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
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! 😂😂ðŸ˜ðŸ˜ðŸ˜ðŸ˜
#ohthegoodoledays 1993 4-evr
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
