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
Have you ever spent time wishing someone would die? I don’t mean an ex or an enemy. I mean, someone you know and love and are in so much pain they can’t think? Or maybe they’re lost inside their mind and causing you to lose yours.
It brings to mind one of the most heartbreaking stories I ever knew. It was just a few years ago, right here in my hometown. This vibrant, active little boy of twelve was diagnosed with a rare form of brain cancer. It was simply awful. It was a blindsiding, because he’d always been so healthy and now was so, so, sick. So the community gathered and prayed and surrounded the family as the young man fought and battled and tried to get well, to beat the odds. He underwent countless treatments of radiation, chemotherapy, surgeries, and many therapies to keep as much of his body functioning as possible. Everyone rallied, Regen fought, but ultimately got worse.
As Christmas drew closer, this Christian family was quite obviously pushed to their limits. On Christmas Eve, his mother wrote on Facebook that she hoped the Good Lord would call him home soon, he was suffering so badly.
Now you think about that.
A mother, praying for our Heavenly Father to take him only because she loved him so much and couldn’t stand to think of him in any more pain for another moment, even if she felt like her heart was being ripped clean out of her chest.
That’s true love.
She prayed for her son to die so he could be reborn, healthy and whole, with no pain. She knows that she will eventually see him again. That’s love and faith in abundance. I simply cannot grasp this dedication and strength. And you know what? He was called up. Answered prayers.
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Suicide is, unfortunately, entirely too common. Victims see it as their only escape from debt, from heartache, from sickness. The ones that are serious about it won’t ask for your help. You have to look for signs. They’ll withdraw. And if they follow through, you absolutely cannot blame yourself. They weren’t thinking of you. They weren’t thinking about how you will always question if you could have done more, how you will be living with this guilt the rest of your days. They were only looking out for themselves.
I know what it’s like not to sleep, but to want to because it’s an escape. That is, until the dreams come. But thankfully, dreams don’t generally stick.
I know what it’s like not to eat, simply because you don’t want to.
When these things meet, you’ve got a passel of trouble. You better have a helluva support system to get you through. It’s embarrassing, but we’ve all been there. You have to ask for help or you will find yourself in a bottomless hole and the climb out to sunshine will take a lot longer and will hurt like the pure devil it is. I hope you know who your circle is, who will help you and not hinder you or make it worse. It’s ok not to know what you want from people, or how they can help you. Sometimes you just need the presence of someone else. You don’t have to talk about it, you don’t have to talk about anything. They can go about their life, baking or cleaning and you can stare numbly at the television. But you probably need the comfort of another human just being there. It’s perfectly normal not to be able to watch TV, or listen to the radio, or concentrate enough to read a book. I get it. I hope you know when to pull yourself up and when it’s time to cry for a bit. Just breathe. You don’t get through anything traumatic one day at a time– survivors will tell you it’s one breath at a time. And it’s okay to not be okay. Scream. Stomp. Cry. Write. Laugh. Get drunk. Whatever. Just keep breathing. You don’t have to participate in anything- you don’t have to be your normal self. You just have to BREATHE.
Suicide Prevention LIFELINE 1-800-273-8255
I’m the glued together product of what was once whole.
It’s not so bad to be shattered.
Some plants only flower after a fire.
Sometimes I don’t even like the first sentence. Sometimes I’m awkward all the way through. And I rarely ever know what I’m going to write about. I just start, and thankfully the words come, and the story takes shape.
There’s a legend that states Ernest Hemingway once submitted a story to a newspaper that was holding a contest for the saddest six word story. Supposedly it read: “For sale. Baby shoes, never worn.” He won.
This has never been proven, and while it is indeed depressing, I know a sadder one.
I depend on Chick-fil-a. I know I will never be disappointed in my lunch if I get it there. They are to be depended on for the best chicken, fries, peach milkshakes, chicken tortilla soup….the list goes on and on. I know that I can count on them to not screw up my order. When I desire perfection in fast food, I go to Chick-fil-a.They are so much more than chicken.
They are the embodiment of the American Dream.
I don’t know how I’m expected to do without them for five whole weeks. I’ll go crazy. I nominate myself to oversee construction and if I notice anybody slackin’, I can crack the whip and yell on my megaphone. I’ll run a tight ship for sure. I can push a wheelbarrow!! I can spackle! I can call for loads of concrete and drag wire. We can get this done in like, four days, tops.
I am so SAD.
I got a little emotional the other day. Sometimes you have those moments where you just know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. An epiphany, if you will.
About a month ago, my friend Rhonda, the director of the library (don’t tell her I idolize her job just a little bit), called me up in the wee hours of the day. Obviously, she was trying to catch me while my guard was down so I would agree to her little plan. I hadn’t had my coffee. Something about a Seed Swap, that wasn’t on the National Holiday, but it was close enough, and could I say a little something about soil? Why sure because CLEARLY I’m qualified after seven months at a job. But I agreed because namely, it just sounds like a day we’d have snow. January 19th. When I went to write on my old school blotter, I discovered it was a Saturday. That sly wench!
Nonetheless, I assembled 27 folders full of valuable literature, soil sample boxes and forms, several posters, and my ever-present blue board.
I loaded up Maggie for my presentation. Presentation. Snort. We’ll see about that. I didn’t want to get in over my head, so I just printed some Fun Facts About Dirt off the NRCS website.
Fortunately, she had me paired up with my good friend Jim from the City, and he is nothing if not knowledgeable about all things that grow. He has been invaluable to me in my new capacity, knowing more about my job than I do. So I knew he could willingly serve as my crutch if I got in a bind.
He went first, for the scheduled first hour. He did a wonderful job! I learned a lot about container gardening. He gives sound advice and his results found all over the city speak for him as well. He’s known for cultivating hard-to-grow plants, and has even introduced several tropical varieties that have surprisingly thrived. He’s a genius of the plant world! The longer I listened, the bigger the ball of inadequacy grew in my stomach. I would just do it like I do everything else in life: wing it, and hope for the best. Thankfully, Rhonda didn’t want me to talk the whole hour or I would really be hurting.
So when it was my turn, I stepped behind the lectern and gave my biggest, most endearing smile. I can be quite winsome, if I do say so myself. “Hello, I’m Amy. And while Jim is perfectly comfortable talking about his job that he’s been working at for eighteen years, I have been at mine for six months. So I’m sure to pale in comparison.”
I told the story of how Jim and I go way back, to when he was new in town and I was new at the Co-op. In those days, I served as a floater. It was great. About the time I got bored in one department, I went to another to give a lunch break for someone. It was not unusual to find me in three departments in three hours. Hence, Jim thinking I was a triplet. He would come in of the morning and I would be on the front counter, selling plants. Lunchtime would find me at the gas window. And of the afternoon, I’d be piled up at the back counter, shooting and selling fertilizer. He would come in several times in the course of a day buying mulch and other supplies and everywhere he went, there I was. I assured them I was qualified to do what I do, as I had worked for the Co-op for thirteen years. I told them I may not be able to answer any intricate questions they had about Soil Conservation, but I could certainly school them on just about anything the Co-op sells.
I got down to business.
“First thing’s first. The most important thing to remember is, ‘We’re the government and we’re here to help.'”
I paused to let the laughter die down.
Except there was none. Tough crowd. I kinda giggled, to show them it was a joke, and elaborated, “Most people are scared to seek assistance through the government, afraid of what might get put on their radar. But I want to assure you, my office is non-regulatory. We’re just here for technical assistance and funding. Most of our customers are large scale, but we do offer cost share on high-tunnels. Anything to help with good water and land stewardship–we want to help you! And you can call with other questions, too. Believe me, I get calls about obtaining a passport, how to register to vote, the number to the jail, and just this week somebody called wanting the number to Atchley’s Funeral Home.
“Yes, I helped. I’ve got Google!
“But the other thing I want you to remember is this: You will need a doctor several times in your life. If you’re lucky, you only need a lawyer once or twice. But you need a farmer three times a day.”
This is where I teared up. Here I stood, in one of the greatest institutions ever devised by our forefathers, and a very personal love to me, talking about my passion: farming. It was almost more than I could bear. All my life had perfectly aligned to bring me here. Farmers get a bad rap; vegetarians don’t like them, they think it’s cruel to kill an animal for food when we could subsist on vegetables. Crunchy granola types think we should be able to live in harmony with the boll weevil and the tobacco worm and kill them humanely on a case by-case basis. Certain political parties think we could do without hiring migrant laborers to work in the fields daylight till dark. And then the work’s still not done- you just move inside to artificial lighting to work on machinery. Farmers are legalized gamblers. They are totally at the mercy of God and Mother Nature to provide weather in order to produce enough crops to live on. Are any other professions so dependent on that? Farming is the backbone of our country, of the world. If you don’t eat, you don’t survive.
So, back to me nearly crying in front of a bunch of backyard gardeners.
“You need a farmer three times a day,” I repeated, trying to make sure it stuck.
I walked them through the literature in their packets, told them to take some posters, and opened the floor for discussion. Of course I got 27 deer-in-the-headlight looks, but Jim bailed me out. We talked about native trees, grasses, and shrubs, I gave them some insight on the benefits of earthworms, and then we got to talking about bees. Thankfully, there was a beekeeper in the group and I eventually just eased away to make myself a craft. Behold, the seed ball.
I think the day was a success. Even if I did get a tad emotional.
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
