My Grandmother had died.
We were planning her non-funeral and trying to determine what to put on a headstone. She wasn’t a religious woman. Nothing seemed right, all these pat phrases about healing and peace and joy. She was probably a little mad about dying, to tell you the truth. She wasn’t done watching her stories, or watching her grandson grow up. She was pretty much done with me, though, I’ll tell you that. My grandmother was a PISTOL, right up to the end. I went to great lengths not to cross her.
She had everything wrote out, which my mother decided to blatantly disobey. She didn’t want her name in the paper under obituaries “because it ain’t nobody’s damn business when I die”, she didn’t want a funeral “because I don’t want anybody lookin’ at me while I’m layin’ there, dead” and she didn’t want a preacher “cause they’re all a bunch of liars.”
Well.
She swore she’d haunt us, but I didn’t think she would because she didn’t want to die in the house on account of me being afraid to live there. More on that in a minute. But mom wasn’t scared of her, and neither was Uncle Dale, so they conspired to give a memorial service. Nobody would speak, and it would be fairly informal. I don’t remember what we did about the obituary. I can’t find it online, so that tells me we didn’t have one.
But back to the matter of her gravestone. Like I said, she wasn’t religious, so the crosses and doves and the like were out. Doesn’t leave a lot to choose from, but she did love fall, and there were some leaves. And then…
And THEN….
We ran up on a football leafing through the pages of clip art that could be created. And that settled that.
She loved the Tennessee Volunteers and the Dallas Cowboys, so it was a no- brainer.
Now for a phrase…a lift-me-up, feel good about life slogan to be firmly engraved on your final resting spot. None of these sickly sweet “I’ll be the star in the sky” or this crap about beautiful sunsets and comforting winds at your back would do. Nothing about gifts of today or tenderness and kindness and loving words to soothe the soul. Nope.
She would have probably appreciated something about working hard for the money, or dancing in sparkly shoes while you can (I get it honest), or perhaps don’t bother with flowers, bring chocolate and Jack Daniels but those aren’t really appropriate. Even though Bette Davis’ says “She did it the hard way”. Why do funeral directors make you pick out an epitaph right away? You ain’t right in the head for a little bit. But maybe it’s better to just get it over with. So on we searched. Everything felt hollow, all these trite expressions and passages from a Bible she didn’t read. And then I just sat back and thought.
Live, laugh, love. A common enough expression, and one she was on board with. So there we had it. Off to the presses.
Below is the finished product. I hated to abbreviate the months, it felt so tacky, even though the lady assured us that how it’s done these days. I reckon I’m gonna save for a tomb, whether it be here or New Orleans and just be covered UP with words…some of my own, of course, and a few passages from Gone With The Wind. Yes, I know it’ll cost. I priced the mini palaces already. It’s like a car payment. But…worms.
Mom does all the decorating. I take no credit. I rarely even visit.
I never know with these word prompts whether I’m gonna tell you the truth or spin some yarn. Sometimes I want to do both. And I bet sometimes I could trick you on which one was true, if it wasn’t too far fetched. Of course, sometimes my life is so weird you might guess wrong!
Let’s picture it: pure white, uniform crystals that faintly glitter, mounded up like a snow capped peak outside Denver. Dense and easily confused with sugar, but smaller granules in common households. Representative of superstitions and a commodity throughout all the years of human existence. Found in every home, forever and always. Frequently given as a traditional housewarming gift known as a pounding: pound of sugar, pound of flour, pound of butter, pound of cornmeal, and a pound of salt. May their lives always have flavor.
My grandmother loved salt. She added it liberally to watermelon, beans, creamed potatoes, anything just about. After she passed, I couldn’t ever get my mashed potatoes to come out like hers and Uncle Dale laughed and said, “Pilgrim, you ain’t dumpin’ enough salt to ’em!” That was a fact. She must’ve used half a salt shaker at a time for a pot of them.
My cousin must have watched her cooking pretty close, because she decided to make a batch of chocolate chip cookies when she was around ten or so. According to her, she read the teaspoon as tablespoon….but I think she was channeling Grandmother and thought they would taste better with a copious amount of salt because everything else did! We tried to eat them….but they were decidedly disgusting. I couldn’t make fun of her, though. Us cousins don’t have the best track record when it comes to chocolate chip cookies. I had tried to make some in the toaster oven when I was older than I care to admit.
I have a friend now who just won’t eat it. He refuses to salt anything at all. Not potatoes, not eggs, not nothin’. I’m not a big fan, myself, due to everything having sodium already added, but I do have to salt my taters, maters, and eggs! I mean, it’s detrimental to the quality of taste. Pepper just don’t cut it sometimes. And butter tastes better salted. I’m not much of a baker, so it’s not like I’m screwing up some scientific ratio recipe (also why I’m not much of a baker). Now, I tell you what I don’t like. Saltwater in my mouth. Instant gag. I feel like when I’m swimming in the ocean I should take my Camelback out there just in case. It’s so gross, and all I can envision are the little microbes swimming around in it and all the nastiness that’s drifted over from Tokyo…ICK. This coming from a girl who remembers licking the cattle’s salt blocks in the pasture field.
That makes me think of all the thousands of discussions I’ve had over the counter at the Co-op about white salt versus trace mineral salt. Hint: IT’S THE SAME THING!!!!!!!!! Look at the label. There’s just enough copper in it to turn it brown. If you want a mineral, buy a mineral. but if you’re feeding quality feed in the correct amounts, you probably don’t need to. I’m gonna go ahead and quit on that note before I get my blood pressure up.
I thought I was doing so good, I was only buying the straight-outta-the-mountains Himalayan Pink Salt that you have to use a salt mill for. It’s supposedly “good salt” like avocados are “good fat”. Well, I’ve got bad news. According to my cardiologist, whom I trust implicitly, salt is salt is salt. Is salt. So just buy the cheap stuff. Don’t waste your time or brain cells. It’s all gonna kill us. Even though they inject potassium as a lethal injection, no doubt they could use salt. AND, we’d already be halfway to preserved. Remember Call packed Gus in all that salt to get him back to Texas from Montana? It is good for that. And tanning hides. I’m not talking about the kind we got growing up, but literal hides.
So. All in all, salt ain’t so bad. You gotta have it. It’s not necessarily life giving, but it’s life sustaining. One doesn’t say so-and-so “is the sugar of the Earth” or “the kale of the Earth”. No. they say “salt of the Earth”. Because salt is important.
There’s a whole book if you’d like actual facts about salt (not just my witless ramblings), and it was a best seller last year. Get it here—- https://amzn.to/2TI1MXr
I try to make my blog posts about me. Not only because I’m vain and self-centered (what? Y’all thought I didn’t know??) but because every English teacher I’ve ever had stressed that you have to write about what you know. And I know me. I was striving to name things I felt like I had conquered and it all seemed like such a sham. People tell me I’m competitive, but I don’t see it. I just want everybody to work as hard as me so we can get the desired result quicker. If one man isn’t rowing, it puts a strain on the rest of the crew to pull his weight. I can’t stand people who take up space and don’t contribute.
I realized I haven’t conquered much when I set down to it. There’s so much unfinished business out there. But let me tell you, I just finished a book by someone who has.
Jewel Kilcher.
She frankly amazes me. She fended pretty much for herself growing up in Alaska. She moved to Hawaii for a semester, staying with her aunt, just to try something different. When that didn’t work out, she got the money up and came home. She was yodeling in bars with her daddy when she wasn’t any bigger than a minute. She hitchhiked all over Alaska as a minor to go see her worthless mother. When she was 15, she raised the money to attend a private music school in the midwest for two years. Tom Bodett of Motel 6 fame helped her. She lived out of her beater car for a year, then a Volkswagon van. She showered in a stranger’s home who was running an escort service on the side. She spent several weeks or months (it was unclear to me) hitching around Mexico and contracted the first of many kidney infections. It’s a thousand wonders she didn’t die from one of them or somebody slashing her throat. Many times she was turned away because she wouldn’t work her body for her music. For someone who appears so fragile and sweet, she’s a dang fire ant, tenacious and determined, rebuilding and improving on anything she’s ever done. A philanthropist and folk singer, Jewel has truly built an empire from nothing. She seems so wispy and delicate but girl has got nerves of titanium. She gives credit to her ability to meditate her way through anxious times and distance herself from negative energy. She builds new pathways in her mind and refuses to get stuck in a worrying rut. I think she’s phenomenal. Even if you’re not a fan of her (pure) music, you could probably get a lot from her book. Here’s your handy dandy link: https://amzn.to/2HXkKrj I haven’t touched on hardly any of her accomplishments, but trust me, they’re there. And hard earned.
Jewel makes me think of Dolly, our local girl. She overcame so much and rose to the top like the angel she is. You would be hard pressed to find a single soul who has a bad word to say about her. She has charisma and charm in spades, not to mention a fantastic sense of humor and wit. Dolly grew up as poor as they come in a holler up the road from where I write. She had to fight tooth and nail against her brothers and sisters for a scrap of anything worth having. She got out of here to make somethin’ of herself, and boy did she! But girl worked for it. She’s a pretty as a speckled pup and bedecked in the snazziest dresses and jewelry possible, but still salt of the earth and humble. I don’t have to tell you about her awards won throughout her musical and film making careers. Everyone knows she’s fabulous, but did you know what all she does for the kids in this county? She sends them a book a month from birth to five years old through her foundation. When I went to the website to validate this, I found that this program now reaches children all over the world! I was astounded by how many books have been gifted since the conception in 1995. This act of wonderfulness touches my heart so much I can barely see to type. Read more at https://imaginationlibrary.com/ Dolly is truly something else. She also gives $1000 to each graduating senior at her Alma mater to encourage them to stay in school. Education and literacy are extremely important to her. It’s okay to talk and think like a hillbilly, but you better have some book sense to get through this world. After the wildfires in 2016, she also stepped up to help the displaced families in a very real way. With CASH. She is a true steel magnolia. Speaking of that, when the crew was filming down in Louisiana during the summer, all the actresses were frying. ‘The women were dressed for Christmas, and Dolly was sitting on the swing. She had on that white cashmere sweater with the marabou around the neck, and she was just swinging, cool as a cucumber. Julia said, “Dolly, we’re dying and you never say a word. Why don’t you let loose?” Dolly very serenely smiled and said, “When I was young and had nothing, I wanted to be rich and famous, and now I am. So I’m not going to complain about anything.” Taken from this Garden and Gun article: https://gardenandgun.com/feature/thirty-years-of-steel-magnolias/ Grace and beauty abound under all that makeup and sparkle. The God just shines out of some people, and she’s one of them. We’ll probably never know the extent to which she helps people, all the souls she’s touched.
Scarlett O’Hara, even though fictitious, is another strong willed, driven, courageous woman who conquered Yankees, Carpetbaggers, destitution, and starvation. All anybody gave her credit for was a pretty face. Scarlett raised her chin and got to work, doing whatever had to be done to not perish like so many after the War. Call her what you will, but call me back after you’ve birthed a baby with Sherman burning down the city around you, fled in a wagon with said mother and child behind a stolen mule to travel hundreds of miles of rutted dirt roads across enemy territory to find your home ransacked, your Momma dead, and your Daddy crazy. Tell me you’ve conquered life after you’ve thrown dirt in the face of a scallywag trying to buy your home, slapped the jawteeth loose of two Southern gentlemen (done!), picked cotton till your hands blistered and calloused, killed a Yankee deserter, stood up to the face of old Atlanta for decades, and buried two husbands and a child. When you’ve pulled yourself up by your bootstraps after you declare your true feelings to the loves of your life and they look right through you and leave. When you make a way for the rest of your life.
Yeah. I’d want Scarlett in my corner every time.
You better watch these women who seem to be all bosom and no brains. They conquer worlds.
{WP #815 the poem that won awards and sparked so many to love poetry again}
I sat down to write it, summoning Jesus (’cause everybody’s momma loves Jesus), Shel Silverstein (’cause grownups and kids alike love him), and David Allan Coe (’cause he wrote the ultimate country and western song). I had to be humble, and funny, and true. I had to please the masses. My success depended on it. No pressure, right?
It had to have music and roses and candlelight
To make everything just right
It had to be whimsical
And moody
And uplifting
But also rhyme and not be uptight
It had to say a million "I love you"s
It had to sing with all the joy everlasting
It had to be the one thing you could memorize
And let the world know you were sophisticated
It had to make you forget about your problems
And make you feel light
And graceful
And place stars in your eyes
It had to talk about all the ugly things turned beautiful
Because this is the perfect poem
The one where there is the gorgeous tree
And the luscious fruit
And the breathtaking ocean
And all the things we dream about at our desks at 1:30 in the afternoon
{WP #942 The City Behind the Waterfall}
My backpack weighed only eight pounds, but it may as well have been eighty. The mosquitoes were literally eating me alive, and I wondered how effective my malaria shots were if the swarm sucked all my blood and I had to have a transfusion from a native who had NOT had the recommended rounds of anti-malarial antibodies? Something else to worry about. Writing for National Geographic had been a dream of mine since I was old enough to look at the pictures, and I knew I was beyond fortunate to have this experience, but the tribesman scout that I had been assigned to was a brutal hiker and I was dog tired.
I missed my dog, speaking of dogs. I missed chili dogs from street vendors in Chicago. I missed going to the movies to see a chick flick. I missed my beautiful canary yellow Volkswagon Beetle. I missed getting all the electricity I needed from a wall socket. I missed makeup and uncomfortably high heels, and most especially, I missed my books.
I collapsed on a rock covered with vines. I didn’t have the energy to look for snakes. All I’d seen were lizards lately, anyway. They liked lounging on my tent. My Bushman stopped his whacking and faced me with the universal quizzical “How can she be tired already? Wimpy girl” look. I feel sure that if he knew how to roll his eyes, he would have. Or if he’d had a watch to tap, maybe that. As it was he looked up, maybe to check the weather, but giving me another view of the porcupine quill through his nose.
He snorted and vaguely gestured with his arm. In response, I chugged water and slowly brought my legs under me to stand. I was dirty and itchy and exhausted. We’d hiked ten hours to our campsite from the village the day before, and were on our sixth hour today into the jungle. I had been assured there was a waterfall of enormous beauty nestled in this region, and this particular tribe guarded its secret.
So we trudged on, wet leaves smacking me in the face, going ankle deep in soggy moss every 100 yards or so. My wool socks were most definitely causing blisters but I knew Patoi Pete here wasn’t about to let me stop long enough to change them. I was panting and thinking how this looked like Jurassic World when I thought I heard rushing water. I paused and I could feel the vibration from the pounding of millions of gallons of water plummeting off a rock ledge. I smiled with relief and charged after my guide. You never know, following these guys into the jungle. I’m sure Nat Geo doesn’t share everything they know…or don’t know. The key is to develop a rapport, and you just have to trust your gut. These secluded tribes have no concept of mind games or blackmail, so what you see is what you get. Sometimes it’s endearing; sometimes it’s terrifying.
This time it paid off and I wanted to throw my arms around his beaded neck. If I had carried a bottle of Scotch and a cigar, we would have shared the moment. But all I could do was stare in bewilderment and wonder. My guide lunged into the pool and started to cross the glassy water. He slapped it at me, indicating I should follow. I was busy taking shots and was trying to capture the moment in my mind. The smell of ions in the air, like after a thunderstorm. The mist at the base of the falls. The roar, almost deafening at this range. Everything was quivering, including my stomach. I unlaced my boots and peeled off my socks and left my camera next to them as I stepped in. The water was deceptively cold, and I tried to stop my teeth from chattering as I followed my fearless leader over to the veil. He swam under and I followed, soaking every last inch of my camo tank top.
We emerged at a glass wall.
I blinked, and blinked again. This couldn’t be. I was in a third world country. They barely had pottery, let alone glass. He motioned me up some granite stairs. This couldn’t be right. When we got to the top, I looked back and the waterfall was still there, but it looked like a river of diamonds. The sparkle hurt my eyes.
We passed through a curtain of sapphire beads and the smell of cotton candy enveloped me.
Was it a circus? Was it Las Vegas? It was too clean to be New Orleans and I had never been to Dubai but it felt so ritzy it had to be somewhere. It wasn’t just I had crossed behind a waterfall, I felt that I had changed dimensions, centuries, and location.
A champagne fountain bubbled to my right. Elegant people wearing elegant clothes holding elegant drinks gazed at art adorning the glittering walls. It was too much. The last thing I remember seeing was a Bengal tiger being fed white mice from a gilt cage by a small girl with golden hair. The music swirled around me. Beethoven? Chopin? I was never what you would call cultured.
I woke up in a straight jacket in New York City. The paperwork in front of me read “Hospital for the Insane of NatGeo”. I had the impression of being well above the city, even though there were no windows.
I took one each of the assortment of pills lined in front of me and laid back on a pale pink pillow. I dreamt of climbing a tree.
Sharkbait! Ooh-ha-ha!
I’m the first to admit I would just as soon my death be delivered via shark bite than a car wreck or cancer. My friends say I’m crazy. But think- how cool would it be for y’all to say, “I know a girl who got eat by a shark.” And you would relish in it.
The chances are pretty good it could happen, too. My preferred depth of swimming in the ocean is shoulders deep, because that’s right before where the waves break and I don’t have to get beat up by them. I like to be able to bounce off the sandy bottom when one is rolling in and then be able to stand flat footed the rest of the time. Evidently this is the prime feeding area for sharks. I also like to swim late in the day when the sun isn’t so intense.
I’m sure it would be completely terrifying. And it might hurt if he doesn’t hit a major artery first thing. But what’s worse- the terror of being trapped in your car and being cut out while everybody stares or being eaten by a magnificent creature? Slowly wasting away, getting weaker and sicker every day and everybody forcing you to fight it when you just don’t have any more fight in you? Watching their eyes go all liquid and heartbroken when you tell them? No thanks. I’ll take the shark attack. Let there be glory!
So, yeah. You might get to say it someday. Just remember, I died doing what I love. And it was better than the alternative.
Throw a big party. Smuggle booze to the funeral home. Tell your best Amy story. Have a great time, one last time, in honor of me: The Girl Who Swam With Sharks.
Last month for Book Club we read Karen White’s The Night the Lights Went Out. We were all enamored with the story of Sugar Prescott, about whom not nearly enough was told. So I decided to breathe a little more life into her.
This one’s for my girls.
When I won the election for mayor, my brother Harry very nearly lost his mind. He had always been a vexation to my spirit, but he became downright unbearable. I wasn’t about to bake brownies and call nice, he should be treating me to a celebratory dinner at the nicest steakhouse in three counties.
But we all knew THAT wasn’t going to happen. He even tried to run a a smear campaign against me!! Like there’s any dirt to be had that he could tell on me without incriminating himself. And that mealy mouth ninny he married! Trying to get me, Sugar Prescott, kicked out of the Country Club? Foolishness. There wouldn’t have been a country club if it hadn’t been for me begging Daddy to donate the land so we could have a nice tea there every once in a while. Where else was I supposed to throw Willa Faye’s showers? The basement of the Credit Union? No, no, no.
Anyway. Ten years after that nasty business with Curtis that we do not speak of, I somehow found myself in the thick of uncovering some dirt on the current administration. The sheriff had come to me on account of some misappropriated funds that had been from a sizable donation I’d made a few months prior. And there it was, in black and white. Something simply had to be done, but everybody who knew about it was scared for their jobs. I had nothing to lose. I wasn’t at a low point, Jimmy and the baby both long gone (but never forgotten, mind you), it was just that I was a little bit bored. Willa Faye had a family, I had a farm. Everything was just getting a tad too predictable for my taste. Time to bring a little kerosene to the fire. So race for the mayor sounded good as anything.
And the longer we could keep it from Harry, the better. I would have liked nothing more than to surprise him at the debate at the courthouse in front of the whole town. But, it was not to be. Lotta ears in this town, and a lotta mouths. I had my hair done up in a bouffant that was the style at the time, and I wore my highest heels. I had a good inch on him, and with his proclivity to indulge in the spirits on a nightly basis, I had a much more pleasing complexion. I took the house. Harry was flabbergasted.
That was the beginning of the end. The campaign was fun, because I knew there would be no surprises. Harry certainly wouldn’t want to go draggin’ skeletons out of the closet, or I would certainly expose his. I won by a landslide, almost 3/4 of the registered voters in the county turning out just to see him get whooped by his little sister. They don’t call me Sugar for nothin’.
Sadly, Harry began drinking even more heavily, which weighed on all his relationships. His marriage, that was hanging by a thread as it was, disintegrated on the spot. I always thought his little wife was a gold digger, anyway, and that just proved it. No prestigious title, money squandered, she turned tail and got outta town. Packed all her furs and diamonds in the Coupe DeVille and hit the road. He could often be found wandering the downtown streets of Sweet Apple late into the night until somebody took pity on him and drove him to what was left of his crumbling home. He was always bitter I got the big house. And the little house. He took to calling me, calling Congressman Ruth (a man, to be sure, just an unfortunate nickname earned when we were still in short pants) to tattle on me for not following one ridiculous protocol or another. I could not fathom putting people to work to seek funding for a project that was already funded. That’s right! All these confounded committees set up just so somebody has something to talk about over dinner. There were several sore spots involving positions that had been created for my predecessor’s family. I popped in their offices and made them show me what they did to contribute to the city, what made them indispensable to Sweet Apple. Many of them couldn’t, and out they went.
I cleaned house, you could say. Fired a popular judge, who was well liked due to his propensity for taking bribes and favors from the wrong side of the law. Fired a whole slew of paper pushers at the courthouse, girls who sat around filing their nails. Some were “repurposed”, if you will, into counselors and the like for children in need of support. One became a fitness instructor at the community center, shoving out a certain up-and-comer. I was glad to see it. Sometimes they get what’s coming to them. She was better suited as lifeguarding at the country club, anyway.
I didn’t serve but two terms, but it was enough. My eye went to twitchin’ and wouldn’t stop, I blame reading the fine print on all those ridiculous documents. And I wasn’t getting to enjoy my town like I did before I was running it. So I sat back and watched them fight for my reins. Fortunately, the best man DID win, and on my advice took to running Sweet Apple just fine. I could relax with my shows and sweet tea again.
So one year led to the next, and before I knew it I was an old woman. The only reason I knew it then was because my knees began to trouble me when I climbed the stairs in the old house. I could sure do with an elevator, but it does seem like such an extravagant expense when I could just relocate to Mama’s old bedroom downstairs. It looks nothing like it did when she was still with us, I made sure of that. All those frills and flowered-y wallpaper, no thank you. And gold fixtures everything. We weren’t living in the French Rivera, momma. More Provincial French, if anything, with the peeling paint on the dormers and porch railing.
I wished I had the energy to scrape and repaint, but that’s what that handsome grandson of Willa’s is for. If I was one of these cotillion mothers in town, I would certainly be finding plenty to fix up around the house, including my daughters!
So. These days I just flit around, baking casseroles and cookies for my renter who hasn’t got a lick of sense when it comes to cooking, and watching my confounded FitBit tick away steps. Blasted thing. My real enjoyment comes from running cyclists off the road and listening to gossip at the coffee shop. Why the bicycle enthusiasts can’t keep to the narrow paved trails the Parks & Rec department has so graciously (read: expensively) provided, I will never know. They have to get right out here and flaunt their exercise habits to people who are trying to get to work, or on their way to get their hair set. I’ve had a standing appointment at the Clip’n Curl for 8:15 on Wednesday mornings since I was in nylons. My Lincoln is wide, and fast, and heaven help you if you impede my progress. I don’t want to miss a word of the lies Jenny Maples is there to spread. That’s where I get most of my fodder for my “Neighbor” blog. It isn’t always nice, but it’s almost always true. And I will post a retraction, not an apology, mind you, in the event I get something wrong. It’s not an apology because it wasn’t intentional. Too many people apologizing these days, if you ask me. If your feelings get hurt, best to buck up and ask yourself why. It’s just some stranger’s opinion. And if you were found out doing something you shouldn’t have, well, maybe it’ll serve as a lesson next time you wanna do something immoral.
When you get old like me you don’t waste time tiptoeing around. Although some will argue I never did.
Yesterday, I discovered another habit I don’t like in people.
This should surprise no one. But not to worry, I’m gonna counteract it with something I do like.
I don’t like these people that you’re having a conversation with, and after about ever two sentences or so, they say, “okay?” like you’re not smart enough to be following. It’s super annoying. I knew at his age he probably wasn’t even aware he was doing it, but I wondered how many other people had been angered by it. Yes, angered. It elicited that strong of an emotion in me. So much so that I stopped listening to him, which probably just enforced his opinion of me being an airhead. But it seemed extra condescending. I just wanted him OUT. He was asking me about taxes. Brother, I don’t even do my own taxes, I’m certainly not qualified to give you advice on yours. How ’bout you ask the accountant that you pay to do them? How ’bout that, okay?
I’ve also found this type to pointedly sniff the air when it’s obvious what is cooking. Or if someone is painting their nails or doing a craft. Yeah, we get it. there’s an aroma.
Now. On the other hand. Here’s what I like:when I’m gearing up to tell you a story and I say something like, “You’ll never guess who I saw.”
AND YOU ACTUALLY GUESS.
It’s like, one of my favorite things! It’s a way of showing you’re invested in my story. And, it’s FUN! You can name someone or something totally outlandish and we heehaw about it till I forget what I was even going to tell. I love it! And it brings up a whole other dimension of conversation, it triggers a memory of the someone they brought up. You only have to guess once if you give me a good answer, but if it sucks and is so wildly off base I roll my eyes then you have to give me a legitimate guess. But I won’t keep you all day.
Anyway, always guess. I’ll love you forever for it. Otherwise, I become exasperated and might stop telling you anything. *Might* …..it’s doubtful.
So there are my two. Whatchu got? Of course I could go on for days, but I won’t. Not on this particular post, anyway. Perhaps you’re someone who hates people who make you guess….which would be interesting if you also say “okay?” when talking to people, not giving them direction….
{WP#858 Working nights has exposed you to a different view of the world}
Now, this is true. Once upon a time, in a land about 200 yards from here, I worked “midnights”. It opened my eyes whereas before they had been most decidedly shut. When you work third shift, you get a completely different mindset. Everything about you changes. I’ve heard that working thirds for an extended period shortens your life. I believe it. It’s hard to make all the people around you become accustomed to your new schedule. You have to alter doctor’s appointments (well, any appointments, really), shopping trips, and of course sleep patterns. And when you’re off for more than a day, your schedule really gets warped. Suddenly you realize there’s a whole crew of people just like you out there, the night owls, either by choice or force.
You may have already guessed, but this was during my time as a 911 dispatcher. 911 never sleeps. And our job was to wake the firemen, paramedics, rescue, and policemen to get to you. Typically when the phone rang between midnight at six, something bad was going down. Not so many accidental cell phone calls in those small hours. Not so many people calling saying, “I’m not sure this is really an emergency….” these callers were legit in a mess.
I remember one night the phone rang at like two in the morning. We all jumped into action. Dude had cut his wrist while doing dishes. One had broken and wasn’t visible beneath the suds, I guess. I don’t remember. Anyway, blood was spurting (that makes you a Priority One) and so we were sending the cavalry. After everybody got on scene and things calmed down a bit, my coworker said, “Who does dishes at two in the morning?”
“I do,” the other dispatcher and I answered at the same time.
Because that was our new normal. Two in the morning is like two in the afternoon to night shift folks. When the doctor told me to take medicine in the morning, at lunch, and at supper, that had to be modified into my new language of “Before bed, upon waking, and six hours after that.” It was weird. People have no regard for their neighbors who work thirds when it comes to mowing their yards, or washing their cars with the radio blasting, or letting their kids out to run and screech around. The sun is not even remotely remorseful. You have to adapt, buying blackout curtains and a sleep mask. Heaven help you if you live with people who don’t work and are home while you’re trying to sleep. No matter how quiet you think you’re being, it probably isn’t quiet enough. You have to hope you’ll sleep, but also wake up in time to get a few things done before going back to work. I found my sleep wasn’t restful, and there isn’t a lot to be done about it. Frequently after long nights of fires, or horrible calls that wouldn’t leave me, I made my way to the woods. I hiked Porters Creek more times than I can count. It’s a fairly level trail that I could get to reasonably quick. The best part was I was normally alone, other than the wildlife. I saw plenty of turkeys and deer, and a bear once. I could do without the bear.
Nothing like nature to reset the mind.
Grocery stores are a different creature in the middle of the night. As long as you live somewhere you feel safe, I 100% recommend visiting Wal-Mart and Kroger in the wee hours. You have the place virtually to yourself. But stay vigilant! Especially in the parking lots. Ask someone to walk you out if you feel uncomfortable.
Please be mindful of the people who must work this shift. They may seem a little weird…probably because they are. Working when almost everybody else in the world is down for the count is a little eerie. You feel cocooned and slightly alone. Nobody knows when to call you not to wake you (answer: never call. Send an email and tell them when you’re available).
There’s a whole underground community of people who are on thirds: factory workers, hotel clerks, gas station attendants, doctors, nurses, dispatchers. I’m not listing the first responders because they will grab sleep where they can. But when that tone goes off, they are up and at ’em in the blink of an eye. At first, it’s like a second job, just trying to stay awake.
If you work thirds, I salute you. You’ve got the watch.
{WP #703 A poem about loss}
Sometimes I want to tell him
Not to bother locking the door behind him
Because the only person who could hurt me
Is leaving
