Holidays, full moon, too much alcohol. What do these things have in common? All make for a busy night at 911 dispatch.
So it was no surprise to me that I have two friends from that past life who made a little Facebook post about it. One relived a traumatizing suicide call and the other just cautioned us to be careful this weekend. I look for more posts from other former coworkers soon. You know, a ripple effect as we all think about our own experiences behind the headset. Holidays always bring out the crazy in people, and the call volume is definitely up. And therefore, the memories. Of course I have my own demons, and ghosts of calls that rattle in my head from time to time. If you could hear the screaming, you would understand why I’ll never swing my leg over another motorcycle. If you could hear the incessant ringing, you’d know why I exercise extreme caution at the Pleasant Hill and Chapman Highway intersection. And if you could hear the gasping sobs, you’d know why I am so adamantly against narcotics.
You see, when you do something stupid, and you pay for it with your life, it doesn’t just affect you. That’s a very selfish thought. Of course it affects your family, your friends, the people you work with. But it also affects the paramedics who work your body, the police who have the grueling task of interviewing witnesses, the firefighters who establish command, and the first responders. It affects the innocent bystanders who were witness to your idiocy. Its a ripple effect that never stops. I left dispatch in 2007 and some of those calls still haunt me. I guess they will for life. And I didn’t even see them with my own two eyes, I only heard them. Sometimes calls only last a few seconds, sometimes they last over thirty minutes. And like I said, some last a lifetime. It’s a rarity when you get to find out what happened afterwards. Sometimes you wish you didn’t.
A few of our dispatchers have been there since this county gained a 911 center in year 2000. So a little over two decades. That’s a lot of kids prank calls, domestic disputes, cows in the road, reckless drivers, fights at the Walmart, drunk and disorderlies in Gatlinburg, and MVA’s (motor vehicle accidents). That’s a lot of brush fires, house fires, tire fires in the Valley on Halloween, and chimney fires. Oh, and not to forget, “I see smoke, but I can’t tell where it’s a-comin’ from”. That’s a lot of seizures, babies being born, allergic reactions. There are heart attacks, strokes, and more often than not, just waking up dead. There are thousands of calls about bears on porches, bears in cars, bears on the road. And then the people trying to get off the mountain in the snow. It makes my head hurt just thinking about it. It’s also a lot of meals scarfed down in a rare, quiet minute. It’s sheer panic; the single worst event in the caller’s life. But for the dispatcher, it’s just another Tuesday night. Most of the time, anyway. It’s scary for the dispatchers though, when the caller can’t tell you where they are. That’s the absolute WORST. I would say the location detection is much more accurate these days, but I cannot stress enough how important it is for you to know your whereabouts at all times. You’ve got a big problem on your hands, but now you have two when you don’t know where you are.
But I tell you: dispatchers who stick with it are a rare breed, indeed. They have steel 2 inches thick for skin and a guarded heart. Sometimes they take off their headset after a particularly taxing call and go stand in the rain, smoking, staring into the distance. Or sometimes maybe they just close their eyes against the raw pain of it all. I’ve seen it. Maybe they run down the hall to the secluded bathroom to empty their soured stomach or cry into their hands and pray they don’t get another call like that tonight.
And then they come back, sit down, and plug back up. Because the phone never stops ringing. There is never a shortages of emergencies. And when it rains, it pours. It’s almost as if people wait till they know you’re busy to wave a gun in traffic, choke on food, or hit a deer. No one can understand what dispatchers go through besides the other ones who have stared so hard at that map, clenched their teeth as they heard the last words of someone in pain, and have prayed with those that are scared. Sometimes that fire’s so real you can feel the heat and sometimes you give your desk CPR to help the caller keep time. Sometimes you pace while you wait for EMS to get on scene because you know this one’s especially bad, and why does anybody choose to live out Wilhite? You work second shift, then the next night you’re on graveyard and you just swing it because you’re called to. It’s not preaching, and it’s hard to live right, but those dispatchers are out there giving it all they can.
Even now As I sit on my porch, writing this, I hear sirens. And lots of fireworks. It’s not even dark yet, nor is it the Fourth of July. So for the love of God, BE CAREFUL THIS WEEKEND. It’s not just about you. It’s the ripple that never stops.
Love from the former #7.
This is all my fault. It usually is, I don’t know why I’m surprised.
See, I had been thinking I needed to write. My mind has been all jittery lately, which is a sure sign something needs to be cut loose. But I didn’t have anything I really wanted to expound upon.
Until this morning.
I had to meet my DC & company with a folder so they wouldn’t be late for a field visit. Since I was in my personal vehicle and wouldn’t be compensated for mileage, I figured I’d stop and wash Maggie on the way back. It surely wouldn’t be an issue if I were stopping for breakfast, what’s the difference? Ten miles for ten minutes, same thing. I was planning on cleaning her up at lunch today, anyway, so two birds with one stone and all that. Look how efficient I am.
I stop over here at the carwash by Burger King. I like to hand wash, since I have a sunroof and I hear those automatic ones are hard on sunroofs, not to mention paint.
Plus, I’m a pansy. I find them terrifying.
Alright. So two of the wash bays are taped off when I pull in, which makes me a little apprehensive. I ease into the one on the end, noting it’s dry. I give myself a little optimistic word of encouragement. Maybe it’s not broken. Maybe I’m just the first person to wash their car today. I go over to the change converter and feed it my dollar. It reluctantly spits out the equivalent in quarters. All is well. I go back to the bay and begin dumping my loot. It’s obvious that this one is more expensive than the one I frequent by the house. It takes a quarter more to start and then you don’t get as much time per additional quarter. But no matter, I can hustle.
I should add here that I am in 4″ wedges. I’ll include a photo for visual proof, you can even make out some pink stain on the straps. I am sort of dressy today since some friends and I are going out tonight for my birthday. Chesapeake’s, which is a classier sort of joint, at least compared to places I typically dine.
Let me also add that my favorite color is pink, in case you didn’t already know. I like to wear pink. But I don’t want to BE pink.
Ok, so I’ve deposited the required five quarters. The wand roars to life, and I breathe a sigh of relief. So I sink the rest of my stash. Who can wash their car in two and a half minutes, anyway? I take hold of the wand and it’s like a charged fire hose. Fine by me, pressure is a good thing. I get Mags all saturated and turn the dial to foam brush. She needs a good scrubbin’; the soap wand ain’t gonna do it. Not much soap is being generated, and I notice where the apparatus is joined to the hose, there is a significant amount of duct tape. I mentally shrug and keep after it with the brush and miniscule bubble production.
Suddenly, there’s a pop followed by an angry hiss. I turn, and am greeted by a fountain of hot pink foam squirting to every corner of downtown Sevierville. I’m pretty sure the Dolly statue at the courthouse got drenched. My eyes bugged out and I froze, considering my options. I couldn’t get by with the soap wand, of that I was certain. Better just lay in there. Decision made, I scrubbed faster as pink soap oozed and fizzed around me, puddling on my car, the brick walls, the concrete floor. It was like that old movie, The Blob, where the mass grows and slides over everything in its path. I waded through piles of the pink goop as geysers shot forth even more, drops hitting my face and collecting in my hair. It was too late to turn back now.
When I turned 21, me and a couple of friends celebrated on the strip in Knoxville. We were pretty tame, by most peoples’ standards…sure, there were tequila shots, a few random strangers, a few drinks in a hot tub quickly followed by a resurrection of everything I had consumed in the last sixteen hours. What there wasn’t was foam dancing. Oh, it was available, and fun, and I wanted to, but everybody thought that would be a terrible idea (although why the hot tub was never entered their minds). So. Twenty years and three hundred and sixty-four days later, I got to foam dance.
Alone.
With no music.
In a car wash.
Sober.
But back to the situation at hand. I was torn between rage that I was being coated in bumble gum colored soap and a waste of five dollars, not to mention the potential destruction of clothes, versus the fact that this was a quintessential Amy Event and I might as well laugh. So laugh I did, catching the attention of everybody in the parking lot of the gas station, the Burger King drive-thru, and probably the guys in hard hats constructing the firehall across the road. I wanted to take pictures, but time was a-tickin’ and I’d already wasted enough quarters on this colossal mistake. So I continued to scrub, trying to make the squirting foam work to my advantage while also avoiding the worst spurts.
I’ve never seen anything like it. And I’ve seen a LOT. Yes, indeed, I’ve been to two goat ropin’s and a World’s Fair, truly. But in the end, it’s just soap, and my car wound up fairly clean. All’s well that ends well. I have come back to the office and scoured myself the best I can without a shower. Pink stains remain on my shirt, but luckily it’s a pink flower pattern, anyway. My hands are still pink, and one ankle just won’t come clean. But it’s alright, I have a pinkish complexion, anyway. Maybe I can get by with appearing sunburned. Luckily, my pants are a dark khaki color so the splotches are nearly undetectable. Otherwise, I guess I look about as good as I always do. I’m just gonna tell everybody I got some watercolor tattoos.
Moral of the story: thoroughly inspect all apparatus prior to using. Kinda like checking for toilet paper in public restrooms. If you get a bad feeling, walk away.
Or heck, just go with it. It might make for a good story!
I have wished for
Skinnier legs
Perfect vision
Clearer skin
Better math skills
A flatter stomach
Straight hair
Longer hair
Less hair
More manageable hair all around
Or at least no frizz
I have wished for
A less demanding job
A windfall of money
A helicopter
For things I've already procured
I have wished for
Sunny skies
And rainy days
A broken heart to mend
Different endings
A dog to live longer
Better barbeque sauce
No speeding ticket
As I topped 100
I have wished for
Island vacations
No snakes
More comfortable shoes
A meeting with Sturgill Simpson
A phone call
And to simply go home
I have wished for
People to change
People to stay the same
People to stay
People to go
People to disappear
To forget
And forgive
I have wished for many things
Some I got
Some I prayed for
Some I worked for
Some that aren't within my reach
But that never kept me from wishing
For one more thing
And I hope
Wishes are like pennies
That they turn up
Just when you need one
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
