I start these blogs and I never really know where I’m going. Or I do know where I’m going, but not how I’m going to get there. Did you know that Gone With the Wind was written backwards? True story. Mrs. Mitchell knew how she wanted it to end, but not how she was going to develop the plot to that outcome. So, like Margaret Mitchell, I don’t know how long this blog is going to be. I expect it to be one of my rare short ones, but you never know.
As I type, I’m thinking about typing on the typewriter yesterday. I have to fill out 1099’s at my job. The government does not accept PDF fillable forms. I can mail this type to the producers, but I have to have one red copy to send to the IRS. And if I’m gonna do that, they’re attached to carbon copies, so why would I bother making separate ones on the computer? What I’m getting at is typing on a computer is far removed from the days of the typewriter. I will liken it to the days of film, versus the digital cameras we have today. You got one shot- don’t mess it up. You have to be perfect the first time, as soon as you mash the button. It’s permanent. You had to be sure. There was no cut & paste, no delete or backspace. I like the distinctive clatter but I despise the permanence. I’m no great typist, and I change my mind continually. Like right there. I had constantly, but decided continually was a less used, more fluid adjective. So I backed up and changed it. No problem. On a typewriter I would have had to started all over, or hopefully the corrective tape would work. You can’t wait till the end and polish and perfect. It has to be flawless as you go.
Anyway. On to what I wanted to say. I know that it’s hard to have friends. It’s difficult to be a good friend. They take time and effort. You sometimes have to dedicate moments out of your day to listening to their trials (that you can clearly see are as inconsequential as wet grass on your shoe), instead of running the vacuum or going for a jog (clearly I’m not using these as examples of what I’m putting on hold). What matters is that it’s important to them.
I’m a Gemini, which translates to flighty, self absorbed attention hog who can’t make up her mind and stays all atwitter. It is made worse by my only child status. I’m also a writer, which means I will forget your birthday (Facebook has changed my life in this aspect). I have to set a minimum of three reminders in my phone for appointments, and I usually have at least one post-it stuck on my monitor. I don’t remember to ask how your doctor’s appointment went, and houseplants wither under my care.
But I can describe your hair, your eyes, the inflection in your voice when you told me about swinging in the oak tree at your grandparents house in Florida. I know how you felt when the guy you’d been secretly eyeballing for two months finally asked you out. I remember what you were wearing the time you picked me up and took me to the symphony in Knoxville. I know the story of how you got the job you’re in now, and how you drink your coffee. I know which restaurant is your favorite, and what you’ll order to drink. I know what color you wear the most often but would never say is your “favorite” color. I know, as soon as I hear “hey” on the other end of the phone whether you’re crying, or just got through. I know you when you’re scared, and what hand gestures you’re using. For a select few of you, I even know your password or the security code to your home. I know what kind of bird you’d like to be.
I work with the most cautious, close-to-the-vest human I’ve ever come across. I have yet to hear her really laugh. She’ll snicker, but as far as throwing her head back cackling, with feeling from the gut, nope. She never loses her temper. She’ll become exasperated, when something truly goes against the fiber of her morals. She’ll talk slowly about something that bothers her, squinting and smiling like it’s no great trouble. I’ve never seen her moved to tears, even when her Grandmother passed, and she is devoid of emotion even when listening to her favorite music. She yawns when she feels awkward, or if I’m listening too intently. I’ve never heard her use the word love when describing her boyfriend of several years, and she isn’t one to gush about how great her food is. Don’t get me wrong, I like her just fine, we get along great as a team, and I trust her. I accept her that this is the way she is. This is all I will ever get, because that’s all she knows to be.
This probably sounds just fine to most of you. But I prefer to live more freely. Uninhibited, if you will. Otherwise, it seems like barely an existence. I need animation and passion. I want to THRIVE. I’m not bulldog gear, I’m wide open in four, pegging it. I’m not low-maintenance, I need attention and sparkles. I don’t want to giggle demurely behind my hanky, I want to spew coke out my nose and clutch my side. I don’t want to delicately sniffle when faced with an injustice, I want to narrow my eyes and cut bait. When I’m jilted, I will scream and collapse on the floor and howl. I don’t want to let go without an explanation in the event it can be fixed. I want to drive as fast as I can with my music blaring while I sing with abandon. I wish to savor my food and have conversations about things other than the weather and what’s going on at work. I need to hear about the things that make you feel, even if they’re not flattering. Let’s get down to it. I want to drink too much and cock my head and wonder if you mean it. I want to compliment people for everything, from their jewelry to their gardens to how their children behave. I want to say that you’re beautiful, but not mean because of the way you look. I want to laugh, I want to twirl and spin and I want to simply LIVE.
It’s funny who you stay friends with. Maybe friends is the wrong word. Maybe “stay in touch” is more appropriate. I met five people in college that I interact with to this day. We have each others’ phone numbers. We’ve been to many restaurants together and drank many, many, many beers. I know them now to varying degrees and our relationships have ebbed and flowed over the 22 years we’ve been acquainted. It’s hard to be everything all the time, so you just do what you can when you can. There’s another friend that’s popped in and out of my life sporadically for that long, too. You can’t help but feel a deeper connection to people you’ve known for time you count in decades. It’s almost as if you have your own language, because you have the same memories of the way things used to be, before they morphed into the way they are now. Case in point: Ogles Water Park. Natives immediately conjure a picture, they know, and no doubt share the same exact sunburn story no matter what year it took place. Locals, different from natives, don’t have that memory. It separates us.
But I’m here to tell you about friends. It’s hard for me to rank them, because I have “new” friends (ones I’ve known less than five years) but I see much more frequently than “old” friends. So who am I closer to? Hard to say. The number of memories are the same, and the newer friends are up-to-date on the nuances of my life, but I am still fundamentally the same person I was ten years ago. My old friends tell me so.
Here’s what makes a friend. It’s not who you see the most, or talk to the most, or are related to. It’s who is there for you when you need them. It’s people who won’t disappoint you or judge you. It’s people who see you going off a cliff but throw a lasso and dig in. Friends call you out on your bullshit and fight you or apologize when they’re out of line. Friends return calls and messages, even if it’s not immediate. Friends will bring you cookies or come sit with you when there’s nothing left or participate in your fantasies when you’re at your lowest. Friends let you share your worst, most bitter self, and sympathize, even if they can’t empathize, and look at you with understanding, loving eyes. They will squash you down in a chair and hand you a margarita or a glass of wine or a bottle of beer and build a fire and turn up the music. You can say what you want to and tear your mask off that you wear for everybody else because you don’t have to with them. You can tell them the barest, ugliest moments in the same breath you used to expound on the finest parts of your day. You can get tongue tied and laugh and pronounce words wrong or call someone by the wrong name or butcher the lyrics to a song. They’ll let you lash out and wait for you to wind down and they love you, warts and all. You don’t have to temper your emotions or guard your heart or measure your words for fear of accidentally offending them.
There are false eyelash friends, the ones who only see the person you show them, usually your most perfect, made up, part-time self. These are not friends you can call at two in the morning from the bar. It would never occur to you to call them, anyway. You often wonder why you call them friends at all. They’re a typewriter. You have to be perfect for them, they don’t want to see your flaws.
There are Lash Boost friends. These are friends you’ll have lunch with, and be there for the milestones: weddings, birthday parties, graduations, funerals. They’re real, and they can see you slipping, but you don’t want them to see you fall on your face and eat dirt. You’ll juggle what you have to in order to protect the worst. These are computers. They don’t mind the typo, they’ll help you fix it. Easy breezy. Moving on.
And then there are friends who’ve seen you first thing of the morning when you didn’t bother taking off your makeup from the night before. There’s nothing worse than smudged eyeliner. You can call them from the bar, but chances are they’re there with you. You’re IN their wedding, you’re helping them clean for a party and you’re bringing the cheese dip and balloons. These are the friends who’ll help you hide a body, or at least help you with your alibi. You don’t need a computer with them, they’re in the mix of it with you. They’re instant, direct messaging: Skype or Facetime. Maybe they’re not even that, maybe they’re a handwritten letter with coffee stains and three colors of ink because they have to lay their pen down to tend to some pressing matter and then they lose it. You don’t start over, you just plow right on, making do with the best you’ve got. The stationery probably doesn’t even match. And there are indecipherable scribbles and probably some lines marked through. These are the friends that will get down in the mire and wallow with you, watching mindless TV and binging on tater chips and chocolate.
You’re fortunate to have ONE of these. I won’t brag about how many I have. I also won’t say how many I’ve lost, because it hurts to think I loved them more than they loved me.
December is hard on everybody. You’re either super busy, or wondering why everybody seems to have plans but you. Either way, it’s stressful. Then comes January, and it’s depressing. Everything is drab and grey, the cheer has dwindled, and we’re just trying to make it through to warmer, sunnier days without catching the flu. There’s nothing really to look forward to. You just have to count your blessings where you can and not dwell on whatever is bringing you down. Last night was a such a night. I’d worked all day on those stupid tax forms (none a one without a mistake, by the way), then had a board meeting, and on top of that, worrying about Iran’s bombs and Australia’s fires. My clan has a loose tradition of going out for margaritas after board. I wasn’t gung-ho about spending another two hours in a bra that was making my life miserable. I wanted to go home and pet my dog and lounge on the couch under my alpaca blanket. But I had missed my friends. So off we went. And I’m so glad. We talked about it all, as we always do. It felt like I had been feeling off-kilter, unresolved, and just overall restless for some time. We talked about our victories and goals, the things that make us crazy, and the things that have hurt our hearts since our last gathering.
We ended on a high note: Go Vols! Go Titans! And good riddance to Brady & Saban.
This is why it is said “if money can fix all your problems, you don’t have problems”. Because, let me tell you, if you are sick, you want nothing but to get well. I’m talking Big Time sick. Cancer, diseases, what have you. Things that don’t really have a cure or a positive outlook. Please pray for my friend’s friend, Michelle. It is unlikely she will live to see her first grandbaby, due in May. From what I understand, this is her one dream. If you can’t pray for that, pray for our troops, defending our right to live here, free to drive a car and shoot a gun and worship where we want. Defending your right to live as a man OR a woman. Did you know, that in Islamic countries, many women raise their daughters as boys so that they have more freedoms? Freedoms being walking to the grocery store in broad daylight without a chaperone, freedom to WORK in a factory to make a pittance, freedom to speak a simple hello!! Read this book for an eye-opening experience: https://www.amazon.com/Underground-Girls-Kabul-Resistance-Afghanistan-ebook/dp/B00GEYL2SA/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=girls+of+kabul&qid=1578503822&sr=8-1 Pray for our leaders, that they make thoughtful decisions regarding the fate of our country, and indeed, the world. Thank you to those women who fought tooth and nail for our rights as women and paved the way for us today to have an opinion and equal vote. I fully exercise the right to vote, and honestly, you should be ashamed of yourself if you don’t. They worked too hard for this privilege for you to blow it off. Did you know it took a hundred years for them to obtain this license? Amd this year marks the centennial. https://www.history.com/topics/womens-history/the-fight-for-womens-suffrage
If you don’t have money, but you have friends, you will have a roof over your head and food in your belly. You will always have someone who cares if you live to see another day. You have love. And people who are without it, that’s all they want. It is more valuable than gold. Warts and all.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Dear Santa,
I hope this letter finds you warm and well at the North Pole. I also would like to extend my condolences to Mrs. Claus, who is probably the most harried woman in the hemisphere right now. Although some of my mom friends are snorting with derision, no doubt. Hey, they brought it on themselves. Dern kids.
I was never taught to believe in you. I think I waited until third grade to ruin it for everybody else, though. Seemed like about time to be growing up and putting away the foolishness. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve found Santa in some. Really, it’s Jesus but some of these good people are self-proclaimed atheists, so let’s just agree to disagree, yes? In the spirit of Christmas and all. So what I’m writing to say, is what everyone writes to you about- my wishes. I’ve been good….but I’ve also been bad. To be honest, it’s probably an even split. I won’t even try to convince you, you see me when I’m sleeping, you know when I’m awake…but even you gotta admit, Santa, that I got pushed to the edge and when I’m cornered….well, it ain’t pretty. I normally wouldn’t write on behalf of anybody but there are people in my life that deserve a little extra sparkle for helping me out this year. I would say I’d take care of them, but where’s the magic in that? Also…..
And not just on Christmas.
And yes, I’m aware everybody else got their letters in the mail weeks ago. I believe in magic, okay???
First of all, I would like to ask for a vacation on behalf of my bestie and her husband. She’s got the weight of the world on her right now with her aging parents and the most ungrateful son that ever drew breath (you can bring him a truckload of coal–or maybe gravel to shovel) all living under one roof with their two other sons and four dogs. I cannot even imagine. If you could bring all the practical and levelheaded women in my life something functional that will last a long time. Something gloriously expensive that they would never splurge on themselves, like a KitchenAid mixer or a nice baking dish from Williams Sonoma. They’ve seen me at my best and worst the last eighteen months (my best is just me with a fully made-up face sucking down a margarita. My worst is…well, you know). Which brings me to someone I never thought I would have to be thankful for: the law offices of Andrew Farmer and most especially, his paralegal, Marie. Ol’ girl can certainly cut and slash with the best of ’em. She needs a trip to the spa, a day without a ringing phone and pinging emails. My good friend Lorie who helps find the perfect gift for what seems like every lady in the county, twice. Sunday school teachers, Kindergarten teachers, piano teachers. She has to help all us last minute Lucys pick out what we put off (or forgot) for our hairdresser, our co-worker, our pedicurist. She’s the queen diva, she knows what everybody wants. I want her heart healed from the loss of both her boxers that she lost this year. I think she has everything else 😉 Two more women who’ve definitely had their trials this year ..one needs discernment and to find out who she is (I know that’s a weird request of Santa, maybe bring her some Mac makeup, too) and the other lady needs some really good news and progress. I think she’d like a housekeeper for a year. I think sometimes we’re sent hardships to put priorities back in place and maybe to.find out who really is truly in your corner. There’s a few more special people, one who truly restored my faith in AMY. I doubt he even knows he helped. But thanks to him, I’m assured that I’m exactly as I always was, fun and feisty. This man should be gifted with all the beer he can ever hope to drink. I can’t think of anything else, and he probably can’t, either. My board, they put up with me and I put up with them! May their crops be plentiful and their cattle gain. May cattle bring good prices in the coming year and may we be blessed with enough rain. I want to ask for graciousness and goodness and plenty of heartwarming moments for librarians everywhere, may they always remember why they do what they do. May they be appreciated by all who meet them.
What do I want? Oh, just an intelligent, witty man with rugged good looks who has the sense to give me my space and who harbors a healthy appetite for my unhealthy cooking. It wouldn’t hurt for him to have basic electrical and plumbing skills; my house is old. He must have a good, steady job. I’ve been told it takes a lot to handle me, so I guess it goes without saying he needs to be a man with strong qualities and thick skin. I don’t want someone to take my breath away anymore…I want to be able to breathe deep and relax and know that everything is and will always be OKAY. The only time I want to be dizzy is because he’s got me laughing so hard I cannot stop. Send me one of those, Santa. I need to do some more traveling, too. I’m down for Ireland and Alaska anytime. I also wish that everybody can grant understanding, even if kindness cannot be extended. It’s 2020, after all. We should all be able to see clearly. And I hope that any little girl that’s wishing for a horse tonight gets one, even if it’s just in the form of a few riding lessons. Gotta start somewhere.
I guess that’s it, Santa. That’s enough. I’m lucky that I’ve pretty much got it all and I know it. Safe travels around the globe. Watch out for us armed citizens, we shoot first and ask questions later.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Now, to y’all: Leave a carrot for Rudolph, and one for your wish horse. Hot chocolate for Santa and cookies, too. ‘Cause he don’t look like this:
I want each of you to know that I think of you often. Sometimes we think nobody cares because our phone doesn’t ring not one time all day, or we don’t get invited to dinner by our friends as often as we like. I’m reminded regularly that there are many people out there thinking and praying for me. As I am for you. Last year was my hard candy Christmas. This year it’s all visions of sugar plums dancing again.
Merry Christmas. May God bless us, every one.
From June 12th, 2019:
I haven’t written anything in awhile, I know. Slap me with your splintered ruler. (Any Alanis fans out there?) It feels like a waste when I don’t write, like I’m throwing away perfectly good food that I’ve allowed to rot simply because I forgot to eat it. Yes, that happens more often than I care to admit. But I sit and I try to think if I have anything worthy to share. And most times, I don’t. So I don’t write one day. And one day turns to two, and that stretches into a week, and before I know it, a month has gone by and I haven’t shared a word.
Because I don’t have anything much to say.
Oh, I’m doing stuff, and I do have topics I’d like to write about, but most people have an idea of me: that I’m fairly happy-go-lucky, apart from my occasional outburst on fast lane slow drivers and what have you.
The truth is, sometimes I feel like I have bees in my head searching for a place to build a hive. It’s a relentless buzzing as they dart here, there, and yon, smacking into the sides of my skull and flying into each other because their radar doesn’t work in such close quarters at warp speed. Occassionally it’s a lazy drone, but they’re still there.
You have it too?
Well, I’ll be.
It’s not like I have big worries. I have a temperate place to lay my head, wonderful friends, a job I adore, reliable transportation (and it’s gorgeous), and good health. I have family that loves me. I have true friends.
But I’m just aggravated. And for no good reason that I can discern. Oh, no doubt I could medicate my problems away, but that’s never appealed to me. I prefer to eat ice cream or buy a new dress. Something like that.
I would like to blame this feeling of restlessness and inadequacy on my virtual farm, because I barely crack a book anymore due to the fact I can’t concentrate long enough. I could blame the rain for my gray attitude. I could get lost down the rabbit hole of all the dazzling vacations and perfect homes I will never acquire. But I ask myself, “Do I have enough?” And I do. I ask myself, “Do I have love?” And I do. I ask myself, “Do I have my health?” And I do. So it may not be the house of my dreams with a pool and a housekeeper, but I have all I need. I may not have a perfect husband to grow old with, but I have love from a thousand other people. I may not have perfect vision or an enviable figure, but I am not sick. So I have this. And sometimes I have to say it out loud or write it down to remind myself. Because I’m of a generation who has it all. But we forget. I’m not fighting a war, or living in a country where I have to carry water from an alligator infested river two miles on my head in a basket I wove from weeds to my bamboo and mud hut that my husband built when we turned fourteen. I don’t have to worry about getting mugged at the grocery store or shot as I do my job. Well, I guess anything is possible, if not probable. I can vote, I can wear pants and a tank top, I can drive as far as I want….if not as fast as I want.
But I feel pouty sometimes. And for the stupidest reasons. If I could learn not to put my happiness in another soul besides myself and God, I know I wouldn’t be so irritated all the time. I would say I expect too much out of people, but what I really expect is the truth. And reciprocation. People will positively drain you, sucking the life right out of you. It’s nothing you can help with beyond prayer, and really none of your business, either. Or you provide them with something to make their life easier for one day in time and next thing you know, they’re taking it every day without even asking anymore. Give them an inch, they’ll take a mile. Or maybe you’re one of those people who truly enjoy giving, always sending cards or baking cakes or what have you and one day you sit back and realize not one person has sent YOU a card or baked YOU a cake or even called to check on you. I see this commonly in churches, especially. A group of ten will do the work for a congregation of 150. It’s disgraceful. You tithe, but do you give freely from your heart?
I ain’t got no business going there, so I’ll shut up right now.
I’m watching it rain. I like rain. It makes me feel like my responsibilities can wait another day. “Oh, my retirement rollover? It was raining that day and I just couldn’t get out….”
I have no shortage of excuses when it comes to things like money that’s tied up in paperwork. And cleaning my car. And grocery shopping. And evidently, blogging.
My life is different today than it was a year ago. Better? Probably, but I have a hard time seeing that sometimes. It’s hard to wrap your mind around a totally different outcome than what you were expecting. It’s hard not to get down and wallow and cry until you die.
Just keep typing.
Do I have your attention? Do you know this feeling precisely? Are you hoping I won’t stop so I can validate your feelings too? Yes, I know. I’m reading Facebook memories, and you know how I always go on about funerals I attend of those I love. I’ll have another one for you today. Maybe I should go ahead and say what I have to say.
I don’t know what happened. And if I did, I might not even tell it. It wouldn’t bring him back.
When we say we were friends before birth, it’s the truth. Our mothers were friends, we just lived across the hill from each other. The girl is my age, and she had two younger brothers. We constantly tried to evade them. We grew up, and once we graduated high school, we grew apart. We’ve kept in touch via Facebook all these years, but we don’t go to White Star for hoagies and eat them on my porch anymore. Her brothers quit chasing us with worms several years prior.
She lost her younger brother several years ago. I don’t think I went to the funeral. She lost her Mamaw a few years after that. I did attend that one. And Sunday night, she lost her other brother, the one closest in age to us. And my heart hurts. What would it be like to be the only remaining sibling at this age? You think your brothers will be there to play Uncle for your children forever. You think you’ll always have them around to discuss your mother and go down memory lane with every now and then. I don’t know what else you do with brothers, because I’ve never had one, but I imagine her world is really shadowed today. So my thoughts are with her, and I guess I’m marred down in all of it. More expectations unfulfilled, a life cut short for reasons we can’t explain.
I’m sleepy. But I’m always sleepy, except when I’m supposed to be asleep.
*****Picking this back up six months later
I feel melancholy even more so in winter. It’s easy to hermit up and evade responsibilities (looking at you, bank statements) and not do anything when it’s winter and gray and cold. Wouldn’t we all rather be eating cake by the ocean?
Hmm. Cake by the ocean. I’ve had it, have you? Cake tastes good anywhere, but especially when your toes are in the sand.
So what have I learned in 2019?
I’d like to share some real wisdom here, but I’ve known it all along: pray, eat what you want to, but drink plenty of water, buy whatever it is you keep thinking about, GO, say YES. And know that things will change. They may not get better for awhile, but they will at least change so you’ll have something new to think about. Wishes do come true, but so do nightmares. Just keep breathing. People tell you to take it one day at a time…I know to tell you to take it one breath at a time. I’ve lived through several nights one literal breath at a time. Look for beauty and blessings in everything, even hardships. It’s teaching us something, preparing us for the next step. You don’t have to explain yourself to a soul. The only one who deserves it already knows. Let go and let God. I still say eating tangerines and taking naps keeps you healthy and volunteering changes your heart.
For whatever reason, bits of prayers that are always recited are coming to me now– “With every head bowed and every eye closed~” “Would you come?” “Bless the farmers that grew it and the hands that prepared it~” and it’s consoling.
I hope you all~~ every single eye who reads this~~ have a very Merry Christmas. Here’s to clearer vision and discernment in 2020. May we all have a reason to believe.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
I’ve changed my mind. The gateway drug isn’t alcohol. How could I be so stupid? It is, of course, love.
Love will make you do some crazy shit. And once you lose it, you try to get it back. Enter alcohol.
But love is definitely our first drug. It produces feelings of euphoria. It makes us hallucinate- we see things through rose-colored glasses, do we not? Everything is touched with gold. Everything is surrounded by warmth and light and goodness. And we can’t get enough, we want more, more, more.
We burn with it. We spend money on it, trying to make sure the object of our affection sees how much we’ll sacrifice for it. We cut ties with people who don’t like our love interest. We stop seeing friends in order to see our “soul mate” more.
It’s not healthy. Nothing is in excess. But when you are enjoying riding the high, you don’t think about the repercussions. You don’t want to temper it.
We trade passionate love for other kinds of love when we can’t get the kind of love we want. We shower love on family, on friends, on pets, on making a home. Sometimes this is enough. And sometimes it’s not. And when it’s not, what then? Do you seclude yourself and play music? Furiously scribble some angst-y poetry? Maybe you turn to food and overindulge. Maybe your vice is alcohol. Perhaps something stronger. And here we are, now.
I say, the gateway drug is love.
The cursor blinks in time….wait…wait…wait…
My dog snores.
I chew my fingernails.
I don't need to have a radio going
Or a TV
Or someone here incessantly chatting
It's not unnerving
To live alone
In a house haunted by my grandmother
--it's true!
But it's worrysome
To think about falling down the stairs
And nobody realizing anything is amiss
Until Monday
When I fail to show up for work
And maybe not even then...
I try to be cautious.
Someday
I hope to have steadfast companionship
But so far
There's been a drought
One might say
A moonscape of desolation
But my life doesn't look bad, per se
I've traveled
I've loved
I've lost
I've lost books
earrings
money
friends
patience
But not weight
Not lately
There are worse things
Sour in my mouth when I think of
Fire
Debt
Cancer
Blindness
Addiction
Athiesm
Not taking a chance
Light as a feather
Cozy in my nest
Thoughts of fishing
Whole days spent waiting for a tug
Poetry in motion
Everywhere
My dog snores on
He's a grumpy chunk
Fat 'n sassy, like his momma
Who writes poetry
In the premature winter night
Do you pause to count the church bells
to make sure that they're right
Or do you listen to hear the reverberations
and look for the pigeons in flight
Do you chew your food slowly
and remark on each flavor
Or do you rush and drink away
all that you could savor
Do you ever stop to photograph the daffodils
that grow thick in the hope of spring
Or must you hurry to your next conquest
not thinking of the brightness they would bring
Do you linger over a passage in a book
scribbling a note in the margin
Or do you keep your ears tuned to the TV
and all the senseless jargon
Do you ever wonder what goes on
in the lives we see on Facebook
Or do you think it's close enough to truth
not bothering to pursue a deeper look
Do you stand at the edge of the ocean
and let the sand be sucked from beneath your toes
Or do you stay within your phone all day
and wonder if you captured your best pose
Do you know the difference between someone who's happy
for themselves
and someone who's living to make someone else happy?
Can you recognize the look in their eyes?
Can you see what they need?
Can you define it yourself?
Who are YOU, without your husband or children?
What makes you you, with your flawed teeth that braces never really fixed?
Can you say the alphabet backwards? Can you drive a boat onto a trailer?
Can you read music, recite poetry?
Can you paint the way light falls on water?
Can you identify tracks in the woods?
Can you build a fire, bake a cake from scratch without a recipe, navigate your entire house with your eyes closed?
I want to eat ice cream from a cone and let it drip down my arm
not wondering where I'll find a sink to clean it
I want to dance in the rain and spin around
to songs only found inside my head
and not worry about the mud on my feet
I want to say what I mean and smile great big
or maybe cry crocodile tears
I want to drink sweet wine and tart beer and all the gin
I want to follow the tuxedo cat to see where it leads
I want to eat pasta at midnight
I want to learn a new game
I want to whisper in your ear
until you laugh hoarsely
and make promises I wouldn't want you to keep
I want to drive fast cars fast
and wear feather boas and tiaras on a Tuesday
I want to go to strange cities and find new things to love
I don't want to carry responsibilities
to anyone but myself
I don't want repercussions
and judgement of my selfishness
from those who don't know how to be alive
I once owned the best horse in the world. It’s true, everybody wanted him. He was a perfect blood bay, no markings. Oh, he had about four white hairs where a star would have formed if hairs multiplied like fungi, but they don’t, so no star. He was 15.2 hands, and finely muscled from carrying me around for a minimum of two hours every day. I fed him an all-grain mix, heavy with molasses, cut with a bag of 12% sweet feed because I hadn’t been educated. And of course, I added a supplement for hoof growth, one that’s probably not around anymore, replaced by a fancier, daily-dose, with more attractive packaging, and marketed on all the right websites. I fed a supplement derived from seaweed and it worked great but smelled terrible. But my beautiful Saddlebred consumed it willingly.
This horse would walk through fire for me. He was spirited, and every time I lost my balance, I could feel him shift to accommodate by oaf-like tendencies. He tried to help me look graceful. But I sometimes still wound up on the ground, and he would stop, and look down at me pityingly…maybe with a touch of disdain. I’d dust my breeches off and climb back on, shaking my head at myself.
He was beautiful, and people would stop their cars in the middle of the road to watch us. I’m not kidding. Every time I took him to a horse show or parade I would have no less than three offers on him. My uncle, the horse trader, offered me a tidy little sum for him once, and I doubled the figure to learn his true worth.
He was no trick pony, but I could crawl all over him. I could stand on his back, and if I had possessed better skills, I’m sure I could have ridden him at a gallop this way. He would “shake hands” and park out and swish his tail when we broke to a canter. He stood for the farrier and loaded easily and was broke to the bit, even lowering his head for ease. I don’t know of a single quality this horse didn’t possess.
After I had to have him put down, I wasn’t looking for another horse. But they’re kinda like dogs, sometimes they find you. I found out about a little filly this man wanted rid of. She sounded like a challenging project, which I’m all for, and I sent the guy I was dating at the time with a wad of money to pick her up.
Everything was wrong with this situation. The boyfriend had been around horses his whole life, but couldn’t tell she had been drugged. She walked right up to him and allowed him to halter her and lead her. She was a petite little Arab cross, with a crazy blaze that trailed off her nose about halfway down like a kid had fallen asleep with their crayon. She had one white sock and her coat was a sunburned black. She appeared well fed and delicately muscled. She loaded fine, so she was transported to the old dairy barn on his property in Maryville, where she would spend the next few months subjected to such horrors as saddling, cross ties, and lunging. Lots and lots of lunging.
Every day was a battlefield. Some days it started the moment I walked in the barn, sometimes I could have been riding for twenty minutes before she snapped. Let me tell you, I know the placement of every rock on that farm. And more than one cow patty. You could cut the tension around her with a knife when she was fixing to explode. I’ve never been around another horse like her. If she were human, they would have medicated her for bi-polar disorder. It was an adjustment for me, to learn anew that not all steeds are created equal. Where my Saddlebred met me at the gate every day with a nicker, this sassy bitch would kick the stall door and flatten her ears. He would nearly ground tie, she had 3/8 logging chains for cross ties. Where I could ride over bridges and past balloons with my gelding, this little hussy would flip her idiot switch over a leaf blowing across the path.
She was the best horse I could have had for the time.
So remember, when you’re broken, the person who shows up and is totally different than what you’ve grown accustomed to may be the very best one for your heart. Maybe not forever, maybe just while you heal, but maybe you shouldn’t write off the opposite. Maybe their quicksilver demeanor will teach you to keep your heart guarded. Maybe their lackadaisical nature will remind you to slow down. Perhaps they show you a side you forgot you had because it’s been covered up by everything else you became.
I hope that your anxious heart can find a way to a corner with a giant leafy plant, and a weighted blanket, and a glass of water. I hope that everything is still, and calm, and uncomplicated. I hope that you can find another heart that makes you feel safe and well loved. I hope that you find a way to love someone that is easy to be around. Someone who you’re not having to guess their next move. And I hope we all live happily ever after.
Love from Appalachia,
~ Amy
Yesterday morning I had a visitor to the office. I’ve known him since my earliest days at the Co-op, and I really enjoy our chats. We have those deep conversations that flow easily. Those come way too infrequently for my liking. Most people talk to brag, or talk to gossip, or talk to hear themselves talk. Not him. And it really touches my heart when he takes time out of his day to sit down for a spell. He’s a busy man.
So we got to talking about how fortunate we are, and how we’re not thankful enough for what we’ve got. And, as our conversations invariably go, he got around to telling tales about his dad and his group of buddies. They were truly a redneck gang. They loved to play practical jokes on one another…sometimes even mildly dangerous ones. And ALWAYS ones that will make you late for whatever your next task will be. So he’s recounting some story about a notorious fishing trip and it made me think.
There just aren’t friendships like that anymore.
I have one friend I could call for anything. Annnnnyyyyything. We even had a code for in the event I killed my former husband. I have no doubt she would have come a-runnin’. There might have been more than one or two “oh shit”s uttered, but we would have taken care of business. And it would have been done and that would have been that. I don’t say this lightly. I really and truly mean that Lisa would help me dig. And that’s only if she didn’t run into him in a dark alley before I had the chance. Some of y’all have even met her and see how we are together and know this to be true. We’re dangerous enough together on a good day, sober.
Real friendships are built over time and adventures. I speculate this is why we don’t have these groups of friends now. Our circle is much broader, but it’s not as deep. Our world is so much bigger than it used to be, we’re not contained by geography. You can talk to people all over the world via any number of social media apps. Just a click away. We don’t try to see one another in real life, we can Skype or Facetime from anywhere, any old time. Case in point, when I was in St. Augustine this year, I was having brunch at this wonderful boutique hotel by the name of The Casablanca Inn. I sat at a table on their patio overlooking the harbor and street. I enjoy people watching, and guessing what their story is, where they’re headed that day. This couple comes in, maybe thirty, and takes the table next to me. I’ve pegged her for a high-maintenance someone, her husband is probably an investment banker or maybe a CPA. She had mounds of dark hair twisted up under an extra large black straw hat. She also had a very large clear rock weighing down her left hand. I noticed it when she answered her phone. And kept eyeing it as she merrily chatted away via Facetime to her friend who was in another country. This couple was in town for a wedding. I learned all about it over my multiple Bloody Marys. Her husband patiently looked over the paper while she chatted, holding the phone up at face level while she consumed her entire breakfast. I’m here to tell you, MY patience grew thin with her, even if his didn’t. This wasn’t a friend who rarely called, I gathered. This wasn’t a friend in need. This was just a chat that could have been had at any time. Judging from her husband’s demeanor, this was commonplace. How do you become accustomed to being so blatantly ignored? Sigh. Smartphones are making us ill-mannered humans.
Lisa and I grew up in close proximity to one another, which is how we eventually became so close. Now she lives half a state away, but we have the means to see each other with regularity. Especially in the last year, when we have desperately needed one another. We’ve had several adventures in our lifetime, and they continue to build. We know things about each other that nobody in this whole world knows. Is this part of what makes relationships tight? The ability to blackmail? Maybe that’s what most people call trust? You trust someone with your secrets…your feelings…your heart.
My uncle had a group of buddies, most passed now, that were thick as thieves. They have a million stories dating back to high school and before, when they were old enough to get into meanness. Every time I think I’ve heard them all, I hear a new one. Stories about wrecking cars and motorcycles, “borrowing” boats and hiding equipment. They loved to one up another. They have been known to call and disguise their voice and claim to be with the EPA, the TWRA, or TVA. They know what buttons to push, and how hard. They’d rather aggravate as eat. It’s something all the time, you really have to be on your toes around them or you’ll fall victim.
One such story relayed to me yesterday was of his dad being broke down somewhere in the wild blue yonder about 11:00 at night. One of his buddies in his group was a mechanic. (We all need at least one mechanic friend, and a plumber, and an electrician, in case you haven’t figured this out yet). So he calls up said mechanic and tells him what’s happened. The mechanic commences to cussin’. The guy who had the truck trouble just went ahead and hung up instead of waiting on him to wind down. The feller that was riding with him was in a bit of a panic, wondering what they were going to do now. Their only hope was most assuredly incensed and there was no one else. The driver of the truck stretched across the seat of the cab to take a nap while he waited. “No, he’s coming,” he assured his passenger. “But I heard him cussing you!” “Yeah, but he’s on his way. Just wait.” And sure enough, in a little bit, the time it took the mechanic friend to gather his tools and get there, he showed up, fixed it, cussed him, and left.
I know a guy who has a core group of friends. They get together at least one night a week around a fire to drink beer and tell lies. They’re probably too lazy to kill for one another, but they’d help cover it up. They’ve been friends since grade school. And you can bet they stay off their phones for the most part on those sacred “guy” nights.
I got four hugs yesterday. None were from my best friend, but they were all from good friends. Would these people help me kill somebody that needed killing? Probably not. But I wouldn’t think to ask them. Sometimes you need a hug, and sometimes you need to borrow a backbone. And sometimes you need a kick in the ass that only your best friend can deliver.
I hope you have one. My wish would be for a dozen, but you need one. Go see your best friend today. Surprise them with a hug and some chocolate. It’s Christmas.
There are a lot of rings in rivers. There, under a layer of silt and mud, a multitude of diamond rings gradually becoming covered with sludge and moss, growing dingier and more tarnished by the day. These rings were once worn and cherished by a host of good women. Or maybe they belonged to cruel women. Women with pure hearts and vicious tempers. Women with big smiles and twisted souls. Women who put supper on the table every night and mopped the floor every Saturday morning. Or perhaps she just sat on the couch, talking on the phone and eating bonbons. Maybe she had an agenda the whole time. But I would guarantee you, the rings in the water were loved. As were the men that gave them to the women who slung them. Their rings were never taken off till the day they were. But it’s not the diamond’s fault. The diamond had one job: to sparkle.
At first I didn’t write about it because it was all I could do to get dressed and drag myself to work, forget about extracting words from the shredded pieces of my heart and telling the world my woes.
Then I didn’t write because to write it made it real, and I didn’t want to see it in black and white. I didn’t want to see it at all. I wallowed in the land of delusion, where I didn’t think about it, talk about it, or write about it. I didn’t need therapy. I needed everyone to participate in the “everything is going to be fine” illusion with me. Of course, everyone knew better, including myself. But when people love you they see that sometimes the most helpful thing to do is not talk about it and drift along in your sinking canoe and bail water when the captain ain’t lookin’. Everything’s fine.
Then I didn’t write because I was healing, growing, trying to actually stitch my torn remnants of a life back together and to write was to remember what I once had. And that hurts as bad as any of the rest of it. What makes us sad is comparing what we thought our life was supposed to look like to what it is. Or the idea of something we do not have will make us happy. And we just don’t know that. We never know what may have happened. The world is a tricky place. And things can always be worse. So, it’s best to just roll with it. The more you fight, the more exhausted you become. There’s something to be said about the path of least resistance. And, speaking for myself, I found that when I prayed about it and just continued with my life, the answers presented themselves.
Who wants to read about heartache anyway? We all want a happy ending.
I ripped my diamonds off twice. That hot night in June, when I just knew I would die right there. And I didn’t care. I couldn’t stand to look at them. They were worthless. They meant nothing. I left them gleaming in the angel wing jewelry dish, where they always spent their nights, but now could spend their days. But he didn’t take them when he took everything else.
I slipped them back on a week later, cautiously. They glimmered as always. I guess I expected they would have dulled with my despair. But I wanted to be married, I wanted everyone to know I was married, and safe, and loved. The rings supposedly symbolized that. I saw relief in his eyes when he saw it back on my finger. I wore my set on vacation to St. George, a symbol that I was spoken for, even if I was traveling alone. I wore them to fend off unwanted attention. I wore them as part of a mask. I wore them until New Years Eve. And then I took them off and put them in the wallet I was carrying that day, for lack of knowing what else to do with them. And the next day I changed wallets.
It’s New Years Eve again. There was a heavy frost this morning and it glistened and twinkled like a present I once opened. And I knew today was the day. I’m an island, there is water all around. The trick would be to decide which one could have this precious stone. And I still gritted my teeth, remembering the hours I put in searching for it on my hands and knees at the Co-op, only to find it in the corner of my bathroom at home a week later. It looked like a scrapbook gem. But it was my diamond. I’d already had it replaced, the setting gaping empty like a mouth with a missing molar. And so back to the jeweler’s I went to have the replacement removed and the original put back in its rightful spot. Because to me, it was more than a rock. And now I was throwing it away, like rotting lettuce.
I wanted a bridge high above a clean river. I needed it to flow quickly, a Hellbender’s habitat. No lazy, sluggish, murky river for me and my jewels. Diamonds are formed from coal under pressure. A good woman can be likened to the same. We are made strong from performing efficiently and seamlessly when the clock is ticking. Never let them see you sweat. Be flawless, be one in a million. Be a diamond in the rough.
I parked and walked rapidly, the wind cutting through my clothes. I never have cared for suspension bridges, and every time I’m caught in traffic on any kind of bridge I try to calculate my chances of survival if it were to collapse. Perhaps I shouldn’t have watched The Mothman Prophesies that time. I breathed through my scarf, knowing I would be able to see my breath crystallize if I were to remove it. The sky was clear and blue, the only fog lay in spots along the bank, a patch here and there caught under a tree bent towards the river. Stopping halfway across at the highest point, I reflected on the last ten years. Oh, the absolute heartbreak. And people question me. If I had come here before, I might just go with them. But there’s no chance of that now. I looked at the rings in my palm. I could keep them. No one would ever have to know. I smiled at the fifty-seven tiny perfect stones one last time. They were mine no more. From the earth the came, and to the earth they return. I threw them as hard as I could, and the sun caught their many facets until the river swallowed them. And I walked away lighter.
All these diamonds in the waters aren’t tainted. They were treasured. But they were abandoned, maybe some in a reckless fashion, but most after careful consideration. Maybe someday mine will be found, washing up on a beach or a riverbank. And maybe it can be revived, and slipped onto another hopeful woman’s hand.
Smart women pawn them. Passionate women fling them.
Dear Grandmother,
You’ve been gone eleven years {eleven years!!! I had to count twice, then looked up a picture of your gravestone to make myself believe it}. I guess that’s right. But today doesn’t mark the day of your passing, it is your birthday. No, I didn’t forget. I just haven’t slowed down long enough today string words together in remembrance. I woke up, and it was Pearl Harbor Day, which equates to your birthday. Pearl Harbor day didn’t really resonate with me until a few years ago, when I was having a conversation with a young adult who didn’t have much to remember about 9/11. And that floored me. I couldn’t believe that it was possible to be alive and not recount the horror of that day in full detail.
I digress.
It’s a clear night, the moon is half full, and it’s cold enough to see my breath. You’d like it.
I have so much to tell you, everything has changed since you’ve been gone. But you know, you haunted me for awhile. Why’d you quit, anyway? I knew it was you the whole time. I guess you moved on because it quit being fun.
How do you like the new floors? I’m certain you hate the yellow wall. And probably my painting, too. It’s too abstract for your taste, I know that.
I still don’t like kids, and I’m thankful I never had any. I don’t know who I would have drowned first, them or me.
I went to a talk about the history of Boyds Creek last week, you would have enjoyed it.
Fake eyelashes are back in style. I have no intention of wearing them.
I haven’t broke but one bushel of green beans since you’ve been gone. I almost miss it. Almost. The only thing I canned was strawberry jam, and it came out way too sweet and runny. So I just buy Smuckers.
I still won’t touch Jack Daniels with a ten-foot pole but I’m pretty good at drinking beer. I watch it, though. I’m too fat, I can hear you telling me to do something about it.
I occasionally get a whiff of you, your perfume, your cigarettes. I’m not sure if it’s a memory or if some remote corner of somewhere got stirred up.
I don’t carry your .38 now, but I still have it. I upgraded to a 9mm. Bigger hole, longer range 🙂 And let me say, I totally understand why you shot at your ex-husband when he came by for a “chat”. I’m only surprised you aimed low intentionally. That’s some willpower.
There’s a dog in the house now, I bet you hate that. How’s Crockett? I miss him a lot.
I work for the government now, I’m not sure how you’d feel about that. My job isn’t political, I just help farmers, like I always tried to. Gary Hicks is one of my overseers. Is Uncle Bill allowed to call you Fat Willie there? Tell him he can float me some five-dollar bills down any time. That goes for you, too. Just because I’m 40 doesn’t mean I’m too good for small bills. They spend, too. Although My Little Ponies cost more than that these days. I think of you anytime someone mentions Cas Walker. I also think of you when somebody says they can’t stand to watch Reba McEntire sing.
I still can’t play the guitar, and I don’t care a fig for it. The radio works just fine. I did try to resurrect my clogging skills, they have long since departed. But I bought a pair of red shoes to have on hand just in case I get a wild hair to practice a lot.
You’ll be pleased to know I gave up horses altogether. Too much work and much too expensive. And, admittedly, the ones I prefer are a bit dangerous.
Mamaw & Pap’s old house is coming right along. I think it’s gonna look great when they get done.
I don’t visit your grave, I hope you don’t mind. Mom keeps you in some very nice seasonal decorations. Oh! The best news is Alabama won’t be going to the National Championship this year! LSU and Auburn kicked their ass and it was wonderful. The Cowboys are holding their own, I hated to see them lose to the Patriots a couple of weeks ago. Peyton is doing commercials now, and he cracks everybody up. I love him so hard. What a class act.
I’m still a voracious reader, and serving on the Regional Library Board has come to break my heart after only one meeting. It’s funny how my life is already coming full circle in so many aspects.
It’s the witching hour, and you always said nothin’ good happened after midnight, so I’m gonna wash my face and go to bed. I hope you’re proud of me at least part of the time. I do the best I can…I do the best I can FOR ME…which some will call selfish. And I guess that’s true, too. You taught me how to be a strong, confident woman who doesn’t take crap from anybody. I sure am proud of you. The older I get, the more appreciative I am of what you endured.
Love,
Amy
