~Tuesday, April 9th.
I’m beginning to run out of things to give up. Especially now that I’m praying for groups of people, so I have no specific requests from individuals who know how to really get under my skin with stuff. (Looking at you, Jena, who made me leave my jewelry at home!) Lent’s not supposed to be easy, though, so I picked something today that I would miss dearly, because my prayers are encompassing.
I will do without Google.
Yes, I use it all the time at work.
I check out the weather.
I shop for things I don’t need, but think I do.
I use it to look up popular restaurants.
Then I use it to find the good restaurants.
Yes, I use it even more for song lyrics.
Yes, I USE IT FOR EVERYTHING. JUST LIKE YOU DO.
And it got me to thinking. Everything I need to know can be found within seconds. And I really depend on it. And I absolutely take it for granted. It is so frustrating when I run out of data, or the internet is down, or I’m in no man’s land and it takes more than ten seconds for a search to come up. But what did the farmers do? What do many of them still do? A long long time ago, before everybody had a cell phone in their pocket, we had a tiny, heavy computer at the Co-op. It was about the size of a microwave and weighed a stone. And I don’t mean the British weight equivalent stone, I mean it weighed like it was a piece of granite. And on this little computer, we could access two things: doppler radar and grain prices. Joe Woods knew how to pull up what cattle brought at the stockyards, but he never taught me. And so I spent much of my day running back and forth from the phone to the little computer that was perched on a shelf on the paneled back wall. Especially if the threat of rain was coming and everybody and their brother had hay down. It’s impossible to think we had only one, and that it could do things our cash registers couldn’t. But that was almost twenty years ago.
Farmers for generations have learned by doing. They didn’t watch YouTube videos on how to pull calves. There are no hard and fast formulas for how much fertilizer to apply to hayfields. There are some standards, but it varies widely. There were no apps for identifying weeds and pests and weather. They had to be diligent. They had to be observant. They had to remember what had worked in the past for their neighbors.
Of course, we’re getting away form all the guesswork now. But the farmers still have it rough. They’re dependent on the rain, the sun, and their health. They don’t get sick days or vacation time. They don’t have the luxury of drawing a paycheck if it rains for two weeks and they can’t plant their corn or their soybeans. If they don’t get their hay cut and baled in a timely fashion, their cattle don’t eat that winter. Who’s gonna feed you if the farmers quit? We’re all dependent on them. And they depend on the good Lord and the honeybees.
I think of the grain belt. It’s all but been washed away. How many millions of tons of wheat and corn were lost? We may all be on a low carb diet before this is over. I think of all the hogs and chickens and cows that drowned in the flood waters. I think of waking up and looking over your farm that’s now under two feet of water and a foot of thick black mud. And all you can do is stand by and watch and praise God your family is okay. Three or four or five generations of work gone in an instant, floating down the Mississippi.
I think of the migrant workers, here because no white man will labor bent over picking tomatoes ten hours a day in the heat of summer. We all want more money. But many working-age men will just draw off the government instead, and lay around smoking cigarettes and whatever else in front of their housing-issued flat screen TV.
Farmers buy their jeans at Hammers, because the cows don’t know any difference. Their computer is a palm-sized spiral notepad tucked into their shirt pocket. They eat bologna and cheese sandwiches at lunch and fried chicken for supper, prepared by their wife, who gets her hair set on Friday mornings and wears an apron unless she’s going to town. Farmers read the Good Book and the Almanac, and that’s about it. They squint in the sun and change their own oil. They sleep when it’s dark, unless something is broke and then they toil all night to get it fixed so they can work the next day. They keep their boots on the porch and a knife in their pocket.
Farmers ain’t got much time for Facebook and the like, but they’ll teach their grandbabies how to bait a hook and shoot a BB gun before they turn 8. They can peel an apple without the skin ever coming apart and crack a walnut in their hands. Farmers despise the bank and distrust the government. They ain’t got much use for people that live in subdivisions, either.
They’ll fence back that portion of fence in the curve of the road that gets torn down by some kid or some drunk twice a year. Insurance ain’t worth fooling with.
They can build a fire and carry two five gallon buckets of water downhill for fifty yards without spilling a drop. They keep a mean momma cow at bay with a tobacco stick. They pay cash for a new John Deere when it’s time.
They pay cash for almost everything, and they pay attention.
They listen to Waylon Jennings and Loretta Lynn and bluegrass and take notice when clouds roll in. They can name every tree on their farm, tell you the last time they saw their third cousin, and explain the difference between Blue Lake green beans and Kentucky Wonders. And they’ll let you know right quick that the only kind of potato there is is a Bluegoose Kennebec.
They know where their great-great grand daddy is buried, where he lived, and what church he attended. On both sides. Their wife keeps flowers on the graves, and he sees to it that it’s mowed.
They won’t eat avocados, don’t bother wasting your breath. They just recently came around to coconut, and that’s only if it’s in a pie.
They’d rather sit in their dusty old barn in a metal folding chair and drink a coke and listen to the ballgame on a staticky radio than to be there in person.
They might pause a minute sometimes and watch the birds work. And that’s when they may work out for themselves something they’ve been thinking on.
They like things a specific way, and don’t like change. They see most of nature as a food chain but do have a soft spot for certain creatures, sometimes. They’ll give you a quarter for every thistle you kill on their place and shake your hand if you tell them you shot a coyote.
They know it would be cheaper to buy eggs from the store, but they also know they won’t taste as good. They’ll plant daffodils in secret for their wives up the side of the driveway and then grin when she notices.
They know to shop local even if it costs a little more. They know a horse is a money pit, but they’ll keep one around for their grandkids. And that dog is theirs, too. Even though they wouldn’t dream of leaving the dog at home if they’re running down to the store.
So, after all that, I’ll offer them a prayer. I think I’m qualified.
Lord, bless the farmers. Especially the ones who do their praying from behind the dirty windshield of their old trucks as they go to help a neighbor. Bless them with a good growing season, and enough rain, but not too much. May they get the sun as they need it, and a cool breeze for their brow every now and then. Bless the farmers who struggle to maintain what they’ve had for a century. Bless them who have been losing a little more every year. For the dairymen, for the cattlemen, for all the ones who grow and produce and love the land. Bless them all. Thank you Lord that somebody is willing and able to do it. Thank you for their patience and perseverance. Thank you for their deep pockets and bigger hearts. Thank you for helping them keep the faith and pass on their knowledge. Because Google can’t teach us everything. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy xoxo
I want to drive on roads with no traffic. And if I do pass someone, I want them to wave out the open window of their pickup truck.
I want to be able to apply eyeliner like a pro, not like a left handed raccoon.
I want to be able to do all the yoga without quivering.
I want to live in an old house in an old city on the ocean with a widow’s walk, though I am no widow. Although I sometimes feel like one.
I want to always work at an honest job. I want to keep the one I have.
I want to grow things and tend to them with my hands. Tomatoes, aloe, squash. Lilies. Okra.
I want to sleep without dreaming.
I want to listen to good music and lay in the grass and watch the clouds and hunt for four-leaf clovers all afternoon and not wear shoes at all.
I want people to adore my accent, always. I want to be called Amelia by people who love me.
I want to go on a trip and not come back until I feel rested and healed.
I want to eat cupcakes every day.
I want to ride fast horses and read good books and have the softest bath towels in three counties.
I want my glasses to stay put.
I want to admire trees the rest of my days, and listen to wind chimes and not the honking of cars.
I want barbeque sauce to come in squirt bottles.
I want honest, heartfelt conversation. Or I want silence.
I want an indoor pool with lots of plants and a banana tree.
I want a man who has the ability to fix almost anything and will. I want a man who loves southern cooking and who is content with what I have to give.
I want a parrot, and somebody to clean up after it.
I want time to read all my books and write all my stories.
I want to have a discernable waistline and a bra that doesn’t require me to tug at the straps five times a day.
I want more shoes.
I want to be able to tell instantly whether someone intends to take advantage of my heart or to handle it like the last snowflake to ever fall.
I want the abstract oil painting at the library.
I want to listen to good music and sing along to it with the top down and a scarf around my hair like I’m a celebrity going back to her roots.
I want my dog to stop farting.
I want a new floor for the kitchen and a stainless steel refrigerator to go in it. I also want somebody to come paint this closet so I don’t have to.
I want to stay healthy enough to have material wants like most of these.
I want y’all to have what you want, too.
I want to hit the mega millions Powerball so we can all have it.
I want all the promises of Heaven.
But for now, I’ll just do what I can.
I met her at the library, so I knew instantly she was good people.
She looked like a mom, but turns out I was wrong about that.
She looked like she knew about life, and I was right about that.
We have gone on to be cohorts in crime, obsessive texters, and foodies from the get-go. We share book recommendations and pretty much the same taste in music. She does listen to a podcast about small town murders that I haven’t been able to enjoy on the same level. It’s pretty grim, Karen. 😐 We challenge each other to spin more, drink less, and not be assholes.
We are known as sloth & honey badger. Baker is gazelle.
We tell terrible (politically incorrect and inappropriate) jokes, modify our yoga poses, and share a common interest in dogs, cupcakes, and men. Probably in that order.
I’m a problem creator~…well, that’s not precisely true. Problems gravitate to me and I think they’ll go away but they only get worse and then I have to ask Beth for advice and she just calmly untangles the whole mess and folds it up and places it in a Rubbermaid box. With a label. And an expiration date.
She’s an accountant. I’m an artist, per se.
She’s the closest person I’ve got to a ride or die, because Lisa has kids and lives two hours away and Baker is busy busy busy. Sometimes we just talk about riding and dying, we don’t actually do it. But thinking about it is almost as fun.
I feel like I’ve known her my whole entire life. Sometimes you make more memories in a year than you do in ten years with somebody else.
Cheer up, bitch! It’s your birthday!!
Today, my prayers are for the lost. I should have made this day one. They’re the most important. Their time is truly limited. I can’t wrap my mind around not believing. It’s like, #1) are we here by accident? Then how did we get here? Ok, if you don’t believe God put us here because you can’t understand that, so you understand the science that some people believe in? I’d much rather just think we were created by a higher form. And that he created the Heavens and universe too. I can’t begin to wrap my head around the Big Bang Theory. Believing in the Lord is easy. And if you’re one of those people who look for signs, I am certain you can find plenty. Just like there is beauty in everything, there is God in everything. Because he created it. And #2) You have nothing to lose. Nobody should think you’re weird for professing a faith. If they do, they’re not very open minded, and does that really line up with everything else they say they believe in? I don’t think so. Just believe! I promise it’s a better life. It’s like having someone forever on your side, forever and always. Romans 8:31 tells us that!
What, then, shall we say in response to these things? If God is for us, who can be against us?
Heavenly Father, it hurts my heart to think of all the lost souls out there. People I interact with often. Am I setting the right example? Absolutely not. Help me to do better. Help me remind them they shouldn’t be looking to me, they should always look to you. We are created in your image but we fail constantly. And that’s where Jesus comes in. And there’s power in his name. We only have to call on him for strength. Show them how easy it is to talk to you, to unburden and know you don’t love us any less. It is the purest kind of love, the easiest. You only need to know we reciprocate, and that we’re trying. All you ask is that we believe. And isn’t that a beautiful thing? We thank you for your patience and your love. We thank you for loving us even when we can’t love ourselves. Especially then. May the ones who don’t know seek you. May they open their hearts and reach to you and know that you are The One. May we praise your name above all others! Most of all, may we spread your love. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
There are no “right words” to get you in the pearly gates. There are “Sinner’s Prayers” but the main thing is your faith behind your words. Here is a nice place to start if you need help finding words:
Create in me a pure heart, O God,
and renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Do not cast me from Your presence
or take Your Holy Spirit from me.
Restore to me the joy of Your salvation
and grant me a willing spirit to sustain me.
Then will I teach transgressors Your ways,
and sinners will turn back to You.
But you find your words. You tell the Lord how you are coming to Him, once and for all. He calls you, and you hear him, and the time is now.
For this day, I give up expectations. The best they can do is all they’re capable of. And I can accept it and move on, or I can be bitter and question why the rest of my days. I’m not even sure I would want things to work out the way I expect them to anymore. Seems like the less I know, the better off I am. Surprises are good. Most of the time.
I can’t expect to be understood by fellow man. They don’t know my heart. I can’t expect my neighbors to pick up their trash or stop making a million trips in and out. I can’t expect the people at the store to read my mind and not park their buggy in front of the pickles I want. I can’t expect drivers to stay to the right and let me pass. Because none of us are perfect. I just have to practice my yoga breathing and call on the Lord for help. And that’s not as easy as it sounds, because I want to take control. I want to fix it. I want to correct people and I want my way to be the way. And that’s wrong. I have to let go. I have to let people do their own thing. Sure, it affects me, but not to the point where I need to break out in a sweat or cussing fit. Just relinquish and let God sort it. Because that’s what we as Christians are called to do. Let go and let God.
So, in conclusion, I’m just plugging my ears and dancing to my own drummer. It’s hard to give up judgment. But I try. It’s one of my biggest faults.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy xoxo
Today I pray for one of the kindest, most understanding souls I know. I know she’s this way because of what she’s lived through. She was adopted at age 7. Think on that.
I don’t know her all that well, really. But I know her husband and that counts for something. He has told me the story of her adoption, and how things came about for her. Today he shared a little more.
She is in her late fifties, so if you think foster care and orphanages are depressing and underfunded now, imagine what it was like sixty years ago. Imagine being a little girl in one of these places. Imagine Annie, if you can’t imagine anything else. Luckily for this little girl, a Daddy Warbucks did come along. And he and his wife took the little girl to town and bought her lunch, and ice cream, and a trinket. Imagine it being the first time you ever had a notion of being spoiled. But really it was just being cared for. The sun was on your face and you walked hand in hand with a pretty lady in a flowered dress and hat and heels. And imagine your joy when you came back to the home and the big man declared he was taking you home, to go get your things. Home, as in his home. YOUR new home.
That simply wasn’t done.
But this was sixty years ago and he made it happen. Because that’s the kind of man he was. He made things happen. Right Then. And he wanted you to be his little girl, forever and always. Because after just a few hours in his presence, you brightened his day and made his heart swell to ten times its size with love and he just knew that nothing would ever top you and your smile.
Well, that was the way she remembered it, anyway. And she still has the little toy that he bought her all those years ago.
When her daddy passed on, she found her adoption papers, and turns out, that really is what happened. How wonderful for your memories to match up with facts.
She also remembered asking for a brother. She remembers being told by her parents that they tried. As an adult, she thought she remembered having a brother, but she couldn’t be sure. She thought maybe she’d just wished for one. And with her adoption papers, she found that she had indeed had a sibling. And that her daddy DID try. They tried and tried. But he couldn’t be got.
But she found him. He still couldn’t be “got”. People grow up and sometimes things don’t work out like fairy tales. And now, she’s found her sister.
And that’s why I pray.
She wants blood family. And who wouldn’t? Those of us who are surrounded by a multitude of aunts and uncles and cousins and brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews may find it suffocating sometimes, but try to picture it the other way. If you didn’t have anybody who knew your stories from before you could remember them. No one to say you looked just like your grandmother when she was that age. Or the way you stand, all the Hicks’ stand like that (hands on hips, if you’re wondering). Wouldn’t that be a void? So I hope that with this sibling, she gets some verification in her life. I pray that it works out just as she wants it to.
Lord, I know that the life you gave my friend is better than what she could have ever hoped to have through her birth mother. I thank you for all the blessings you have bestowed on her through the years, with generous, loving parents who made every way in the world for her. I thank you for her doting, patient husband, who continues to do his best work to provide for her. I thank you for her children, who appreciate all the things she does for them daily. And I also thank you for her grandchildren, that have come into this earth knowing exactly who their people are, and always will. I pray for my friend to get peace through answers. I pray for her sister to embrace this new relationship and that they can comfort each other and begin a life together finally. I pray for everyone to mesh seamlessly, for no harsh words or negative thoughts to cross minds. I just want her to feel full and aware and be content. Yes, I pray mainly for contentment. You don’t always give us what we want–or think we want–for good reason. Let us all bear that in mind as we go through our days. It’s hard to remember. But we live for you, Lord, not for our wants and desires. I thank you for this spring day, and everything coming up new again. I thank you for those who toil and the minds that envision. I thank you for the hands that mend and heal, and I thank you for the farmers. I am always and forever grateful for the farmers. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
For her, I gave up breakfast. I can’t begin to imagine what life was like those early years in the home. I don’t know that she always had a warm breakfast, or any kind of breakfast at all. I don’t know if she got to have a bath everyday, or someone to braid her hair to keep it out of her eyes. I doubt she had anyone to hold her hand or rock her to sleep or tell her she was loved. And that’s what we all need. But I could give up breakfast for her. I could not eat, but I still know where my next meal is coming from. I know where I would lay my head tonight. I know who my blood kin are, alive and dead, and I know where to find them if I want to see them. I know their phone numbers, and the color of their eyes, and their health conditions. I know them in a pack of strangers with their back turned to me.
I know my family.
And for that, I am fortunate.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy xoxo
Today, I pray for the liars. That’s hard to do. Because, if I’m being honest (huh, the irony) I don’t wish them the best. I wish them the worst, really. Because lying is generally premeditated. It takes some doing.
Liars, as you well know, come in all shapes and sizes. They lie to get attention. They lie as a cover up. They lie out of habit. They lie to give their life a little excitement. I don’t understand. It’s like they think they’ll never get caught. I’ve got news for them: the truth always comes out. They think their lies will only hurt themselves, if they hurt anybody. That’s not true either. For instance, if you were to meet someone that somebody you know has been telling tales on, you have a preconceived notion of this person. Which isn’t even true! You can’t give them a fair shake. It’s not fair. And that’s not right. Sometimes it’s not easy to detect a liar. Sometimes the liars seem so good, and the people they talk about are people you’re unlikely to ever run across. So they’ve created a well-laid trap. But eventually….the truth is exposed. And it’s a million times worse if it doesn’t come straight from the liar, with apologies extended for their shortcomings.
For this test of will, I gave up crying. I wish I could give it up forever and always. I cry way too easily. I’ve even been known to cry because I’m crying, how ridiculous is that? It has nothing to do with hormones, or the weather, or any number of things people like to blame it on. I cry because I’m tenderhearted and wear my emotions on my sleeve and because I’m a crybaby from way back. I cry when I’m sad, I laugh, I cry when I get hurt, I cry when I’m super angry. I’m just tender, I guess. I should never have a problem with my tear ducts needing washed out. And I should never waste another tear on a liar. Because they certainly aren’t crying. They don’t care.
Lord, you hear our pleas. This prayer is for all of us, because we’re all affected. People just don’t seem to think about the repercussions for their actions anymore. Their lies affect us all, and they hurt like a gut punch. We know when we’re being lied to, and society dictates that we keep our mouth shut. So we stand there, politely listening, and feeling ridiculous. And the liar’s tale grows and swells and they really think they’re taking us for a ride. What can be their purpose? Do they feel inadequate without their version of events? When does it end, Lord? I pray for you to work on them, show them the only way is the truth, and that people will truly love them, regardless of how boring they think they are without the embellishments. If they have children, they are teaching these kids how to deceive from such a young age it will be difficult to set them right. It takes a lot of work to undo a lie, but I think the person who told it will find it’s worthwhile to come to terms and unburden themselves. They’ll feel so much lighter and hopefully find peace in truth. I pray that the ears that have been lied to with will not withhold forgiveness. May we all learn to love more like you. In Jesus name, Amen.
Now, on to general musings that don’t have a thing to do with the rest of this.
It was a good day for wildlife. It had rained overnight and I was surprised by the number of earthworms in my parking lot. I counted twenty seven on the way from my car to the door. It saddens me to think how many I flattened on my way in. I like worms. They’re, like, an affiliate of the NRCS.
When I took my daily promenade with Aquaman, we’re standing out from his building, finishing our conversation, and his eyes darted and he interrupts himself saying, “is that a possum?!?” And points.
Contrary to popular belief, it is NOT every day we see possums waddling down the sidewalk in the middle of the afternoon, even though we are in Tennessee.
I turn to look and sure enough, there is a little round gray body scurrying across the road at the crosswalk, just like he should be. It tickled me so. I watched him for several minutes. I don;t know if he was scavenging food or searching for a mate, but I don’t believe he had rabies or anything. He was just out roaming. Maybe he’s an insomniac.
Funny. Possums are liars. “Playin’ possum”?? Yeah, little fakers.
The rabbits and squirrels and birds were also out in full force, taking advantage of the weather. It is blissfully perfect right now, I have to say. I shall appreciate it as well. But not so much that I will cry from the joy of it all. I will not cry for happiness or thankfulness or sadness this day. I will not cry from disappointment, or expectations, or the fear of the unknown. I will not spill one little tear.
But tomorrow, all bets are off.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy xoxo
I have asked several of you for prayer requests multiple times. I will not ask again. I understand that sometimes it’s uncomfortable voicing your problems. Even to a friend. I can see where that would be even more difficult than talking to a stranger. I won’t pretend to know all your worries and fears and struggles, but I know a few of them. And don’t borrow trouble, I’m not going to type them out here. Maybe that’s what concerns you, that even though I don’t have to use your name, someone could figure out who I was writing about. I get it. Thomas Wolfe was ostracized from Asheville after he wrote Look Homeward Angel. He didn’t use their real names, but the descriptions were so blindingly obvious (and accurate) people talked for decades. I haven’t read it (yet, it’s a book club selection later this year) but I say maybe the folks of Asheville should have treated him with a little more respect if they didn’t want their faults and realities trotted out for all to enjoy. I mean, read.
Anyway. No matter. Some of you struggle with family issues, or career issues, or health issues. Some of you struggle to simply believe. Trust me, I get it. There’s nothing to be ashamed about. You just talk to the Lord and work it out. It’ll be fine. The more you talk to him, the easier it gets. I promise. Even if you just sit there and cry awhile. I’m sure He’s used to it.
Lord, I pray for my friends who can’t or won’t speak the words to me for their specific prayers. I don’t know their hearts, all their dreams and desires and heartaches–but You do. And I pray for complete healing of their bodies, restorations of their souls, and a opening of their heart to you. I pray that they let go of whatever burdens they carry and release them to you. I pray for them to know that love is always the right answer, and if you can’t love, pray till you can. Nobody’s opinions matter except yours, and we are all buried in the same size hole. Unless we do something truly monumental in our time on Earth, nobody will know anything about us in a hundred years. We’ll be reduced to a headstone and maybe a few lines dedicated to our passing in the newspaper. It’s hard to leave a lasting mark. You tell us in the book of James that life is but a vapor. So why worry? It’s not easy to lay problems at your feet. Well, it’s more in leaving them there, not in the handing them over. So help us be proactive in helping others- that always puts our problems in perspective and helps us see our many blessings. I thank you for placing me among people who know you, in a country that we can worship freely. I thank you for the people I can depend on in my life. None are perfect, I don’t look to them as an example, but as people who have been placed here to do your work. We all meet for a reason. In Jesus’ name, Amen.
Today I gave up fast food. Usually it’s not a threat, since I typically just eat it for lunch if I eat it at all. I had my wondrous salad again. What with all the salad and spin class, I should be in the negative weight by now! But life doesn’t work that way. But maybe this is the way I need to set my mind to working: not that I shouldn’t do something, but that I can’t.
It has certainly been a different way of life. And the day I corrected dairy sure made me wish I had gotten it right the first time.
I guess we’ve all got plenty to learn, and living for the Lord is as good a place to start as you will find.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy xoxo
Out my window, I gaze upon a church, a pink house, an alarming number of squirrels, and a yard that is often in need of a cut. I count the rabbits that frolic, and pray the stray cats aren’t nearby. I keep a close watch on the weather, because I seem to serve as the local weatherman, and look for my buddy, the black lab, that lives two doors down. I can’t complain about the temperature yet, we’re hovering at a stable 73°. Pollen is present, but it’s raining frequently enough to keep it beat down. The redbuds are in full bloom, the dogwoods are just beginning, and the daffodils are quickly expiring. The birds sing all day long. It’s quiet, for the most part.
I’m near the library, and the school, and the police station. It feels safe in my cozy space. It’s not a town where many walk, but I do. Not necessarily to get anywhere in particular, just to enjoy the day while I can. Away from my backyard where I look out at a church, a pink house, and a multitude of squirrels. I go to see the cherry tree, and the red tulips down the road, and the old man at the corner sitting in his lawn chair with his wooden cane and mesh back hat. He always speaks and remarks upon the weather.
There goes a rabbit.
When the phone rings, it startles me from my reverie, even though the ring is now melodic.
There are forms to be filled out, calls to make, and appointments to schedule. But I’d rather sit and listen to the birds and count the rabbits and watch the rain. It’s so pleasant to be in a place where you can look out at the world and maybe daydream just a minute about the lives going on in the neighboring historic houses. Or maybe their lives, right here, a hundred years ago. Maybe not much has changed, other than the sheer number of people going places fast. Maybe if they would take a minute to reflect, they would see that this is still a special place, filled with people who appreciate the beauty of the everyday.
I have taken up a stranger for my Lent today. So therefore I had to set my own sacrifice. For the day, I chose to face challenges.
My first challenge was getting out of bed and without hitting snooze. I used to be really good about that, getting up right away. But I’ve progressed to a more slug-like existence in recent years. My second challenge was opening mail. I hate going to the mailbox. First of all, it’s dangerous on my road! Second of all, I rarely get anything fun. Just a bunch of crap. Thirdly, there are spiders. But to be honest, I still hate email worse. There aren’t even spiders! And it’s not dangerous, other than I will be presented with lots of ways to spend money. I usually don’t even bother opening it. It languishes in my inbox for all eternity. Right now I’m sitting on 7,723 unopened items. That’s just one of my accounts.
Anyway. Today I’m praying for a mother of a child she birthed very recently, prematurely, and lost quickly. Is there a greater pain? I doubt it.
Lord, we don’t know the reason. It may not be revealed in this lifetime. All we know is the heartache of losing someone that wasn’t ever ours
I didn’t hit snooze. I thought, if that lady can get up and face this day, I shouldn’t have the slightest problem. I did open my
Don’t let things get you down. It’s so easy to feel overwhelmed. Just conquer one thing a day. Make a list and mark it off. You’ll get there. You’ll get there. I have had days where my list looked like this:
- Make bed
- Take shower
- Go to Post Office
- Make
dentist appointment - Finish book
- Put pork chops in crockpot 1:00
- Weed flowerbeds
- Dust
- Vacuum
- Clorox shower
- Clean makeup brushes
- Do laundry
Not too strenuous, right? Well, maybe not. But you put the easy stuff on there to get you motivated to knock out the dreaded tasks. Notice “delete 1000 emails” isn’t listed. I don’t need that staring me in the face.
Well, this is no self-help column, and I’m certainly not in a place to be dispensing advice, but just know that we all have our dark days filled with worry and a sense we can’t push on, what’s the use? And that’s when you count your blessings and compare yourself to someone who just lost a baby. Or their home in a fire. Or someone who lives in poverty in a third world country or just down the road under a bridge. Get some perspective, wallow for a day if you must, then get the heck up and go do something. It’s easier if the sun is shining, I will say that. I wish y’all the very best.
Love from Appalachia,
Amy xoxo
The Montgomery Vindicator was a newspaper ran out of Sevierville, Tennessee from the late
My intention when I set out on this particular blogging journey was to tell you that bit, and then turn it into several stories, the first being a fictional newspaper story, then in recurring posts, the Montgomery Vindicator being the name of a firearm passed down from generation to generation since the Texas Revolution, then whatever else came to mind. Perhaps a Judge whose nickname was The Vindicator. Or something.
I first learned about the Vindicator during a side conversation at
Okay, okay, any history. Except maybe China’s or something.
But lemme tell you, I have been POSITIVELY CAPTIVATED by the obituaries posted by the newspaper.
June 28th, 1899
Jones — The wife of Will Jones, of Henry’s X Roads, died Monday morning, June 25th.
That’s pretty sorry. It doesn’t even list her first name or her birthday. When did she marry Will Jones? Was she a mother? How many children? What were their names? Where did they live? What church did she attend? Was she sick? I mean, current obituaries do a better job than this. Why was this particular obituary listed online for posterity? I thought they only chose the juicy ones, like below.
Miss Martha Charlotte Emert died at the residence of her mother, Mrs. Sarah Emert on Middle Creek, Thursday evening June 8th, 1899, at 4 o’clock p.m. age 22 years, 11 months and 15 days. For about two years Martha had been in very delicate health, but not until very recently had her afflictions reached such a stage as to alarm her friends. Martha was the pride of her father’s
That is all copied and pasted from the site, so I don’t know whether the person who transcribed it made the errors or if that’s how it was printed. But it is so enthralling, I am willing to overlook it. I like how they refer to the city of Sevierville as “this place”. Several obituaries stated “Five miles southwest of this place” or whatnot. I love the details. I wish more were written like this today. I think I’ll go ahead and get mine ready so all Atchley’s has to do is fill in the blanks. No mundane announcement for me! And no typos! We surely can’t have that. I would roll in my grave. Anyway, I found all 34 pages riveting. Many of them made me laugh, for which I immediately felt guilty. Like this one:
July 27, 1898 Sudden Death. Monday morning about nine o’clock, Addie Dixon, wife of Luther M. Dixon, of Harrisburg, while talking to her mother, Mrs. Mary Robertson, suddenly died. She was somewhat indisposed, but was not considered dangerous. Her husband had gone to his work and her brother, M. C. Robertson, had gone to the woods to kill her a squirrel. She began to feel queer and commenced describing her feelings to her mother, but before she could complete description, she was dead. She and her husband had been married less than a year and seemed to be starting happily and successfully on life’s journey. The young husband, the aged mother and admiring brothers and sisters have our sympathies. She was interred Tuesday at 10 a.m., with appropriate ceremonies.
We don’t know how old she was, but we know her brother wanted squirrel stew for lunch. And I reckon “considered dangerous” doesn’t mean combative, more likely contagious.
But they’re so wonderful!!! I was absolutely captivated and ending up sending many out to friends that I thought
https://www.newspapers.com/clip/12193899/knife_fight_near_scene_of_pickens/
I am telling you, I have thoroughly enjoyed reading all this stuff. I feel like my head is a big
Anyway, Amber suggested I write their stories
These thirty four pages could be the start of my magnum opus. I strongly encourage you to take a read, even if you just select one of the options and read a page. But I warn you: you’ll be totally addicted and up all night.
Enter at your own risk…. http://sevier.tngenealogy.net/research-assistance/records-resources/27-newspapers-a-publications/10-some-death-notices-from-the-montgomery-vindicator-1897-1901?showall=1&limitstart=
