter what it took. I went in search of my tools.
And lo and behold, I stumbled upon my littlest most perfect screwdriver. And I knew as soon as my hand closed around it, we had been long separated but now we would once again do great things together. Whoever said a screwdriver is not a pry bar has never met me. Or my tiny, trusty companion.
And we went to work.
Within an hour, I had totally eradicated all traces of the tacky board and any wayward nails. I took a little break, ate some lunch, and moved my carpentry work to the writing room. We set in, guns a blazin’. I was after it now, take no prisoners.
So me, my Estwing hammer I bought at Sears when I was nineteen years old, my new spackler tool, and my very old, very much loved, t-tiny screwdriver got the job done today. I think I’ll retire it now.
I felt empowered. I haven’t done anything like this in twelve years. I didn’t really think I had it in me. My arms are aching, but I’m pleased with the results. When you have had someone to do all this kind of thing you forget that you used to have to do it or it wouldn’t get done. I guess I could have paid somebody, but then they would have wanted all the stuff out of the closet and I would rather struggle and do it myself. I showed myself I could, once again.
I don’t have fancy tools, or anything suited especially for the job at hand. I didn’t even have a $30 flashlight, which seems to be a necessity for most jobs. But I got it done with no help from anybody. I just laid in there and gritted my teeth and called it a sorry SOB when warranted and jerked that crap out.
And you can, too.
With this new year, I urge you to do something out of your comfort zone, something you think you’re not able to do. We’ve all seen the commercial with the man lifting weights so he could lift his granddaughter to put the star on the tree. Set your mind to whatever it is that you feel is out of reach. I hope you surprise yourself.
✨⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐✨
That title just looks weird.
But it’s kinda like what I said about the fires here, you can find blessings wherever you look. That year I saw generosity and a community with a big heart and open doors. Through my divorce, I found friends that pull you close and guard your heart and will pray for you when you’re unable to pray for yourself. So I’m sure I won’t have any trouble coming up with a list of things for this year.
I had to do some shopping today during my lunch break and unfortunately, it was raining. Rain is just an inconvenience, but you can’t help but dread going out in it. I don’t like my feet wet (even though I was wearing boots), and I had straightened my hair. And it got me to thinking.
Four years ago we were all praying VERY FERVENTLY for rain. It couldn’t get here quick enough, and it couldn’t rain hard enough. This was during the Gatlinburg Fires, the very thing that kick started me into opening this blog. Rain would have helped immensely back then, and it did come, but it was just about too little, too late. Shame on me for seeing it as an aggravation today. Think of all the states and countries in perpetual drought. And here I was complaining. Rain is a good thing!
Yes, I had straightened my hair. Well, so what? Who am I trying to impress, for one? And at least I have hair to straighten! And at least I can get it to straighten. And again, there are plenty of stick-straight haired people who would kill for curly hair, frizzies or not. Shame on me for being vain.
While I was on this kick, I should be grateful I wasn’t walking or riding the bus while I was out getting groceries. I had my very own warm car with a spacious trunk to put them into. (As soon as I move this chair, and this bucket, and these empty growlers, and these books….)
Thank the good Lord that I had the means to buy groceries, rain notwithstanding. Some people would give their eye teeth to have 36 eggs and orange juice and a box of Little Debbies in their possession. (I am one of those people. I actually did not buy ANY snack cakes today. I made a vow to lay off the Zingers and to only consume one box of Christmas Tree Cakes this holiday season. It seemed doable in November.)
And yes, to avoid all this Southern Baptist guilt in my head, I could have simply avoided going in the rain. I could have gone another day in the sunshine. Legend holds that we WILL indeed see the sun again! Ha. But I didn’t want to have to leave my dog. His presence would NOT be appreciated in the grocery store.
As for the rest of my thankfuls…
I’ll start, as I always should, with my belief in MY Saviour, Jesus Christ. What a merciful God we serve. I don’t serve him enough, but I know He’s responsible for me getting home safely and having a roof over my head, and having a strong network of friends and family. For all blessings, I give Him credit. Sure, I worked for my possessions, but I wouldn’t be able to work if it wasn’t for my health. And I really don’t deserve to be as healthy as I am. I eat everything. I refuse to sweat.
I am thankful for my little house. I really do love it. And I’m thankful I was able to find a roofer who showed up and got the job done when he said he would. I’m thankful for my gutter guy, Joe, and that he had kind things to say about my daddy. That was unexpected and appreciated. I’ll tell that story someday. I am also thankful for the invention of gutter guards, as they have eliminated severe anxiety and stress for me at least twice a year. I HATE climbing on my roof. I am thankful I had new windows installed a few years ago and I’m thankful for the fence my Grandmother had installed many years ago. Chester is thankful for that, too.
I’m thankful for my best friend (who probably won’t even read this). We don’t always see eye to eye and sometimes I have to be like, “Hey. I need you to listen to this and give me your opinion.” Because she’s so busy but I know I can shuck down to the cob and we are BRUTALLY honest with each other, always. I’m so glad we’ve been able to spend some time together the last couple of years now that I don’t have a husband to worry about, and her kids are finally capable of being left semi-unsupervised. Not everybody has a person that they can call for any reason, that knows all their secrets, and is almost 100% of the time on their side. She is the closest thing to a sister I will ever have and I appreciate her and her generous and sweet husband so, so much.
I’m thankful for my Co-op family. They know me as well as anybody. I forged so many friendships there that have carried me through the rest of my life, as well as working relationships with people I see on a professional basis. It’s so weird how Co-op saw me through the final months of my college time to today, still working with them in many aspects of my life. I’m thankful for the Co-op, too.
I’m grateful to friends who are better to me than I am to them. Looking at you Angela, Lorie, and Donna! Just to name a FEW. Y’all always have my back, whether it’s a Facebook Karen or having me a horse saddled or some treats to pick up on my way home. You don’t go unappreciated, but sometimes I’m so ashamed that I’ll never live up to your tier of friendship. These are the gals who would come, no questions asked, shovels and backhoes at the ready. One even has a wood chipper.
I am thankful that Chester has never had heartworms. I hope that this will equate to a good long life.
I am thankful for choices. Every day we make a million choices without even realizing it. As a woman, I am more aware of the things I have a choice of doing. The Centennial of a woman’s right to vote was this year. Imagine! Only a hundred years have we had any say! Blows my mind. I am able to work at any job I want, not merely a teacher or nurse, but a welder, a meteorologist, a fisherman, or lawyer! The possibilities are endless! I can do any of these things! I can wear pants and I can drive my own car wherever I want to, alone, after dark. I don’t have to have a male escort me on vacation or out to dinner (I can’t tell you how thankful I am for that!) I have a choice about whether I wish to have a child (I’m talking contraceptives, here, people, don’t get excited) and I can walk right up, stick my hand out, and introduce myself to anybody I darn well please. I don’t have to wait on my (nonexistent) husband to do it for me. I can buy a cell phone, a car, my own house BY MYSELF.
I am thankful that I haven’t always been given what I’ve thought I wanted. Now, I’m not talking about a mink coat or something like that. I’m talking about respecting God’s time. There was another job that I prayed and prayed that I would get. Turns out, I didn’t want it at all. I wanted THIS job. I have prayed for certain men to ask me out…to find out later they weren’t suited for me at all. I prayed for that pit bull in Charlotte to be mine. Thank God the agency finally decided to be transparent about his issues and he didn’t work out. I’ve prayed for a book deal to fall into my lap, and for some reason that hasn’t transpired, either. I’m sure there is a good reason for it. So I’m just going my own way. I’m not waiting, per se, but I’m trying not to think about it too hard. If it’s supposed to happen, it will happen.
I made new friends. I said goodbye and good riddance to others.
I swam in a warm lake, a rough ocean, a placid Sound, and played beer pong in a pool. I had a kiss or two and drank some weird beers with some strange and familiar people. I read some excellent books–shoutout to the one I just finished, The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern. If you’ve ever wondered about adult fairy tales, I would definitely recommend that one. I’ve eaten some wonderful fattening food- some of it lovingly prepared by people precious and dear to me. I have had soul-searching conversations and thousands of laughs with so many of you, despite restrictions and opinions. I did what I wanted to for the most part, and I hope you chose to, too.
We wound this year out with the Bethlehem Star and a white Christmas, and finally a beautiful full moon. I hope you got outside to look at them all. They were gifts from above.
So 2020 is over, but the rest of our lives are in front of us. I don’t blame the year, I thank the year. Maybe it got some people to slow down and reflect. Maybe we all reaccessed what is important to us, what we can live without. We all made choices on how to live this year. And if you’re reading this, you made choices that kept you alive. So congratulations. Maybe it wasn’t the year we envisioned- when are they??? But it wasn’t the end of the world after all. My greatest loss was my sweet little brindle bulldog, Lightning Bug. My greatest happiness has his big blocky head in my lap. Who rescued who?
To another tomorrow. For tomorrow is another day.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy
It is human nature to complain. I know this. But I have never seen the like of gripe-filled posts about this snow. And the majority are horse owners. I’m not sure if I see more from them because I’m friends with more horse owners than cattle owners (I think it’s a pretty even split), or if it’s because horse people are more vocal about things.
But it confuses me.
We live in the hills of Tennessee. Snow is a given. We never know how much, or how long it will last, but we know cold weather is coming for a good three months of the year. If you don’t like it, or are ill-prepared to deal with it, may I suggest moving to town? Or moving further south? Or simply just not having horses? Horses are a luxury afforded to few. They serve no purpose beyond making you happy. And if you’re this miserable taking care of them in the short winter we have, maybe you shouldn’t have them.
I don’t have horses anymore and that’s about 50% of the reason. The other half is cost. Horses are outrageously expensive if you keep them in the manner in which you should.
I liked the snow just fine. Thankfully, my heat stayed on or I would have been in a bit of a pickle, as all my firewood is wet and old. I didn’t have to get out because I had plenty of food and fortunately I don’t hold a job that requires me to get there in inclement weather. When I did have such a job, I used vacation time that I had squirrelled away or the Rescue Squad came and got me (true story, several times. Dispatch doesn’t close).
So. If those of you who are bellyaching about snow would stop and reassess what’s most important to you, horses or staying warm and being able to go and do, maybe you would relabel your list of priorities.
Can’t see your family on Christmas? Thank goodness for telephones and FaceTime. Internet down? Maybe it’s time to read a book or color or play cards. How long has it been since you’ve seen your family, anyway? Why do you wait till Christmas? No heat? Guess you’ll be buying a generator or wood stove with that Christmas cash. Car slid in a ditch? Where were you going and was it worth it? Pipes burst? That’s no good and I’m really, really sorry. There is a product called heat tape but I’m not sure how it works.
Thank God for the linemen, plow drivers, and tree guys who had to be away from their family this whole time, working out in the cold. Thank God for the soldiers who work in extreme heat year round to keep us safe from outside forces. Thank God for the grocery store employees and truck drivers and farmers, ensuring we always have fresh food. Thank God for the emergency personnel who have to report to work so somebody can come save you if you have a stroke from getting all het up about the weather or if you crash your fool self in a ditch while you were out skittering about looking at the snow. These people have to be out, they have to go to work, and they knew it when they took the job. Just like you did, when you chose to have horses.
Thank you for the majority of you who did not complain. Who were simply thankful for whatever kind of heat you managed to have and for the food in your belly. Thank you to those of you who made it the best Christmas you could. Thank you for my friends that take obstacles in stride and find a way to laugh it off or even see beauty in the simplicity of this snow filled holiday. Because there is certainly enough hate, enough division, enough sickness to last us all the rest of our lives.
To a better attitude for us all, myself included. 🥂
Once upon a time, in a land not so far away at all, lived a little tank of a blue brindle bulldog, who was very, very loved.
In a land pretty far away, as far as dog travel is concerned anyway, roamed another dog, who was not loved at all, by anyone.
Now this story has equally sad and delightful parts, so consider yourself warned if you read on. But, I will tell you: like all fairy tales, you get a happy ending.
And so the summer went by, hot and sticky. The brindle bulldog was very, very sick but the Princess was taking very good care of him during this time. She would feed him half her meals and they would go through drive thrus and get him his very own roast beef sandwich and cups full of ice cream or whipped cream, depending on where they were. The brindle bulldog was very happy, but getting weaker day by day. He loved to go on trips and would lay peacefully in the backseat until they got to their destination. One time they were in the car for a very long time and every time they stopped and got out it was further from home and there were all new smells and sights. Even the trees looked different. And then…after traveling all day, they reached the ocean. And it was the best thing the little tank of a blue brindle bulldog had ever seen. He was beside himself with glee and couldn’t stop yipping. And the bulldog was not a yipper, but he was so happy he just didn’t know how else to act. He loved the water and there was just so MUCH of it. If he had known the word vast, he would have used it. He had a very good time at the beach every single day. There was water with waves, and there was water without, and it was all glorious. There were smelly creatures in shells and there were trips on a boat. There were lots of new things to eat every day. The Princess made sure that he had a good time and got to see lots of different stuff every day because she knew he wouldn’t be around to enjoy this world much longer. She said everybody needed to experience the beach at least once in their life, dogs and humans, both. And the bulldog got his trip. And he ran free and swam just like a little kid. He was rejuvenated.
At the same time the bulldog was having the best time of his life, the dog no one loved was having the worst time of his. He was the color of chocolate pie filling just before it begins to boil, and he was so skinny that his ribs and hips were clearly visible beneath his chocolate colored coat. His blocky head and enormous paws with their white toes looked way too big for his rangy frame. He spent his days on the move, searching for things to eat and avoiding people who hurled insults and sticks at him. He was always hungry and he was always tired. The chocolate dog slept somewhere different every night with no one to stroke his gigantic velvety head and rub behind his floppy ears. The chocolate dog needed a safe place because he was very big and scary sounding when he barked. Many people were missing a chance to have a great friend because of how he looked.
The bulldog had come to the Princess in a way that most misunderstood dogs do: by default. He was pretty grumpy, but he had been mistreated and abandoned by too many mean people to trust them. But he had always trusted the Princess, and he respected her after an incident with a meter reader. The bulldog recognized that the Princess had saved him more than once and he loved her with everything he had and defended her right up till the end of his days. So when the little tank couldn’t breathe very well, and his eyes looked so, so tired, the Princess held him and let him go to sleep and breathe easy and rest the most restful sleep he had ever had. And when he woke up he was at a beautiful, still lake, the water smooth and cool, and he had a tennis ball in his mouth. And when he looked around, he saw there were tennis balls everywhere!! He had to get to them all and chew them up while he waited for his Princess to come take him for some ice cream.
Letting go is hard, the Princess already knew this. But maturity comes when you can appreciate what you had and not cry for what’s gone and cannot be changed. So, after a time, the Princess decided she was being a little silly and selfish for not sharing her heart with someone else. The Princess knew that dogs with block heads and scary barks didn’t often keep homes very long. And she knew that there are many, many dogs out there fitting that description. So the Princess started looking for one in particular. She was confident that when she found the right one, she would know it.
The Princess searched and searched. She met a few dogs but there was always something that told her to wait, to meet one more. There were so many!! It was heartbreaking not to be able to take them all home. But the Princess knew that for a dog to have the best life with her she could only have one. She would wait for that dog.
In the meantime, the chocolate dog that had been wandering for many months was picked up by a nice man in a truck. He took him to a place with many other dogs, and he had a bowl full of food every day, and all the clean water he could drink. He wasn’t yelled at, or beaten with a stick, and he got to sleep in a warm, dry place all of his own. He visited the doctor and got to feeling better very quick. He didn’t miss being free at all. He was always too tired to play before, but now that his belly was full he had energy and loved to go on romps outside and chase balls and play tug of war with the humans. He was very playful, and very, very strong. He was the biggest dog at the kennel, and families would come by and their eyes would slide right over him as they made their way past. He looked through the bars with his most endearing expression but it didn’t do any good. People would mutter, “Pit bull mix, can’t trust them” and keep moving.
One day, the Princess was feeling defeated about a dog she had set her heart on. The Princess had wanted a protector as well as a companion. She wanted her little brindle bulldog is really what she wanted but realized the fruitlessness of this wish. However, the heart wants what it wants. She looked over her favorites again, gathered in the cyberspace of her phone.
He was too furry, but she sure did like his smile. And his profile was short: “Andre the Giant came to us as a stray. He is around 2.5 and keeps his kennel clean. He is very large and has a scary bark, but is very loveable and playful. He knows some commands and seems very intelligent.” How big was he, really??? the Princess wondered. Only one way to find out. So that weekend, the Princess went to meet this giant dog.
When the chocolate dog got his collar on, the man took him out a different door and he knew something was happening. He saw the Princess, and the Princess had bacon, and he knew something major was afoot. He gave the Princess a kiss and she didn’t turn into a frog, so he knew she was real. And she took him on a walk. She was very kind, and asked him to sit a couple of times. He obliged and was given bacon. It tasted like the real stuff. It wasn’t rubbery at all. The chocolate dog with the big feet and the bigger head knew he should be very, very good and things might just look up for him. This is how it went for the other dogs in the shelter. He had seen so many come and go in his three months there. Or had it been four? He hadn’t been counting. It was still better than life on the streets. He tried to keep slack in the leash to show he could be obedient. He went to her when she kissed at him. He wanted to jump up and give her lots more kisses but he didn’t want to scare her; he had paid attention to all the people who said he was so big.
As for the Princess, she was wondering why all these people went on and on about how big he was. He wasn’t THAT big. He sure was cute, though. And he actually listened to her and acted like he cared. She tried to find something wrong with him, but all she could come up with was that he wasn’t her little brindle tank. The pair made their way back down the hill to the group of shelter employees standing outside watching their progress. She made no move to give them back the large chocolate dog with the blocky head and white toes.
The man explained why the other dogs there wouldn’t be a good fit for her. The Princess shrugged. “I don’t want to meet them anyway….I like him,” she explained with a shrug, still tentative about saying the next words. She was scared to make it real.
The man looked at her, and she looked at the man, and the dog looked at them both. Then the man said the magic words. And so the large chocolate dog with the white toes and the big smile on his blocky head got his cape, got his harness, and got his home that day. And when he got to his home, he had two beds and a blanket. He had too many toys to count, he had a bowl full of food and another bowl of crystal clear water. And it stayed that way. And he got to run and run and run inside a big fence and he got to go on rides lots of times in the rocket. And best of all, he got to snooze on the couch while the Princess stroked his big blocky head and told him he wasn’t so big after all. And she would fry bacon and he would lay on her lap while she wrote stories. It was like it was in his wildest dreams. And he was so, so happy. And the Princess missed her blue brindle bulldog, but this chocolate dog never failed to put a smile on her face. And she thanks the brindle tank for teaching her not all pitbulls are scary and mean, and they love you so completely it’s almost impossible to let them go. But there will always be another to help you find your way and shower your affection on.
And so the Princess and the large chocolate dog with the biggest heart and biggest head and biggest feet with little white toes lived happily ever after.
There is so much I don’t know. And there is so much to be thankful for that doesn’t even enter my mind. I haven’t done the 30 days of thankfulness in several years but I think I’ll do one giant blog post soon to catch up.
Once upon a time, I was scrolling Pinterest and saw these adorable curtains made from antique handkerchiefs. I have a friend that makes them from bandanas, but I don’t really have a Western theme at my house. I don’t think I have a theme at all, come to think of it. It’s just uniquely Amy.
Which translates to haphazard pieces I find and buy.
Anyway, I had a few hankies I’ve collected over the years and I thought, “hmm…I could do that, easy peasy!”
Pffffft.
First of all, I didn’t have nearly enough. Ebay to the rescue! And I even found some ready to be hung. “A simple whip stitch runs through the corner” the description said. I liked the simple bit, and I figured I could do it to my already acquired ones.
Well.
The lot I bought came with ten, and for it to look like anything I needed about three dozen to create my vision.
So that’s how the hankie curtain made its way to my office. And I never got around to “running a simple whip stitch” through my previously owned ones.
Until today.
I can’t sew a button on a shirt, by the way. My former husband was a decent little seamstress so he helped me out when I needed something mended. Now I have Angela, thank God, who is a quilter and can generally get me out of a pickle when it comes to my hems.
{I should note here that my phone is unfamiliar with all these sewing terms and is quite creative with what it’s changing the words to.}
Alright. So here I am this morning, eyeing my pile of hankies with mistrust. I’d rooted around in what I’ve kept from my Grandmother’s sewing box and found some white thread and a needle. (Check out the price on the thread!!)
And it got me to thinking about how little I know about things that were rote for her. For instance, just the packaging of this thread. Obviously thread comes in various thicknesses. So is this standard thread? Did she buy it with a particular project in mind? How long would a spool last, typically? Did she have a favorite brand? Is it like baler twine and the cheaper varieties will break or get wadded up and knot? Should this thread be thrown out since it’s so old?
And off I went, thinking of my costumes she would make for various beauty pageants. She sewed me a riding habit. She threw together aprons and could hem any pants and could make curtains.
Surely I can sew a few stitches.
I’m here to tell you, it is much, MUCH, harder than it looks.
First of all, you have to have good sight to thread the tiny thing. Then you have to not gouge your fool self and bleed on the white material and thread. Then you have to determine how much thread you’ll need for your little project (that’s some logistics I can’t fathom right there, like if you were sewing a quilt, how does that work??) And then you’re ready to start.
I fumbled around an eventually managed to run a stitch through.
You have to be precise and nimble. I am neither of these things. I am a wreck. But I eventually got all five finished. It only took me thirty five minutes. And then I looked at my rumpled pile of dainty hankies and thought, “Grandmother would have starched and pressed them.”
But Amy won’t.
So today I am thankful I can march in a store and buy clothes that will fit right off the hanger. I don’t have to go select fabric and thread and buttons and zippers and whatever else and then measure and cut and sew.
Thank you, Lord, for Belk.
