I don’t have much of a heart. Most of y’all know this to be true. It’s not that I don’t have a heart, exactly, it’s that I’m stingy about who I feel compassion and empathy towards. A lot of people out there aren’t truly grief stricken, or sick, or poverty level, they are simply desiring attention. I have no patience for these people. I also strongly dislike the ones who take advantage of the system. Able-bodied individuals who seek out funding through good-hearted folks or the government. I see it regularly, people looking for handouts in parking lots, gas stations, walking into random businesses, begging at churches. And these GoFundMe pages are panhandling via internet, plain and simple. NOT that I’m saying there aren’t plenty of deserving citizens out there-but the ones who are taking advantage make it that much harder for the truly deserving crowd to get the help they need.
My office is situated directly across from a low-income clinic. I’m not precisely sure how it works, but I know its purpose is to serve the needy and uninsured. All day long, I watch as a parade of young people in souped up cars jounce in and out. They seem to get around just fine. Not sure what they go there seeking, as it is not a pain clinic, but whatever. I tell you what I’d do…but I didn’t take the doctor’s oath.
I’d make a mighty poor doctor. My advice seems to always be the same, “Suck it up. Here’s a tangerine.”
Anyway. I went out to the mailbox this absolutely frigid morning (I’m talking of the caliber to freeze your nose hairs in place) and I noticed an old bent lady making her way to the entrance of the clinic. She was stooped and shuffling, leaning on a younger man’s arm. I imagined he was her son. Her hair was parted and white, almost the color of her sweater. It made me stop in my tracks. If my tear ducts hadn’t been frozen, I’m afraid they would have leaked.
She was the type of person who really needed this kind of institution. She was old, and her supplemental insurance or Medicare probably wouldn’t do much to cover a visit to her general practitioner. She was legitimately sick, you could tell just from the way she walked. And even though she was old, and sick, and poor, she had dressed in actual clothes. She wasn’t wearing her pajamas and flip flops. She had gotten up (early) and made an effort to look her best.
I’m not blaming doctors for charging what they do. They have bills, too: rent for their office space, equipment, insurance for malpractice suits- I don’t EVEN want to think about what that costs-, and of course they’re paying back their student loans for pretty much their entire working life. It’s disgusting. And just like the rest of us, they’re paying taxes, and have a mortgage, and a car payment and all the things that make up a life. No, I don’t blame the doctors.
I blame people who are here illegally, working for cash, who pocket more a week than the average person sees in three months. I blame the lazy, who are able to work but would rather work at getting all they can from the TAX PAYING CITIZENS. These are the ones who go to the free clinics because there’s no requirement to show your wages, there’s no paperwork to prove you have insurance, there’s no judgmental eyes on you from the righteous seated in the waiting room. Because 90% of them are just. Like. You. They suck the funds dry and there’s nothing left for the deserving. and lets face it, most of the older generation isn’t internet savvy and not sure where to apply to get help. AND DON’T GET ME STARTED ON THE SORRY BENEFITS FOR OUR VETERANS.
I hope that some of these worthless rats came in yesterday and saw the hunched woman sitting there, patiently waiting her turn to be seen from a tired, overworked, underappreciated doctor or nurse practitioner, bent from a racking cough.
And I hope they left. Because they aren’t sick. They’re just killing time till their next high, getting what they can off people who have the desire to do no harm.
Leeches.
There may not be any judgmental eyes in the waiting room, but there is a pair across the street. And I’m not sorry.
I should probably use this prompt to go off on a tangent. There are many controversial subjects itching at my fingertips, but instead, I’m gonna write about this:
The handwritten note.
I remember in fourth grade, our entire class had pen pals. They lived in San Bernardino, California. Mine was a boy….I think his name was Derek. It could just as easily have been Daniel. Or David. Or Eric. Or Steve. Who knows, the letters are long gone but I remember wanting to continue writing after we finished our required number of correspondence. Of course we didn’t. He was game, but somebody has to take initiative and no doubt, I had a horse to brush or a book to read. I wonder what ever happened to him. Where our lives have taken us since those long ago carefree days. He could be a firefighter or a lawyer or a park ranger. He could be pouring asphalt or working on cars or cutting up asparagus.
He could have a houseful of kids or maybe he’s in prison for beating his wife. He could be a jewelry maker or living under a bridge. He could be living in Portugal or Paris, or maybe even East Tennessee. It’s untelling. And he could be gone already.
I’m a big believer in thank you notes. And I still owe a few. If you’ve ever received one from me, you probably had to decipher it the best you could, as I am not known for my fine penmanship. I’ve been told I missed my calling as a doctor (by my nurse friends, who would know). But I love writing them. I have a whole drawer full. And of course, my famous wax seals for the finishing touch. I’m not elegant, but my letters are! I got the idea from the only pen pal I have now, Miss Cheryl.
I met her, as I have so many, through the Co-op. I knew her husband first, as he called on me for herbicide expertise. We got some vicious plants in these here hollers. They were from arid Texas, where you can’t hardly get stuff to grow, and you definitely don’t want to kill what you do got. So Tennessee has been a bit of a challenge. But I know the correct ratio of methyl ethyl bad shit to kill it dry as the Mojave (and there is an herbicide by that name, it’s the knockoff of Sahara) and so I became somewhat invaluable to him. I called him LA, for Lower Alabama, except neither of us can recall why nowadays. But lemme tell you, his wife is fabulous. We share a similar taste in jewelry and books and love of travel. Needless to say, we always have plenty to talk about….or write to each other about. I owe her a note presently, as a matter of fact. She always makes a point to attend book club when she’s in town, and she fit right into our little group like a round peg. What’s not to love about someone who adores books and writes letters?
Dear friends and followers,
I hope this post has found you well. Perhaps it has persuaded you to head out to your local pharmacy for some nice cards and a pack or two of stickers. I encourage you to drop a line to someone who’s on your mind. I bet they’ll remember it much longer than they would a text (although those are nice, too). If you don’t have anyone worthy of a stamp, maybe think about a soldier or a kid at St. Jude. Never underestimate the power of the written word. They will endure when we are only dust, because life is but a vapor.
Farewell,
Amy of Appalachia
Well, this is involved.
I’ve just picked up Jewel’s Never Broken today. As in, I actually opened the cover, not went out to the store and bought it. I’ve had it for awhile. But here’s a link, if you’re so inclined to have your own copy. I love her. https://amzn.to/2TcG39I
It starts with an “Ode To My Fortieth Birthday” style poem, which I found poignant. I’m not even fifty pages in, and she’s breaking my heart. I feel a kindred spirit to Jewel, always have. She loves the wilderness and grew up out in the Alaskan territory on horseback. She writes many of her own songs, and I admire her resiliency. I think this will be an insightful book, not only into her life, but mine as well.
If I weren’t so ashamed of my library right now, I’d post a few pictures of it. How ’bout I just post some oldies instead?
Welcome to my abode.
I have read a great many of these pictured, but I would say 50% remain unread. I just love them. This is my utopia. It’s a dream I’ve always had, to be able to walk into my own library and select a book at random. I’m pretty sure I’ll like whatever I’ve picked up because, after all, it’s mine. But I will ponder and choose and deliberate over them for awhile before I ever settle on one. And I’ll stack up ones to put on my “short list” by the couch….and it grows exponentially all year. I probably read a quarter of them.
I’m out of control. Tracy, the self appointed executor of my literary estate, agrees. But she condones it too, because in the event of my untimely death, she inherits the vast majority (Lisa, you get first dibs on 25, as previously discussed, and the lot of you may choose one each). And don’t be talkin’ ’bout all my pencil marks! It’s a disease, and no treatment is known.
I think all of you like to read, or you wouldn’t bother reading all my day to day mundane ramblings. Trust me, there are a great many authors out there who possess a greater gift than me. It’s hard for me to recommend books to the masses, whereas if I know you on a personal level I could probably inundate you with a list to keep you busy for years. So I won’t spew the virtues of all my favorites, but if you need a recommendation, drop me a comment.
You know I don’t read emails.
I’m out of order and all to hell and I’m sorry. I had written a few blogs as bonuses and then got out of whack and so I’m trying to do better this week. Maybe if it snows I can get caught up. I’m apologizing to myself as much as you, because I need to write as much as I need to breathe. And here we go.
{WP #635 The real reason people have freckles}
As a child, I remember a sweet red haired lady telling me not to be embarrassed by my freckles, that they were God’s kisses. Obviously, she was as Irish as they come.
But NOW I know the real reason.
Those of us born under a waxing crescent or a full strawberry moon in June are fey. That is, magic. If you’ve ever known someone who was energetic and charismatic, chances are they are Gemini. If they were of these moons, they are also spritely. They probably drive you a little crazy. They can’t help it. It’s like their brains can only light on subjects for a short while and then they’re distracted by dandelion seeds floating on the breeze and they must follow them to find where they lead. You’ll know them by their freckles.
Usually they have to come into their “power”, for lack of a better term. They are often ridiculed as children, because they look slightly different. They have trouble concentrating, unless the subject interests them. Math does not interest them in the slightest, so don’t try. They like frequent change and bright colors, mesmerized by nature and water. A cute upturned nose, sparkling eyes, and sharp wit often characterize these imps. They are imaginative and whimsical, often developing into artists or writers. They become accepted by a rare few who recognize their charm. And the love they reciprocate will warm you to your soul.
But never betray them, for they possess another gift: the ability to make you uneasy. It doesn’t sound so bad…but think about it. You feel like someone is forever lurking in the shadows, you begin to have bad dreams, you’re never totally relaxed. For all the times you knew you were beloved, now you feel that a frigid cloud has descended. They have taken away their protection. It was once so indistinct you never perceived it but now…you feel exposed and cold. The light has dimmed. If you ever encounter them again, they cut you to slivers with their blue or green eyes. And if you cross another, you wonder why they are so remote. The freckles network, dontcha know?
Whip smart and witty, these fairy dusted friends bring just a bit of joy into your days that you never knew was lacking before. They are your sprinkles. Cherish them, for they aren’t long for this world.
Every time I think about Batman, all I can think of is this blue heeler I once knew. They have very pointy upright ears. I was lying on the couch, watching a movie, the lights down low. The dog heard something that we didn’t, and sat up slowly with perked ears. All you could really make out was the silhouette.
“I’m Batman,” Greg said.
I nearly fell off the couch laughing.
Batman Forever was a movie I watched in the movies right after it came out. I fell in love with Chris O’Donnel and have never truly recovered. I kinda think Meredith is warped for not pursuing the relationship with him on Grey’s Anatomy. He was a vet, after all. Two points.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
I’m gonna tell y’all one story, although I have hundreds relating to deer.
It is the account of the one time I went deer hunting.
I know what you’re thinking: “Amy? In the woods? To shoot a deer?” I know, it’s preposterous. There are ticks there. And deer are graceful and agile and beautiful….and I’m so decidedly NOT.
I was eleven years old. My uncle, having decided there were no boys forthcoming in the family, had taken me under his supervision for all things outdoors. It started simply enough, with frisbee throwing. I was the blue ribbon winner of my Kindergarten class on Field Day. And Field “Day” used to be a week, in my glory days. But it looked weird when I typed it.
Uncle Dale also taught me a great many more things, including varieties of trees, how to tie my lures, how to fish, how to clean a fish, how to double knot my shoelaces so I wouldn’t eat dirt, how to shoot a pistol, a rifle, AND a muzzleloader. I assisted him when he processed deer, and I picked up sticks for the duration of my childhood under his watchful eye. He gave me my first dog and my first knife. He gave me $5.00 for my own crawdad lure, but he didn’t buy me a My Little Pony kite from McDonalds. He’s paid for that one a million times over, and finally came in with a sub-par Barbie kite a few years ago. As adults, we fight over Shirley’s apple stack cake and pester each other until I’m almost in tears.
But, on this particular fall day, I was short on sleep and he was short on patience. I had recently completed my Hunter’s Safety class in my 6th grade year. That’s hard to wrap my head around now. Mr. Wade, the Principal, instructed us on firearms and target shooting. At the end of the course, we all piled in an old school bus and went out to the lake to shoot skeet and have a picnic. We were ELEVEN years old. Eleven-year-olds nowadays wear safety pins to express their harmlessness and keep their nose buried in their phones. Snapchatting, as I understand it. That’s probably not the word they use. I still recall most of what I learned, and have had to instruct several grown men of two hard and fast rules: Treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, and be absolutely sure of your target before pulling the trigger.
Men are stupid.
Anyway, back to that frosty morning.
I had spent the night at their house because we were leaving way before the crack of dawn to drive to Nowhere, Tennessee. I couldn’t tell you to this day where we went. Some guy named Mansel owned the farm. I got suited up, I remember him helping me lace my boots (Brenda’s, they were a little big, but I had on like, three pairs of socks) at the kitchen table. I think we had a biscuit before getting on the road.
Well, it started before we ever got to the road. I was slumped against the door, thinking about how warm and cozy I had been, when he snaps, “You gonna start the day off deaf?” and got out and slammed the door. Evidently he had requested I shut the gate. Ah, well.
Listening to Patsy Cline and the tires on the red Ford sing, I fell asleep again. When I woke up, we were there. Which, as I stated before, was nowhere. And so began our long journey to the ridge. Over the river and through the woods, indeed. I was sweating by the time we finally stopped, as hiking was not my custom. Riding horses, yes. Laying on my bed reading and eating Snickers, yes. Tromping through the thicket in boots two sizes too big, wearing insulated coveralls, hauling a backpack, and carrying a shotgun…no. And the fallen leaves were so dense they came halfway up my shin! I was so relieved to finally collapse on the sodden log I would have fallen asleep again but I had to pee so bad it was keeping me awake. But the thought of peeling off my sixteen layers and exposing my backside to the below freezing temperature was not appealing. So I suffered in silence.
It was at this point the sun began to make its ascent. The warmth it generated caused me to close my eyes in contentment.
“Can’t shoot no deer with your eyes closed,” my uncle growled from beside me.
I should clarify something here, as I’m making him out to be a bit of a villain. I wanted to go on this little excursion. I had mistakenly thought I wanted to shoot a deer. Turns out, I just wanted to be able to compete with Stephanie for bragging rights. Stephanie is my aunt Brenda’s niece on her side. She had shot a buck on her juvenile hunt. I couldn’t be shown up. I had to remain at the top of the food chain of favorites.
With my eyes open, I could concentrate in turn on needing to pee and hypothermia. I had already counted my self dead. I would die right here, frozen to this moss covered log. I would deteriorate with the leaves unless Uncle Dale found it in his heart to drag me off the mountain. By the time they would be able to get the four wheeler to me, the coyotes will have ripped my limbs from my body and began to gorge on my intestines…
“Well, we ain’t seeing nothing here, let’s walk a ways up the ridge.”
Whaaaaaa???? UP the ridge?! Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we were on the pinnacle already. Oh dear….
“I gotta pee,” I said.
He walked off to leave me to it. I tried to hurry to catch up before he was totally out of sight, and in my haste, slipped on some slickety leaves and went down. In an effort to gain traction, I stuck the barrel of the shotgun in the dirt. This was most definitely the wrong thing to do. I got a strong talking-to about how we were going to have to clean it right then and there to avoid an accident in the event I actually had to fire.
We eventually got back on track, walking across a strip mine to get to the next destination he had so carefully plotted. I remember a stream. I remember eating the lunch Brenda had so lovingly packed for me and my long day of adventure. Peanut butter and crackers too. Always peanut butter and crackers. Which, of course, I crunched too loudly. My head was beginning to hurt. Probably a side effect of hypothermia.
I prayed vehemently we wouldn’t see a single deer. I didn’t want to shoot one. They were too pretty. What had I been thinking??? Deer tasted good but I couldn’t look in their liquid chocolate eyes and end it! “Please, no deer. No deer, no deer, no-deer-no-deer-no-deer…” I chanted silently in my head.
It was early afternoon when we spooked up the spike. I remember the dappled sunshine and how he lunged up the hillside. Uncle Dale instructing me to pull the gun, the white flag tail making a break for it. It was like I was in a trance. Uncle Dale all but tore the gun from me, disengaged the safety, and shoved it back into my gloved hands. By then it was too late. Too late for me, anyway. The deer would live to eat another acorn.
And I was so glad.
I know Uncle Dale was beyond disappointed in me as he recounted the day’s events to the landowner. But I was tired and I ached all over. I was thankful I didn’t have to gut a deer and drag it back to the truck. I crawled into the cab of the old Ford and slept.
I woke up hot and sick as a dog. I puked and puked and my head was busting.
And that, my friends, is the story of my first and last deer hunt.
I used to never hit snooze. Now I hit it almost every morning, unless there’s a really good song playing. I’m really digging my new station. I like to listen to nearly everything, and they very nearly play everything. Tear in my beer country, pop from the last four decades, Beach Boys and the like, and I guess you could call it Indie Rock for those songs I’m not familiar with.
I pet my dog and rub his warm ears.
I void my bladder and start drinking water.
I do a little virtual farming.
I look at the clock.
I do a little Facebookin’.
I look at the clock and sigh and hop in the shower.
I clean my ears with a q-tip even though everyone says you’re not supposed to and that one did come apart on me that time.
I scrub my face, scrutinizing it for fading freckles, newly arisen blemishes, and the always present forehead wrinkle.
I pick out clothes to match my attitude. Or sometimes, in contrast to my attitude. I pile on the jewelry. I roll my eyes at my fat legs and add cute shoes.
I sigh at my hair.
I drive and bask in the luxury that is Maggie, reflecting on Patsy and her jarring ride. I sing along to some empowering females, most usually Brandy Clark, Pistol Annies, and Cyndi Lauper.
I make coffee.
I type, I file, I chat on the phone.
I Skype.
I eat crackers.
I agonize over what to eat for lunch.
I read.
I take a walk around the neighborhood.
At 4:30, I may close up shop and head to Holston’s, or spin, or a board meeting. Or I may go home.
I greet my dog.
I make supper & eat it while watching Big Bang Theory.
I read.
I farm.
I write.
I pray.
I sleep.
Of course a January topic would be “New You”. New Year’s Resolutions and all that. Every year I say I’m gonna do better. I’m not gonna cuss so much, I’m gonna quit being such a gossip, I’m gonna stay off the internet and quit ordering books and start reading the ones I already have.
It never works. I rarely even make it to the afternoon of January 1st. So this year I said I was gonna write more. I adopted a second writing challenge. I was doing alright till last weekend, when I became a lazy slug. I was exhausted from packing up all my Christmas decorations and I finally had a clean house and I just wanted to lay around and enjoy it. Which I did, and no writing was accomplished. I have also abandoned all hope of keeping my checkbook balanced. I’ll just have to spot check my bank. Or something. *yawn*
But I tell you what I HAVE been doing. I’ve started going to spin. Spin? you ask. Yes. That’s a stationary bike that you pedal. And you don’t just pedal lackadaisically, you pedal like the hounds of hell are nipping at your feet. You engage the resistance, and you feel like you’re pedaling underwater because by then you’re sweating so hard you think you’re swimming. I take my glasses off, which I never ever ever do unless I’m sleeping, showering, or swimming. But I figured out I don’t need to see anything while I’m cycling to certain death. It’s dark in there, anyway, which is a blessing. I’m sure I look like the old gray mule slogging up the lane after working all day in the salt mines. But the music is pumping, my heart is pumping, and my legs are….jello. They’re not happy with me, and neither is my hind end. I’m not sure who designed those seats, or why there’s never been an improvement on them in all these years, but you just suffer through. If it was easy, it wouldn’t burn calories. And so I pedal. Sometimes not very fast, and I may be turning down the resistance when I’m supposed to be turning it up. But I don’t quit. That’s not really an option, anyway. At least the music is so loud they can’t hear me scream. Seems like everybody can hear my singin’, though. And what is strange is that by my second visit, I was totally addicted. I even went on a different day last week so I wouldn’t miss it for book club. #dedication As an added bonus, it helps me sleep. Forget about the healthy heart, I’m for anything that helps me sleep more soundly.
There have been other changes as of late that I’m not prepared to talk about but let’s just say that a weld is the strongest point on metal if it’s done right. And I’ve got a mighty welder at work on me. I was never fine china, anyway. I prefer the term Steel Magnolia.
I’m not eating any different, just to be sure you understand I’m still the Amy you’ve come to know and love. A person can only take so much. And I’m still a procrastinating, scatterbrained gossip with unruly red hair. I shalt not cast a stone. But I will run my mouth. If only that counted as exercise! I’ve also been walking around the block of the afternoon with a buddy of mine that works downtown. It’s kinda therapeutic. We often see things we somehow missed the day before. Like moss. Or a birds nest. I stomped through some rain puddles the other day for the first time since I was a child. On these walks, life is paused. We don’t check our phones, we don’t fret, we just walk and talk, easy in each other’s company.
I can’t think of anything else that’s new with me. Minor tells people he’s known me for twenty years, and I’m the same today as I was twenty years ago. That makes me smile. I think I am, fundamentally. But I like to think I’ve grown a little too, and not just through the waist.
Happy New Year, y’all. May the coming months bring us all peace and good health.
On December 13th, my Aunt Brenda and I journeyed to Maryville to pick up the little Nativity figurine. And a slice of cookie cake, turns out. You saw the blog. We were sitting at Chili’s when, for whatever reason, my Dad crossed my mind. I wonder about him every few years or so. I haven’t seen him since I was 18. It’s crossed my mind a hundred times if he even remembers I exist, and said so to Aunt Bren.
“Oh, I’m sure he does! He loved you so good. I can still see him holding your little hand as you went across the yard.”
This gave me pause. Dad always was good about taking me to feed the cows, taking me fishing, taking me to White Star. I remember him allowing me to ride in the back of his red S-10 pickup, and later attempting to teach me how to drive a 5 speed in his brand spanking new Shelby Mustang in the desolate Kmart parking lot. He had much better luck with the fishing lessons. He took me to Dollywood regularly on our scheduled Sunday visits, and lots of times to McDonalds. I remember he had a goofy laugh, an easy sense of humor, and skinny legs. I have inherited his mischievous blue eyes, snorting laugh, and curly brown hair. Unfortunately, I did not get his skinny legs.
So I dwelt on this a bit in the coming days. I googled him and found him. He was still living in Knoxville, but had evidently done a little traveling, taking him to New Jersey and Alex City in Alabama. I found that a bit ironic, as that Aunt Bren had also lived there. But I looked at the map of his current residence, street view, and possible listed relatives. I was among them. Amazing what you can find on Google. For FREE. I also found his phone numbers. I didn’t go so far as to enter them into my phone, but I knew where I could find them again.
On December 29th, I went to see my favorite hairdresser and she gently suggested I might think about contacting him. Just to let him know I was okay. I wasn’t mad, I wasn’t crazy, I had turned out okay. Better than okay. It didn’t sound like a bad idea. Dad was alright. Not the best husband, but a decent Dad. You can be a good Dad but a shitty husband. You can’t be a shitty Dad and a good husband. It doesn’t work that way. I still hadn’t landed on anything, but I told my girls about it. They were supportive of whatever decision I made, or didn’t choose to make, as they always are. Because they’re my girls.
So tonight, I’m sitting here next door at Dale and Bren’s, and I’m catching them up. I was saying how wild it was you can get all this accurate information off Google. I opened up my browser to show them. And I’m greeted with a page full of obituaries.
As the Southern expression goes, I didn’t know whether to shit or go blind.
In case you’re wondering, I did neither.
He died on January 2nd, five days after my last Google search.
So. Here I sit, trying to digest this. Should I have gotten my ducks in a row and went down there at Christmas? I don’t think so. Was God trying to protect me from something? I noticed that his mother was not listed in the obituary, either deceased or alive. More on her another day. He was evidently not married, and had fathered no additional children. But who knows, as I wasn’t listed either. I do not wish to seek any monetary assistance, and I don’t think he had much, anyway, judging from his residence. (It’s not disgusting or anything, just small.) It’s just bizarre. Imagine. All the funerals I’ve attended in my life, and I missed this one.
I know I’m generally close mouthed when it comes to my father, but it’s because there’s very little to tell. But I will say it feels like a punch in the gut to learn he’s dead.
And this is how things go in my life. I know I’ve called or texted some of you just as something traumatic has happened and you’ve remarked about my timing. I’m not looking for condolences, or sympathy. It’s just weird.
To be continued.
