Y’all probably think I’m a ridiculous sap, but I just want to say that I’m despondent over East Town Mall closing. Even though its glory days are more than a decade past, I’ll never forget the good ol’ days of walking around in a pack of best girlfriends all day Saturday, giggling and looking cool in our stone washed Guess jeans with layered slouch socks, crimped hair scraped back into neon scrunchies, and an armful of jelly bracelets every color of the rainbow. We’d hit 5-7-9 and Merry Go Round first, then the music store (singles tapes!), fawn over the puppies and kittens in the pet store, then maybe have a slice of pizza in the food court. We’d get mildly freaked out by the weird witchy stuff in Crystal Visions, check out clothes in Express and Limited, try on leather pants in Wilson’s Leather, buy some glitter nail polish from Claire’s, and pretend we were punk enough to pull off the tank tops in Rave. We’d point at boys with their long skater hair and follow them around till they went in the game store behind the waterfall. We’d go smell erasers in Hello Kitty and widen our eyes at the displays in the windows of Fredericks of Hollywood then make for Victoria Secret, pretending we were just there for lotion. We’d share pretzels or dippin’ dots and laugh ourselves silly when we saw someone with toilet paper stuck to their shoes. We made fun of the Oriental families who always seemed to be there, because we had never heard people talk like that in East Tennessee. No trip to the mall was complete without a visit to Spencer’s to see all the racy gag gifts.
We’d catch a movie at the cinema and finally meet whichever mom drove us at the entrance to Dillard’s at the prescribed hour… because back then somebody had to be the designated watch wearer. There was no texting to see where you were, or let whoever know you were running late. You simply set a time, and you had to be there- or be square! 😂😂😭😭😭😭
#ohthegoodoledays 1993 4-evr
I am not a secret
I am a siren
I am not a mediator
for those who are weak
I am the spokesman
I will not drag you with me
I will proudly walk alone
Fearless
Because I faced the worst
a long time ago
I am strong willed
Strongly opinionated
Strong legs to stand tall
not for running
Strong lungs to exhale
and blow you from me
I will continue, undaunted
Caution trampled
I am not sugar
I am gin
That bites back
I am honest to a fault
voir dire
I am blue eyes and unruly red hair
I am tears for an instant
Then I am fierce
I am a switchblade when my anger flares
I am not a shrinking violet
I am a strutting, bold raven
With thorns held in my beak
For my nest in the highest, sturdiest oak
I have never been a coward
But will shatter my heart with a disaster
To prove I will rise from the flames
I will not listen when you
label me with your insecurities
Your aggression is nothing to me
My confidence is a fortress
I will not heed your warnings
and think that I am broken
Because you don't approve
of What I Am.
*Listening to Kacey Musgraves this morning, who is not pageant material either
It’s been awhile since I’ve written one of these.
Find joy where you can.
I like when the sun shines on snow and makes it sparkle.
I like Christmas decorations, except Santa.
I like Johnny Depp’s movies. I’d like an opportunity to find out if I’d like him in person.
I like reading real books, except when it’s dark- then I like my Kindle.
I like trips. Short ones, long ones, on a plane or in a car. To the city, to the sea.
I like trees and I will cry if deprived of them for an extended period. I like magnolias and live oaks best of all.
I like dogs with spots.
I like drinking cold beer on warm nights outside.
I like seeing 4-wheel drives that look like they’re actually taken off-road.
I like corny jokes.
I like being near water.
I like all the items on the Chickalay menu. Except that kale stuff. That should go without saying. And the macaroni, which I have not tried.
I like watching groundhogs.
I like driving when there’s not much traffic and the road spreads out before me. I like going 100.
I like flowers, but not the common ones. Keep your roses and daisies and babies breath. And your carnations, too. Bring me daffodils and dahlias and foxglove and lilies.
I like people that tell the truth.
I like my red hair.
I like singing, even though I suck at it.
I like dancing in the morning.
I like a lot of sugar in my coffee.
I like fences and old mailboxes.
I like to wear navy.
I like boots and high heels and sticky nights at the rodeo.
I like helicopters and trains and carousels.
I like looking at people and guessing their story. Their occupation, the relationship of the people they’re with.
I like eating big steaks and complaining that I ate too much afterwards.
I like cupcakes, but not at weddings.
I like key lime pie and creme brulee.
I like mozzarella cheese, basil, and tomatoes for a snack.
But I also like squirt cheese and chicken crackers.
I like feeling fancy on a average day.
I like forgotten notes inside books.
I like ludicrous objects found along the shore.
I like it when people say ridiculous things on a whim, when they don’t take themselves so seriously.
I like Etsy.
I like chocolate in non-conformist shapes.
I like I Love Lucy.
I like old country songs, old southern houses, and old men waiting for their wives.
I like some facial hair on a man, and eyes that sparkle, and a keen sense of humor. I like when they wear boots to make their living. I especially like it when they can operate heavy machinery.
I like not having to make a decision on dinner.
I like rain one day at a time.
I like when my copy machine works and I don’t have to cuss it.
I like to see kids playing outside.
I like seeing people talking to each other over dinner, not on their phones.
I like spending time with people who make me forget I have a phone.
I like to see people join hands and pray before a meal, especially in public.
I like to see people hold hands.
I like our flag. I think it’s the most beautiful of all.
I like .5 lead pencils.
I like watching cows. I also like eating them, as described above.
I like cheeseburgers a lot.
I like the smell of charcoal and cinnamon bread at Dollywood and the smell of the ocean when you first get there and open your car door for the first time in hours and it’s kind of repulsive but then you realize how much you’ve missed it.
I like blackberry cobbler, and that makes me miss my neighbor, Mrs. Conner.
I like watching birds hunting worms or just sitting there, singing. Why do they sing?
I like Kacey Musgraves and Margo Price and Brandi Carlilie and Sturgill Simpson. I think they’ve got nothing to hide and they’re not singing to impress anybody. They are birds.
I like lizards, but I like salamanders better.
I like seeing people hope for something that I already know will come true.
I like being downtown. I like mailmen that walk.
I like people that still wear “old school” watches.
I like baskets of apples.
I like it when we know the same people.
I like to talk about what you like.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
I’ve been having that anxious, at ends, nothing-is-quite-right feeling for some time now. When in truth, everything is better than it has been for awhile.
But my brain never has paid much attention to black and white facts.
I had been blaming my coffee; I’ve taken it back up in earnest with the temperature recently plummeting. And I’m glad of it, make no mistake. but then I got to thinking. I haven’t written anything in quite some time. So I decided to write.
But it’s a mine field. Nothing feels like a safe topic. Do I pour my guts out and make myself cry? That would be stupid. Do I slash someone else’s guts out and hope I make them cry? That’s not very nice.
So I’m just gonna start, innocuously enough, with fog.
Fog is appropriate for these -ber months. I prefer it only in October, though, when it’s setting you up for the spooky holiday at the end of the month. And it just occurred to me–wouldn’t it be nice if ALL holidays fell on the last day of the month? That way, you’ve got the enitre month to prepare and celebrate early, if you wish. You don’t have to keep up with if it’s the first Monday of the month, or the third Thursday, or anything else. It’s the LAST DAY OF THE MONTH. And that way, if you’re partial to say, 4th of July, you can celebrate it all month without it being rooted out by Columbus Day or something. I, myself, like St. Patrick’s Day rather well, and feel that it is overshadowed and frowned upon by the Valentine’s Revelers. (Of course, that’s not true at all, but I’m not ready to engage in debate on Christmas decorations in homes before Thanksgiving. I love decorating for Christmas, and it IS a lot of work for only a month, but I don’t start early anymore because I love my fall decorations almost as much).
But back to the fog. I read Sean Dietrich’s column religiously, and I often think of him when I’m writing. Or when I’m thinking about writing, I should say. Because I haven’t been writing. See, Sean is pretty good. He seems to keep it on the surface for the most part, but there’s quite a bit of emotion in his posts. You just have to be open to it. He’s not going to go into a big flowery description of the love he feels for his wife, or baseball, or Alabama…but he will tell you how her cornbread is the best he’s ever had, and he can spout off statistics for a number of Major League teams and their roster for any given year, and how big the mosquitoes are in his backyard buzzing around Thelma Lou’s head. Thelma Lou is his beloved bloodhound, by the way, not his wife. Sure, Sean is slightly repetitive, and mildly boring to some, but I like him. But I also sympathize with his readers that have written him to say that perhaps he should come up with some new material.
I get it. I do. He romanticizes the South because he can’t help it. He writes about the things he loves every day and it just happens to be the same dozen things. He has a small-ish life, and he’s content with that. Not all of us are jet setting to the South of France and wine tasting in Tuscany every few weeks. Some of us just want to lay on a porch swing and drink sweet tea all afternoon. Oh, I forgot. It’s fall. Some of us just want to sit around a campfire and drink hot chocolate half the night. I’m not even high-brow enough to desire a fireplace and red wine. What? Nobody says high-brow anymore? Fine. Cultured, then. It’s obvious to me you can’t please everybody with your writing. Look at Stephen King! He’s definitely not everybody’s cup of tea, but he’s got his {massive} following. Just like Sean D. People will read what they want to. I guess y’all are wondering if I’m ever gonna get around to it, but I warned you my mind is all atwitter.
There’s a fly aggravating me. Shouldn’t he be dead by now? Heeheehee. That makes me think of someone else that should be dead by now, due to his lifestyle.
Hmm. Fog, was it? Back in the spring, I missed a good picture. I thought about turning around to take it, but that would have made me late for work. It was Dr. Lyle’s cows, placidly grazing on a hilltop behind a barbed wire fence, fog surrounding them, while the sun rose throwing sherbet light over it all.
Or maybe I romanticize cows.
There was another time, a gloomy October day a couple of years ago. It was one of those days where it had rained off and on all day, just enough to make it dank and dismal. I was coming home the scenic route and the fog laid through this holler wispy around the edges. The trees had shed their leaves and were black and had that Sleepy Hollow quality, growing over the road, branches reaching for each other and making a tunnel. It was just the right amount of creepy. But I was also glad I didn’t live in that stretch of backwoods.
I’ve got a tiny sliver of glass embedded in my thumb. I noticed it last night- that uncomfortable feeling when I bent it at the knuckle. I should have gotten it out then. Now it’s gonna take more than scotch tape to remove it. I’m thinking one of those Biore strips for blackheads will suffice.
I wish I knew more about the Heavens. I really would like to be able to point out more constellations. As it stands, I can rarely find the Big Dipper. They all look alike to me and I can find points everywhere.
Well. I’ve just checked my word count and I’m right at 1000 about a bunch of nothing and that’s plenty for y’all to suffer through. I do hope you’ve found a respite from your day through this, if nothing else. Maybe you’re feeling fortunate you don’t live inside my head (you should). I wish I had some deep seated inspirational words of wisdom to share with you. But it’s me we’re talking about. All I can tell you is go forth and do your best to stay happy, at whatever cost.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
I was working on one of those time-wasting questionnaires on Facebook this morning. I need an activity while I drink my coffee, otherwise my dog thinks it’s my job to pet him with my free hand. And I DO pet him, but it’s never enough. He is such an indulged glutton. Anyway, I’m whizzing right along answering the “Adult” questions- no, no, not like that, they were the style of “what bill do you hate the most?” and “which housecleaning chore do you put off until you hate yourself?”, stuff like that. Then one gave me pause. “Found Love Yet?”
Well helllll-o. Of course if you live past the age of seventeen you’ve found love. But did love reciprocate? As you grow older, you come to realize that love isn’t just about spending the rest of your days with another human you’ve found attractive. Well, I hope you realize it, anyway. You’ve loved your whole life. You loved your mother, you loved macaroni and cheese, you loved your tire swing, you loved your mangy dog. Whatever. But of course this shallow test didn’t mean that. It meant the “traditional” sense of finding love.
Well, sure I found it. And it was reciprocated. And we were bound by vows given in fancy attire in front of our closest 125 friends in the sweltering heat at a grand old plantation house and I have a stamped piece of paper from the courthouse proving it. And pictures that I can’t be bothered to burn because I looked so damn pretty and even my hair behaved that day.
So yeah, I found love. And then love walked out.
It will never matter how many times he says he’s sorry, or how many of his friends tell me how much he regrets it, or how many times he says he loves me to this day and forever. Because he didn’t value it. So it wasn’t love. His words have no life, no power over me. I listen in a distracted way, when I’m forced to listen. It’s like hearing a story about someone you used to know. Really, that’s what it is.
His current life is unlike anything I ever imagined. I feel no grief, no pain, no regrets now. This is by his design. I will not let him guilt me into any emotion. We all cope differently. If not for several special friends and family, I might have a very different story, myself. I have gotten through this part of my life by a glossing-over mechanism, a fake-it-till-you-make-it style of coping. I don’t think about it much, and if I do, I try to replace it with what good, lovely things have come from it. This may not be ideal, and it may not work for everyone, but it has worked for me. And I stayed busy- going to the gym, having dinner and drinks with friends, my virtual farm (I’m six weeks sober from it hahahhaha), I even picked up a second job for awhile. Spreading joy through icing is a definite pick-me-up! We’re not all given the same shot at life, I agree with that. But you make decisions every day. I’m a firm believer in who you choose to spend time with will either improve your life or worsen it. Choose carefully. And if you don’t have any that will have a positive impact, you better learn to spend time alone. Love yourself first and best. Don’t depend on another for your happiness. They can add to it, but don’t let someone else have the reins. I ate supper with two of my closest friends Wednesday night. As I sat there, I was overwhelmed with appreciation and thankfulness that my life is what it is. So many people would like to have two true friends. So many people would like to be able to go have a steak dinner (or the World’s Largest Pork Chop, as the case may be). So many women are stifled in this very country and are unable to get a night out alone with their girlfriends, or a night out, period. For whatever reason: religion, controlling husband, too many demands on their time. Maybe their own stigma of not deserving it.
Love is a prickly thing. You may be questioning it today. But true love really is unconditional. It’s caring about another person’s happiness more than your own. It’s letting them find their path without interference from you. It’s being able to call anytime, any where, and having a safe haven. That’s what love is. Love is “did you eat something?” or “I’ll come get you” or sometimes it’s just the bald truth. Because no matter how difficult the truth is to hear, it will always trump a lie. Lies are not protection.
So I hope you’ve found that kind of love. If you haven’t, keep looking. They tell me it’s out there in the form of forever and always. Oh, and there is one little trick– you have to love yourself first. Be the person you would want to love.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy
I’ve been poisoning the ants at work for some time. I can’t tell that there have been any long term effects. I KNOW Terro works, I’ve used it for years at home and recommended it to countless people. I have had to hear people groan that they’re only feeding them, because you don’t actually get the enjoyment of watching their little bodies keel over, as it is a bait- they carry it back to their Motherland to be put in the catacombs and clutches for the entire colony to divide and consume.
Socialism, I say.
So anyway, about a week ago, I had stuck some Eggos in the toaster and topped them with blueberries. One can’t have fresh blueberry waffles without whipped cream, so I was squirting it artfully around when I ran out.
You know what happens when you reach the end of a can of Redi Whip? I’ll tell you, it ain’t pretty. You don’t even get a warning. Everything is going fine, and then it suddenly isn’t. The little globs of cream shoot haphazardly all over the place. It was on the counter, in the sink, probably dripping off the cabinet. I had whipped cream dotting my arms, my shirt, my glasses. But I’m not one to let a little mess stand between me and breakfast. I went ahead and ate. When I took my plate to the sink several minutes later, I noticed a stray ant that had ventured down into the sink to investigate. I assumed he was a scout, like in the old days of the American Frontier- like Deets on Lonesome Dove. His job was to find water, the ant’s job was to find saccharine. I turned the water on with the intent of drowning him before he could summon his whole army, but he was too quick for me. He scampered up the side of the sink and was gone through a hairline crack before I could bat my eyes.
I washed up all my dishes and got the whipped cream wiped off all the surfaces.
Some time later, I was back in the kitchen, and here are a herd of ants, congregated at the sink. They looked like they were having a conference, antennae waving. I dropped some goo in their path from whence they trooped, and watched.
I became concerned.
Obviously, one of the ants was the ant from earlier, probably pleading his case, waving his tiny arms around, indicating that there had indeed been glorious sticky puddles of sugar here, there, and everywhere, but mysteriously, now they were all gone without a trace. Had I inadvertently endangered this poor ant’s life by cleaning up what I saw as a mess, what he saw as livelihood? What would be his fate? Would they hang him from the gallows? Stone him on the courthouse steps with sand? Would it be OUR courthouse or did ants have an elaborate system of checks and balances like a democracy or were they ran by a monarch? Would they call “off with his head!!”???
This was all my fault.
And so I drowned the lot of them.
All for one, and justice for all. Or something like that.
😁
I hope you have a friend that sits.
I hope you have someone who won’t ask questions, or tell you what they would do in your shoes, or how they’ve handled a similar situation. I hope you have a friend that sits.
I hope you have a friend that will take you to a restaurant and buy your lunch, and not expect you to eat a bite. I hope you have a friend that will ask the waiter for a box while you cry quietly.
I hope you have a friend that will come pick you up and take you to church with them and sit, holding your hand as you weep into their shoulder. I hope you have a friend that sits.
I hope you have a friend that opens their home to you when you cannot bear to be alone. I hope they putter around busily, making dinner and coffee and maybe baking a cake for a coworker. I hope you have a friend that is kind and quiet and keeps the TV on the cooking channel.
I hope your friend has a dog. Because dogs help everything. And dogs sit, too.
I hope you have a friend that isn’t ashamed to have no other purpose than to be on suicide watch because they love you.
I hope you have a friend that goes with you when you’re ready, no matter what it is you’re ready for. I hope they sit beside you in your car, laughing manically, or singing at the top of their lungs.
I hope you have a friend that sits, and asks nothing of you, besides, “When you’re ready, can I go with you?”
You need a great many friends in this life. But I hope you are blessed with at least one friend who sits.
And if you find yourself lacking, I can be that for you. It would be my honor and pleasure.
One tear
Waits for its companion
On the curve of an eyelash
It doesn't have to wait long, and they are replaced by another
And another
And another
Let me go
I want to scream
You sacrificed nothing
And I want to be untethered
And without remorse
But I must settle for drowning
In sorrow
In pear wine
In my solitude
With only tears
That never stop falling
It is summer
It is always summer
When he emerges
No matter where he's been
But I won't save him again
