Today was the Waynesville Apple Festival. I have attended this particular event before and found it wonderful. My good friend Tammy Lynn Huffstutler introduced me a couple of years ago. We made the trek again today.
In preparation for the festival, I stayed the night at their very homey hilltop home in Greene County. Tammy Lynn so graciously offered to fix us breakfast, but remembering festivals from days of yore, there were lots of decadent food truck options offering many savory, dripping in fat, smoked and fried delicacies. This is in addition to the many restaurants and cafes lining the Main Street of downtown Waynesville. So upon the offer of breakfast, I politely declined, gently reminding my dear friend of all the gastric options that would be available to us in short order. But she mentioned she thought she could eat an egg, so we opted for an egg apiece on tiny toast. And off we went.
We got pretty excited to find parking at the bottom of the hill for $5. Until we walked to the TOP of the hill and found parking for $5. #winded
So we figured out the “system” and joined the masked masses clumped up and traveling down Main Street.
We were among the minority of unmasked, and dogless. Or catless. We saw a tabby cat on a leash wearing a Halloween tutu-type collar, being carried around the neck, much as one would wear a fur stole. I did try to get a picture of THAT, because it was put down near a hydrant and sat placidly. The song lyrics “I’m just a freak on a leash” did enter my mind 🎶🎵
But this is a story about food, not cats.
So we were automatically scanning, checking out our choices. So far, it was looking like kettle corn and pretzels. But we remembered last time all the food was on the far end. So we pressed on.
We visited the bakery, housed in a cool old stone building. But no, we would wait. The possibilities, we were sure, were endless.
At the end of town we found a barricade. No apple pies, no bar-b-que, no italian sausages or philly cheese steaks. There was a food truck with hot chocolate.
Ok, we gotta formulate a plan at this point. So the first restaurant we came to looked pretty good after perusal of the posted menu. But there was a line out the door to be seated and so we pressed on, sure of other places on our route, mere steps away.
We continued.
Tammy Lynn made best friends with a couple who were leading around a pair of Irish Wolfhounds.
I bought the sheep I’d been eyeing, and due to anxiety I acquired as a very young child over a certain stuffed parrot, I had to purchase it ASAP.
After that, we checked back at the restaurant and learned from exiting patrons they had an hour and forty-five minute wait.
Next. We were positive we were mere minutes away from food.
An hour-ish. No.
We decided we’d get a pretzel to tide us over and we’d find something down the road because we were noticing a trend. But the pretzel line was long. We then happened upon a slice of pizza but I’m picky about pizza, and I had pizza this week, so I hated to ruin a perfectly good meal that I was sure to be eating within an hour with greasy-heavy-on-marinara-sauce pizza. We pressed on.
Lobster rolls. This sounded appealing. I especially liked their inflatable lobster and small stuffed lobsters spaced strategically around their booth. Chowder. Yes. $22…..let’s think about this realistically. We’re not in Maine. We’re in the Southern Appalachian mountains. Unless these were ACTUALLY crawdads, chances were that it wouldn’t be exactly primo. And $22 to eat out of styrofoam while walking around with hundreds of other people and no sink….I’m not sure about this.
We continued on.
Back at the truck, we explored options via Google maps. And settled upon Haywood Smokehouse, quite agreeable to both of us.
Off we went the short mile and a half to a neighborhood bar-b-que joint.
And you could get in the gravel lot, but you couldn’t find a place to park it. And the wait, according to one grizzly gentleman perched on his tailgate, was 40 minutes. But by the looks of things, it would be over an hour, for sure. IF you could find a place to park.
“We can be HOME in forty minutes,” TL says.
“Let’s just go to Sagebrush in Newport.”
Home, James.
We’re at the interstate and she says, “You ever heard of a place called The Woodshed?”
I was never beaten behind the woodshed, and it just so happens (even though I’m from “below the tunnel”) I DO know about The Woodshed. And it was decided we’d eat there. We were pretty excited.
It had been determined that Toyota’s GPS is about as trustworthy as Nissan’s, so we used my phone. It was just a few minutes and we were exiting and mere seconds away from a delicious late lunch. And good thing, we were both borderline hangry.
“There it is,” I say, pointing out the wooden sign. My GPS confirmed we were at our destination and I turned it off.
It certainly wasn’t much to look at. Gravel lot, right on the highway, a little trashy. BUT, we are in Cocke County.
“I dunno about this place…” Tammy Lynn wheedles.
“Oh no, it’s fiiiiiine, all the best places are holes in the wall,” I tell her, vividly recalling that little Italian place in St. Augustine that served up the best clam linguine this side of the Atlantic. It had grass growing up in the concrete outside and a poodle sitting at the hostess desk. It was rated #3 of ALL restaurants in St. Augustine. And I almost passed it up because of what it looked like on the outside. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Book by its cover and all that.
We park right up front, “like we own the place,” my friend declared. It wouldn’t be much to own. She also decided “this is my kinda place, dogs laying around”.
There is a fairly aged, heavily tattooed, very hairy, motorcycle gang member looking fellow on the front porch. I’m think he was playing checkers with his lady friend. There was a younger version of them to the left. There were kids running barefoot all around with a small pack of large dogs. And one small, mangy looking grey kitten at the edge of the porch. TL is making conversation with the younger couple and is playing with the kitten. All I can think about is food. Any food. Saltine crackers and a can of tuna. Whatever. And she’s talking with everybody, as usual. Telling them how she’s heard great things about this place, and how we’re so excited to be here.
In addition to the people of the porch, there were also two tables full of rocks. I’m perusing them, inching towards the door, hoping she follows my cue. I’m thinking it’s kinda quaint, like when you’re at the beach and some restaurants sell little shells and trinkets in their lobby.
We enter.
A long bar stretches across the back wall with a beer cooler behind it. Lots of glass cases with more rocks and crystals and agates. TL used to work at the Rock Shop in Gatlinburg so I knew she’d be all into this.
A girl pops up from behind the bar, half giggling.
She is missing a front tooth.
“What can I do for y’all?” She asks with a little giggle.
“Uh, we were hoping to eat,” I say, thinking, ‘what else?’ and wondering why there was no beer in the giant beer cooler. I peer into adjoining rooms, seeing a makeshift bedroom to my left and untold things to my right. I am still undeterred, thinking it’s like Ye Olde and their labyrinth of rooms. I was sure people were dining just beyond. Weird that it didn’t smell like food, though….it just smelled like patchouli.
“Ohhhhh….y’all are looking for The Woodshed!” She says, and for the first time I notice her dreadlocks.
I squint.
“It’s behind us, up on top of the hill.”
Of course it is.
“It sounds like we’re not the first ones to make this mistake,” I remark, trying to save face.
“Oh no, not at all.”
We’re in some sort of hemp shop/ CBD dispensary.
But Tammy Lynn says, “But we’re gonna look around while we’re here!”
Let me remind you, we have eaten exactly one egg on mini toast at 10:00 this morning. And one small sample sliver of toffee. It is now nearly five o’clock. I am getting mean.
I sigh and pick up a very smooth, perfectly oval rock off the counter closest to the door. It is very nice and I appreciate its perfection. There are two. I do not need a perfectly smooth rock, and neither does Tammy Lynn. I hear the shopgirl saying, “It’s a wand…it’s made from {extinct tree wood found in the most remote portions of the rain forest, inlaid with the pinfeathers of a twelve year old bald eagle, burned with the ashes that came from sacrificed Salem witches, and blessed by the Dali Lama himself} so it’s the real thing.”
I whip around to get a load of this sacred stick.
I’m thinking it’s funny, because on an adventure with my aunt during the Christmas season last year, we found ourselves in a similar shop. Why does this keep happening to me? I have no spells in need of casting.
I point out the smooth rocks to Tammy Lynn. I knew they would appeal to her nature. She does love them and has picked one up and is caressing it lovingly. She compliments the shopkeeper.
“That’s actually a fertility stone,” she tells us.
TL dropped the stone like it was lava.
Meanwhile, I’m eyeballing the wall of marijuana.
And just when I thought we were home free, she picks up a crystal by the front door and is telling the girl about the one she owns that has a water bubble in it.
I all but pull her out by the hair on her head.
The scene on the front porch has not changed.
I’m trying to hold it together.
We got turned around and headed up the steep graveled incline to The Woodshed as we try not to pee our pants from laughing so hard.
Then I about couldn’t get their door open.
We get the sweetest waitress ever and order our food. The sweet tea was perfection, so we were off to a good start. We manage to pray between bouts of uncontrollable laughter. Clearly, we are surrounded by locals who think we’re drunk. In actually, we are starved, rabid foxes.
The waitress brings out our food. I’m taking a picture to commemorate the meal I’ve literally been waiting for all day, and when I look up, Tammy Lynn is methodically rolling up the sleeves of her flannel shirt.
I giggle.
“I hope you don’t embarrass easy,” she says, and I lose it all over again.
In my state of hunger, I knock my container of au jus and spill some. I see the puddle, it’s not a big deal, it’s not going to slow me down.
But at the end of the meal, when I go to stop it up and move my plate, it comes to my attention that my plate had been all but floating in the lake of au jus. And TL knew it but never mentioned it.
Luckily, she’s not the type that embarrasses easily.
So. If you ever find yourself in Cocke County in need of a good meal, I strongly suggest The Woodshed. Make sure you go to the one on the hill, not the blue building closest to the highway. If you see a bounce house, you’re in the wrong spot.
It’s time to tell the terrible awful thing I did. Or, at least, the last terrible awful thing I did.
I’m a seashell collector. I always have been. I try to be selective on what I keep, because I’m limited on space after all these years. I put them in apothecary jars with sand and they are displayed in my bedroom and my library. I think they’re beautiful and it makes me smile when I look at them, remembering each trip. The photo at the top shows a mushroom that washed up. I also found cauliflower and broccoli that morning in St. Augustine. I got kind of excited about the mushroom, I thought it was really something unique.
I also have a knack for grabbing up shells with wild things still in them. This last trip was no different. I think I found most of Outer Banks population of hermit crabs. I check my shells thoroughly because I don’t want to kill any creatures just so I can have a pretty shell to display, but also, I don’t want to smell rotting varmint for two weeks as it dries out. It does get depressing, though, finding all these perfect shells only to have to toss them back.
So anyway, I had collected a few one day and had the majority of them spread on the porch railing to dissipate the ocean smell. I had brought a few into my apartment and they were piled on a corner of the desk for me to examine closely later. When I got out of the shower I was standing at the desk, combing out my hair, when I realized one of the shells had migrated a distance away from the rest. Weird. I pick it up, and sure enough, it was home to a tiny crab. Luckily the marina was mere steps away so I just marched over there and plomped him back in his salty habitat, albeit a few miles from where I found him. At least he wouldn’t die from dehydration.
LB, as you know, accompanied me to the ocean this last go-round. He is a water dog, I’m telling you. In the Sound, where the waves were minimal, he would dive. It was pretty impressive. Once he emerged with a clamshell, which he deposited into my hand when he paddled over. Your kid brings you a rock, you keep the rock. I kept the clamshell.
A few days before we left we were across the road at the marina I mentioned earlier. This is on the Sound side, which I preferred, because the ocean over on OBX is unbelievably rough. I don’t know how people can stand it. I think people who like Outer Banks have never been anywhere else… except maybe Myrtle. Anyway, here comes Lightning Bug with this absolutely DISGUSTING whelk shell between his jaws. And he was proud of it, let me tell you. The thing was huge, and covered in barnacles and gross green algae. Since the Sound doesn’t have the constant barrage of waves this poor shell had really fallen into disrepair. But it did have character. And again…your kid brings you a rock….
I wrapped it up in two plastic bags and put it in the trunk of my car. I didn’t bother taking it out since we would be leaving in two days and it was already smelly. I didn’t want to get a whiff of that every time I opened the door.
My last day at the beach I scooped up some sand and found enough shells to fill a jar and make a nice little display to compare with my others. I added this bag to the whelk shell bag.
On Friday night, I packed and loaded everything I could so I could blow this popsicle stand as early as possible. I was so done with Outer Banks. I’ve never been so ready to leave a vacation spot, and that’s saying something. I rode out a Category II hurricane one time in Florida. It seems like I’m always prying myself out of Charleston at sunset because I don’t want to come home.
Bright and early Saturday we started west. It had been an extremely hot week, and I was just glad to be heading back to the mountains where our mosquitoes weren’t raised by Dracula. It took nine and a half hours, which really isn’t too bad, considering. I took more breaks since I had LB, and longer ones, too, to ensure he was comfortable. And I don’t drive as fast when traveling with that precious cargo. The hardest part was remembering to water him. I had my cup that I sipped from regularly, and I had his bowl in the floorboard up front, so I’m not sure why I kept forgetting. We’d left that morning and I noticed he hadn’t drank a lot, but I didn’t worry too much about it. We stopped to fuel up and tinkle and I got back on the road, pleased to find there wasn’t much traffic at all. I set cruise to 85 and enjoyed the flat expanse of interstate.
Then it dawned on me.
I forgot to water my baby.
No way did I want to stop again, we had just gotten back on the road! And no traffic! I didn’t want to test my good fortune. Maybe I could reach his bowl…??? I COULD! He perked up from the backseat realizing something was happening up front that concerned him. Also, he was probably parched as all get out and wondering why I had forsaken him. Now, to get the water bottles out if the cooler….almost….stretch….yes!!!!
Now, the new problem was how exactly to mobilize my plan. Especially without spilling water all over my leather seats. I carefully poured half the bottle of water in the bowl as Lightning licked his lips. Bless his heart. He was faintly dancing from anticipation as I twisted my arm into an awkward position to the backseat, extending as far as I could and leaning into the steering wheel so as not to dislocate my shoulder.
He sucked it down very quickly, so I dumped the rest of the bottle in there. It was gone in no time. I managed to reach another bottle by tipping the cooler sideways and making promises to God. I put the bottle between my legs, unscrewed the lid, and dumped the whole thing in the bowl. This time, I only slid it back on the console and held it steady with my elbow as we sped down the interstate. I never took off the cruise and I never went over the lines. My dog drank 40 ounces of water going 85 miles an hour down the interstate. Getcha some of THAT.
This, of course, is not the terrible awful thing I did. That was merely breaking the law by speeding. That was just a little depriving of my dog by accident. The terrible awful thing was an accident, too, I assure you. But I wanted to tell that sidebar because I thought it was pretty cool. My dog has an interesting skill set.
Alright, so we arrive home without incident, and I get the car unloaded. This includes the bags of shells and sand that I open and arrange on my front porch table to allow better airflow. I shake the repulsive whelk shell completely out of the bag. It was positively reeking after two full days in my sweltering car.
Sunday morning when I finally drag myself outside to go collect my mail, I notice LB’s attention is fully on something in the yard. I call him, and he looks up with that vile shell in his mouth. I shriek, he drops it in the grass. I go collect it, noticing two new holes in the shell. I assume these are from where he had chewed on it. I replace it on the table, wondering how he was able to get it down. I move it to the center. Maybe a coon or possum had visited in the night and had knocked it down but wasn’t able to make off with it. It’s huge, and probably weighs a pound. But I’m sure the smell was irresistible to all the local critters. It still had a very loud odor, which is probably what attracted LB in the first place.
Alright. So about two weeks go by. I decide everything has had time to adequately air out. I purchase the jar from Hobby Lobby to hold all mine & LB’s treasures. I come home, wipe the jar down until it sparkles, and take it out in the porch to fill. Sand first. Then big shells. I place the clam shell and reach for the whelk.
Oh no.
Oh nooooooooo.
I hadn’t been as careful as I thought. Inside the whelk was an extremely large and exceedingly dead hermit crab. I bet that thing was at least thirty years old. And I had killed it. And not only had I killed it, it had suffered immeasurably. It had survived who knows how many hurricanes, octopi, tourists, tourists’ dogs….only to be wadded up in a plastic bag and left in a trunk for two days, then left on a table to dry in the sun. I suppose it had tried to make one final stab at freedom and had crawled off the table to crash onto my concrete porch (breaking its shell in two places, and toppled to the grass before that same dog happened back on it.
How I handled this thing that many times and never saw any indication of life should tell you what an expert survivor it was. But I was positively SICK. I am always immensely careful and I have never kept a single one, no matter how tantalizingly beautiful, that was home to a creature. I am heartbroken and similarly disgusted. It so wasn’t worth it. If I had wanted to keep one, I would have made sure it was at least a perfect specimen! Not one covered in moss and barnacles!
So, anyway. That’s what happened. I kept him, he’s immortalized with the rest of my treasures but I’m still sad about it and more than a little ashamed of myself. I guess you really can’t be too careful.
It was a Tuesday. I stood at the counter, the old counter, the one I called “The Fishbowl”. I’m sure I was already thinking about lunch. I know it wasn’t busy, because Co-op isn’t busy on early Tuesday mornings in September.
Judy was waiting on a man in a white button up shirt who said offhandedly, “Y’all been watching the news?”
Yeah dude, clearly.
This is 2001. We barely had internet, and even then not on our Point-of-Sale computers. We got our weather from the 7:00 am, noon, and six o’clock news… and also an ancient tiny dot matrix style computer at the back of the store that had only radar, stockyard reports, and grain futures options. There was no Facebook to scroll mindlessly for hours on end. There were no FOX, CNN, NBC, CBS, or MSN apps at our fingertips. We were working, we weren’t sipping coffee over newspapers with the morning shows on in the background.
He went on to say, “A plane crashed into the twin towers in New York City.”
That gave us pause. No good could come of this. A few of us walked over to catch coverage on the little tv in the tire shop waiting area. Sure enough, there it was. It was horrific, but stranger things had happened. Planes crash all the time. Tragic, for certain, right there in America’s biggest city, into one of the tallest buildings. We speculated that an engine must have gone out, or his dials stopped working, it had to be something mechanical. It never occurred to us that something sinister was amiss.
Until we started to walk away.
I think it was Jeff Ailey that said, “Look! Here comes another one!”
And we all stood, slack jawed, staring in disbelief at that cube TV.
I think the customer that sat in the vinyl couch, watching with us, got up and left. I went back to the counter and started calling people.
We all did.
We plugged up a radio and tuned into WIVK so we wouldn’t miss anything. We took turns waiting on the dwindling customers that were as dumbstruck as we were. Throughout the day we gathered in pairs or trios in front of the tire shop tv, where we saw coverage of the Pentagon. Of Flight 93. Of the towers collapsing. We saw tears on news anchors faces. We saw strangers sob. We stuck together, my Co-op family and me.
I watched the biggest event in our nation’s history go down on a 24″ tv at the local feed and seed.
Our manager at the time, Darrell Clark, came out to tell us that we could go home, but he thought we’d be safer at work, at least for awhile. It was mass exodus on the highway as people rushed to get home, where they felt safe. Plus, the Co-op doesn’t close. We sell necessities. We might get very busy very soon.
Turns out we didn’t get busy till the NEXT day, where I was cashier for the fuel pumps (a nightmare in itself), but staying at work had been a good idea after all. People had already flocked home and stayed there so at 5:00 Chapman Highway was deserted. I had the road to myself as I speculated on what next. We’d ran through what would happen if there was a terrorist attack on Oak Ridge. (We’d never know it, we’d be that red mist). Co-op also carries some potentially dangerous chemicals so we’d been on guard with that, as well. And we waited. All day we had waited to go home. And while we waited, we worried, and cried, and prayed. The fear was in the uncertain. What would happen, would our reserves be called in? (they already had been) Would there be a draft? I would serve. You dang right I’d lace up.
And that night we watched our President confirm our fears. In a way it was a relief to know we were going to war. We wouldn’t stand for this. It was a nasty gut punch but somebody was gonna pay.
And the next morning we woke up grateful to be alive, thankful to be a citizen of the strongest country in the world, and damn mad.
People often say we’re living in uncertain times. I can’t remember a time when things WEREN’T uncertain. That’s why we put our trust in the Lord. He’s the rock on which we must stand. James 4:14 tells us, whereas you do not know what will happen tomorrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapor that appears for a little time and then vanishes away.
I’m still mad. I don’t guess I’ll ever get over it. This isn’t a date I memorized for a history test, this is something I lived through. And although New York has never been on my list of favorite places, I still appreciate it for what it is. I think of the firemen, the paramedics, the officers, the good Samaritans that rushed to help that morning and for years afterward. I think of all the families of the victims, all the ones from the towers, the people on the ground, the rescue teams. I think of how proud everyone was of the people on Flight 93 that pushed back, that refused to be denied a fight. They did more than we’ll ever know. And they saved hundreds or thousands more souls. God bless that bunch.
Every year I write a little something. I know it gets repetitive. My story isn’t interesting or special. But it’s mine. It gets harder every year to write because I’m still so angry, and I’m frustrated when I see these pictures and news stories of this trash that have forgotten what it was like. Or maybe they never knew. But they’re taking it all for granted, and they’re taking a stand against an isolated incident. This was an ATTACK. A planned event meant to bring America and her citizens to our knees. This was not a mistake, or an individual lashing out. This was an organized group of nutbags who systematically tried to demolish the UNITED States of America.
America was different then. There was a camaradarie that was on all our faces. There were grim smiles and flags every where. We were proud, we weren’t beaten, we were just gathering steam. And when they released us to travel, we DID. We weren’t scared, but we were cautious.
I started the day in prayer, and I prayed again with the department heads of Sevier County during our weekly Zoom meeting, and I’ve prayed intermittently throughout the day. It goes without saying more than a few tears have dropped from my eyes today. I didn’t lose a soul on September 11th. But we’ve all been touched by it.
Dictionary.com’s word of the day is ineffable: incapable of being expressed or described in words, inexpressible.
I’ve tried. I will always try. Because for some of us, it was more than a history lesson.
I wonder If people lay on their deathbed And wish they had added salt To their green beans And put butter on their biscuits And idled awhile longer In the bath I wonder If they wish They had jumped from an airplane Or seen the ocean one more time Or ordered a filet Instead of the pork chop I wonder If they think calories and carbs Are still important Or hugging that friend a minute longer And splurging on fresh cut flowers Just to brighten a dreary day I wonder If they think of things left unsaid Or things they shouldn't have said Or maybe one last cigarette One last swallow of liquor One last kiss from the one they loved best I wonder Why it takes Death To slow us down To speculate And prioritize
I have something to say. I know, I’ve ALWAYS got something to say, but this is serious for a change. Do any of you REALLY think you can change anyone’s minds about politics, about masks, about anything of consequence right now? You cannot reason with fear and I believe that most of us are scared for one reason or another currently. Half of us are on edge about the political climate and the unrest of so many citizens. The other half of us are scared of catching Covid. Neither side can stand to listen to the other for any amount of time and we’re all shoving it down each others’ throats 24/7. I’m a firm believer in the freedom of speech. I may not agree with everything you say, but I’ll defend your right to say it. However, we’re all in this together whether we like it or not. It’s gotten so bad two really good friends of mine deleted their accounts simply because they can’t take the unrelenting pressure of debate in their news feed. I’m not telling you anything new. All y’all see it, two or three posts on one side of the fence, two or three on the other. Back and forth, back and forth. Back. And. FORTH.
I think some of you are just trying to fit in. Did you not learn to be yourself sometime right after high school? Do you need something else to occupy your time? Idle hands truly are the devil’s workshop, and these keyboards are conducive to spewing more hate than goodness these days.
Can we please just go back to posting pictures of our pets, our suppers, our music, our flowers, our crafts? Something beautiful, something inspiring, something worth sharing? What are you doing? What are you reading? Who do you love? Is it worth alienating people we actually care about for the sake of pushing our personal agenda? I know I post a lot of silly stuff. And it is ridiculous to be joking with everything going on but I’m trying to make y’all laugh again!! Maybe if we could lighten up a little things wouldn’t seem so bleak. The world is hard enough without worrying if we’re offending someone. I’ve shared and haha’d some truly low-brow memes about all this mess (mainly to let “my” side know they’re not alone) but I hate to encourage it any further. It all just seems so MEAN now. Can you all please just SHUT UP or set your Covid/ politics to a group of friends you feel want to hear it? I’ve unfollowed so many people lately and it hurts my heart I may be missing something big in their lives but I absolutely can’t scroll through ten tons of garbage to see it. If you want to make a change, if you want to speak out, I encourage you to do so on a local level first (county commissioners), working your way on up to however far you need to go to make your voice heard. Keep it off here. Nobody wants to hear it. They’ve not been listening for awhile, anyway.
And all that being said, I truly recognize it’s a free country and you can post whatever your heart desires but for the LOVE OF MANKIND I’M BEGGING YOU TO JUST STOP. I can’t even write stories these days, it’s like I’ve got three marbles, a wiffle ball, and a dehydrated cantaloupe rattling around in my brain. I’ve been stringing together enough words to scratch out a poem but even I know that’s not my strong suit. I can’t write right now. It’s like everything is pressing in on me. It feels like my head is extra hot and compressed and at the same time like someone is playing ten TV’s in every room but static is the prevailing noise above it all. I’m serious. I’m going crazy from all this garbage. I haven’t watched the “news” in years because this is how it made me feel. There will be no more stories until I can reset.
I’m afraid we’re all gonna be on medication to cope before this is over.
So I first posted this little blurb on my Facebook, set to Friends, not public. Within moments I had a comment from a man I’ve known my entire life. It was like he hadn’t even read my post. It’s like those comments you can’t help but read underneath any given news post. He encouraged me to keep writing, that it was the only bright spot in many people’s days. I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head. I elaborated on previous points. He commented that I was strong and I could overcome all this drama. Yes, I can, and yes, I will but…I answered him this way: “That’s partially where I’m coming from…someone like me, who is completely stable and rational (hold the laughter, please) but seriously, someone who is adjusted and at peace still about to go ’round the bend from all this crap…how are the people who are barely hanging on taking it? That’s what concerns me. I CAN reset. I WILL reset. But…what about those who can’t? Who already had a thousand battles that they barely had a foothold in? And now…all this division. All the hate.”
I just think back to a job I previously had. It was constant turmoil, mountains made out of molehills, things that could be solved easily enough but it was like walking across landmines no matter which direction you chose. And all was well in my life at the time: I was healthy, I had friends, and my marriage was good. But I would often think, what if it wasn’t? What if I was dealing with cancer or some other predicament? What if my husband had lost his job? What if just one other thing was going on in my life, how would I cope? How could I stand to battle whatever tribulation I had going on personally, only to go to work and struggle there, as well? That’s what concerns me now. So many people are burdened by finances, by trouble at home, by some sort of medical condition. It seems impossible to go on. And they open up their social media platform to check on their friends and family that they’ve not been able to see in months and this is the crap they’re faced with, day in and day out. It just makes me sick.
No, I can’t change the world. I can’t even change my friends. But it’s like the story about the boy walking along the shoreline with his grandfather. There were thousands of starfish washed up. He walked along, stooping every few seconds to pick one up and pitch it back in the ocean. The adult asked him why he bothered, he couldn’t possibly pick up all the starfish, to just let them be.
“Because it matters to this one,” the boy replied, stopping to fling another. “And this one….and this one.”
Just a little compassion, y’all. Just THINK. Does it help? Could you maybe share a scripture instead? Maybe a picture of your birdbath, with a little finch on the edge of the glistening water? And if you can’t do that, if you just want someone to share in your snarkiness, could you just share it with a small group of people that will agree with you? Our mental well-being is at stake. It matters to this one.
Love from Appalachia,
~ Amy
I just want to be myself Completely myself, always Not pieces of myself I think about the women who barely smile in pictures Who never light their "fancy" candles Who always say no to seconds and dessert Who refuse to wear their real diamond earrings And never go swimming because of how they think their legs and butt look in a swimsuit How do you stand it? I grin so big my face hurts I never have fancy candles My dirty diamonds still sparkle My legs are chalk white and my hind end is fat But I won't let that stop me I will always laugh too hard Too loudly Too long And probably snort and get myself started again I get BBQ sauce and powdered sugar all over everything I own and I don't even care I will make cookies just for me And I will post ridiculous memes And bad poetry And I will text you inappropriate jokes all hours of the day and night Because sometimes I can't sleep The moon knows there are things I'm not finished thinking about It has recently occurred to me That I deny myself nothing And why should I My happiness can come first And if I want to sing while I cook And dance while I brush my teeth And not mop my floors for two weeks It's ok I can do that And if I had a tail I wouldn't hide it It would just be one more way To express my happiness Why are you so scared Of showing your true self Who has a right to judge you To determine how you should feel By their gauge Fling your confetti high Higher Until your spine pops And you break into giggles And you roll on the grass Watching the bees work the clover And you think at last This is true freedom This is what we were promised And now you know Why I smile so big And laugh so hard And I wear my diamonds And I burn my candles And I always say yes to cake
It is always easier To write a poem Than a story Because a poem can have several Interpretations And you can look as hard as you want to But still not find the true one Is it better to start the day off Like a dog With no expectations Of what the day will hold Or should we expect the very best scenario And then be disappointed when it's everything but And then what Because that's what typically happens But sometimes Just sometimes It's even better.
