I absolutely, positively, cannot think of a thing to write. My world is filled with barking and howling dogs. And has been since 3:00 this afternoon.

The neighbors have evidently, accidentally, left their doodle outside. I say accidentally because this has never happened before. Maybe he let himself out and now he can’t get back, like some sort of wormhole. I don’t know, all I know is he’s been barking since three o’clock.

It is now 9:30.

That is a LOT of barking. He is tireless. And when he really gets to feeling sorry for himself, he gets to howling. At which time, Chester gets empathetic and pitches in. Several dogs in the neighborhood beyond also accompany them. It’s truly a cacophony and I’m about to pull my eyebrows out, one by one.

Yes, I could text my neighbor and make sure everything is ok. But I don’t want to worry them if they can’t get home, or can’t send somebody to check. And I don’t know how to put it nicely, “please come home and shut your dog up, he’s driving us all crazy”. I’m not known for my warm bedside manner. Because I feel certain Chester barks when I’m gone. Surely not nonstop like this, but really, who’s to say? And I don’t have a key, so no, I can’t go put him up myself.

Lalalalala…..my aunt just text me to see what all the commotion is. She must have just gotten home or has had every television in the house blaring, one. Poor Chester has worked himself into a dither. I just keep telling him Ace is being dramatic and I better not ever hear of him acting like this.

Full moon tomorrow night, known as the Worm Moon. I looked it up, because it looks full tonight. But it ain’t. And it’s not called the worm moon on account of the earthworms, either. It’s because of the beetle larvae (gag 🤢) that come out of the tree bark this time of year. Named by the Native Americans and was adapted in the 1760’s to our tongue by Jonathan Carver.

I like moons, and I like worms, but I do not like larvae.

I had an aunt who was terrified of worms. It was kinda funny, until I realized that I wasn’t any better, being scared of snakes. Of course snakes are much bigger and toothier…

I ain’t gonna write no more about slitheries because I don’t wanna dream about them.

He’s still barking. Chess is still whining. He’s gonna give himself heartburn if he keeps it up. Gonna be a long night if they’re not coming home. I would think he would’ve run out of steam by now. And where is he getting water? They don’t leave their dogs out for extended periods like this. It’s all very odd.

I made a pork roast today in the crockpot. It was very delicious. A bone in Boston Butt. I diced an onion, poured a bottle of cider beer over it, peppered it real good, and let it cook all day. It nearly starved us to death. Then, when I couldn’t stand it any longer, I drained it, shredded it, and dumped a jar of Buc-cee’s pineapple mango habanero salsa over it. Sooooooo very delicious, if I do say so myself. And I do. I ate it on hard shell tacos. I didn’t even bother with sides. I may make some guac tomorrow. Or I might not. I might make some more cheater mashed potatoes. That’s way more likely.

Ok, I’m gonna go stuff cotton in my ears. I hope y’all have a peaceful night. I intend to, one way or another.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

“He was one of them guys.” He looked at me to see if I understood. I did, and I willed him with my eyes to continue. “…one of them guys…you know, one of them guys you can’t get away from and you don’t want to.”

There was more, but he didn’t say, because he knew I knew. But probably also because I said, “keep talkin’, you’re soundin’ like a blog post.”

We all know “them guys”. They worked a job that required skill of their hands and strength of their back. They wear plaid shirts with snaps and the left pocket carries a small spiral notebook, a Bic pen, and a pack of Marlboro reds. Their dark denim jeans show a little wear in a spot or two, maybe a frayed hole from battery acid, maybe some stubborn grease streaks. The pockets bulge with keys, five dollars in change, a lighter, and a yeller three blade Case pocketknife. These men have arms that are tanned and sinewy, scratched and scarred from countless battles with brush, machinery, barbed wire, and their oldest son, who went through a biting phase. They wear a gimme cap from the feed and seed or tractor dealership without fail, not to cover up the grey but because they always had. They were naked without it. And their boots. No fancy doins there, either. Scuffed, muddy, worn, heavy, and brown. A low heel. No pointed toe. Boots that have traveled. Boots that had a long way to go. Probably Redwing brand, but maybe Justin, depending on their line of work and what work was waiting at home. These guys carried their paper check home to “momma”, who scrimped and saved and put meat on the table seven nights a week. She packed his dinner bucket with two sandwiches, a banana or apple or orange, a pack of crackers, maybe some chips. She made a pound cake or Bundt cake once a week and wore an apron from daylight till dark. Momma knew he chewed a little tobacco, but not in the house. And he knew she watched her stories every day and spent a good hour on the phone each afternoon before he got home talking to Margaret, if she didn’t come through the back gate for coffee. These women sold Avon and knew better than to ask for flowers on their birthday, but directed him on where to plant the rose bushes. These men scoffed around the other guys about keeping the missus happy, but you better believe they groveled when they had too many beers on Friday night.

You can find these men all around. Look for an American made truck in a basic color, sometimes with a dog in the bed. Look for them at the auto parts, the local hardware, the Co-op, and any backyard garage. They’ll be around Hardee’s early of the morning. They tell tales on each other: tales of the hunt, the fishing trip, the time they took the family to see the Grand Canyon, and when their best buddy in high school wrecked his motorcycle. They’re all retired, but they still have plenty to do, and an opinion on how you should be doin’ it. They don’t understand the fascination with cell phones or reality TV. They watch the weather and sometimes the news, until it makes them mad. They drink coffee way up into the day and know a little about everything. It’s hard to distinguish the truth from the lie, but you like the story and they’re not one to let a little fact get in the way of the tellin’. They’ve lived through the draft, and known several who didn’t. They pay cash, always. They don’t need to yell to get your attention, you were already listening. They’re the men at the bank that everybody knows, the one the tellers make coffee for. The ones that will linger and harmlessly flirt, saying nice things just to make them smile. One of them guys. If you don’t know any of them guys, I suggest you go get acquainted. They’re pretty handy. You’ll know them by their level gaze and unhurried manner. You best slow down and have a word. You’ll probably walk away a sight better than when you walked up.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

It is the first day of spring. I hope you found a way to enjoy it outside in the breezy brightness, with the budding trees and the thickening grass. I was running around the picturesque East Tennessee countryside for most of the day, admiring fields of fescue coming in strong from recent rains and 70 degree temperatures, and daffodils in ditches, and cows making the most of it, picking with gusto. But no early spring day is complete without noting the invasion of my enemy tree, the Bradford Pear.

But we’re going to overlook that in favor of the productive day spent in the company of a dear friend, a longtime friend, a good friend who needed a good day. And he got it. Do you all sometimes pause and realize that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be in that moment? That maybe, just maybe, we aren’t just floating along, happenstance, and a billion moments have connected and aligned to put us right where we are? Last night when I was up half a dozen times, I tried very hard not to come all the way awake. But I remember praying almost every time that today wouldn’t have any hiccups, that things would move smoothly along, that our plan be His will, as well. And best I can tell, it was. It wasn’t without hiccups, but it was close enough, and it’s kinda like people will tell you on your wedding day: “if, at the end of the day you’re married, it was a success. And that’s all that matters.” So today was a success. No, I’m not married! It’s a metaphor.

We all have our want list. We all have our needs list. Sometimes the wants will disguise theirselves as needs. It’s tricky business. I hope that we know our wants won’t hurt us. I think it’s a good rule to put our wants to the side, and save towards them, but if in six months they don’t seem as vital, to let them go.

Spring is often viewed as fresh life and new beginnings. It’s certainly easier to be more hopeful with the rising temperatures and brighter skies. So if you haven’t been setting the world on fire since January 1st, now’s you’re time to make up for it. All I’ve been doing is plodding along here, keeping it real, and trying to do a little good in the world, even if it is in unconventional ways.

I hope that today, on the first day of spring, in the year of our Lord 2024, you found a reason to be blessed and comforted and know that you are loved. I hope you have at least one good friend, and I hope you felt heard and appreciated. I hope you laughed and I hope tomorrow is just as good, or even better. I hope you don’t lose sight of yourself. And I hope you rest through the night, free of worry from what hasn’t happened yet. Don’t go borrowing trouble. There’s plenty to go around. The longer I live, the more I realize that things happen exactly as they should. The right person is out there, you just have to be patient. And I’m not even just talking about love. The right customer, the right neighbor, the right boss, the right contractor, the right husband or wife. The right person will listen to your stories, and be honored to hear them, and cheer you on. There will be an energy you can’t define; you may not even be aware until after. Kismet, fate, whatever you wanna call it. One day it’ll click and you might stop and take a moment to acknowledge that there’s something great at work, all over every single second of our lives. And thank God for that. Because I have zero business being in control.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

The Pollening has begun. And it’s all the Bradford Pears fault. I feel itchy and gross.

I was told today that people relate to my writing and like it because it’s real. I’m not trying to make it seem like my life is unicorns and sparkles all the time. I’m not gonna just write about the highlights and lead you to believe I’m having this perfect experience in life. No, that’s not my style. I’m tripping, I’m slipping, I’m falling, I’m spilling, I’m making a mess and causing a hazard everywhere I go. And right now I feel like I might have a touch of food poisoning to go along with my allergies. I sure hope not, lots of things to do tomorrow and I need to be in tip-top supportive mode and able to make sound decisions.

So speaking of fake, and I may have written about this before, but these books that everybody claims to have read…I’m reading 1984 right now and it’s slow going for me because it’s a mass market paperback edition so the print is small and it’s not very comfortable to hold. I never thought I’d be on the e-reader bandwagon but these things are great for indoor reading when you have low light. I also like the built in dictionary. Very handy. But I haven’t found a way to avoid the glare when reading outside, so in the summer I usually keep two books going: an inside book and an outside book. But, in the winter, there’s no need. But back to these books everybody supposedly read and adores.

For starters, the Bible.

I ain’t buyin’ it. No, no, I believe in the word. I have trouble believing so many people have read it cover to cover. Maybe over the course of your life you have studied it through sermons and Sunday school lessons, but no, I don’t believe the majority of people who claim to have read it sat down and read it straight through as you would read a novel. Nope.

Then we have the classics. Your Dickens, your Hemingway, your Fitzgerald. The Alchemist, Moby Dick, War & Peace or whatever other tome you think makes you look superior. I may possibly judge you *lifting eyebrows* that you would waste time on a 1000+ page book, but you still can’t use the correct version of there, their, or they’re. Or maybe weather and whether. Or then or than.

I’m stopping before y’all start throwing long division at me. Or perhaps simple arithmetic. ‘Cause I suck, I’ve got no lies to tell.

Anyway. Came across this article right off when I googled “what are the most popular books people claim to have read?”

I’m not surprised.

https://tysonadams.com/2019/12/11/the-top-10-books-people-claim-to-read-but-havent-2/

I used to lie about Little Women and Jane Eyre but several years ago I set out to read the classics and got to several of them. Rebecca was my hands down favorite and I felt like I hit A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and To Kill a Mockingbird too late in life to really appreciate them. Never cracked the spine on Little Women. Maybe this year. Really, I’d rather just read Gone With the Wind again. Or maybe Lonesome Dove.

I gotta go to bed so my dog can get some rest. He’s snoring and every time I get up he gives me this look like I’ve betrayed him. Never mind I’m the one going off to work every day so he can have kibble in his bowl and a stuffed dinosaur to disembowel while he lays around freeloading.

I shouldn’t presume. He may have run off a dozen potential robbers today, I wouldn’t know. Anyway. Just remember I’m always happy to talk books with you or try to recommend something. I was talking to a friend today and I was once again disappointed in myself that I didn’t participate in Lent this year. I thought about it but never committed to anything. I had intended to cut out all excess spending (that would have included all meals out) but let’s be real. I am not going to do without my weekly (…or bi-weekly) Bo-rounds. Or candles. Or a new cute top. Or something for Chessie. But I could have went to ol’ faithful and given up Facebook. And I’d be better for it. Because lemme tell you, comments on public pages are not good for my blood pressure. It’s like eating from a salt shaker while driving in Atlanta traffic. No good.

Ok. Goodnight. Happy reading.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

I don’t know Kim Rogers, but I hate her. Her clothing line for Belk evidently runs small, because I find my “normal” size is a bit snug if it carries her label. So I have to size up, and this perturbs me. Life ain’t fair, I’ve known this all along, but clothing should be!

I dated myself today. One of my friends purchased her daughter a car for her birthday and posted a picture on Facebook. It looked like a dern nice one, much better than what my friends and I drove at sixteen. I commented, “Sharp!” After posting I thought, “Nobody says that anymore. Not even Boomers. That’s it. I will never be cool again.” Not there was ever much hope.

I love it when people say they like my house. It’s nothing special, but I’m proud of it. I think I’ve succeeded in making it a home. Almost all my possessions are objects I’ve collected around on my travels. Of course the books make it cozy. There’s usually something cooking or maybe a cake under the glass dome. I’m trying to cut back on those, though. I try to keep it tidy, but there is always errant dog hairs here and there. And Amy hairs. But I feel like if you like my house, you like me, because my home is a direct reflection of me. And, it would stand to reason, you probably wouldn’t be welcome here if you didn’t like me, so I suppose this is all a moot discussion. Well, soliloquy, since you’re not contributing.

Saw this today and it made me giggle.

I hope that posts correctly, it looks chopped on my iPad. But it made me think, what would Chester do to get it trouble? I quickly determined it would be quicker to list what he wouldn’t do.

I think: sleeping in class, talking in class or other disruptive behavior, running zoomies and getting carried away and knocking other students and the teacher down, hogging food, unwilling to share napping space or attention from teacher, poor handwriting, impatient, and failure to communicate in a calm manner. Also excessive urination. Oh, and murder of all stuffed animals. And he would sit pretty in the principal’s office, exuding obedience and total charm, contrite and making you wonder if this is the same dog who was playing bulldozer on the playground twenty minutes ago. (He is the bulldozer).

It took me forever to go to sleep last night and I’ve been in a fog most of the afternoon. It didn’t help I didn’t make any coffee this morning. So I’m really looking forward to bed. Think I’ll go on. Y’all bundle up in the morning. Back to the twenties, so I’ve heard. We had the roaring part today. That wind! Zoinks! I had to make potato soup to feel warm.

Love from blustery Appalachia,

~Amy

“Write of what you know,” Mrs Tipton told my tenth grade English class. But what I know is no longer useful to those who lead lives so startlingly different than my own. I know nothing of long marriages, but instead, ill-fated love. I don’t know about securing a career right out of college, and being compensated fairly. It is a mystery to me, the act of raising children, or having a healthy relationship with my parents. I can’t tell you the first thing about iPhones or popular television programs or streaming services. I couldn’t list five current celebrities if you held a gun to my head, or anything about winning sports teams. I haven’t a clue what’s trending in clothes, or how I should be applying eyeliner. I haven’t a clue about diets or workouts. I cannot do sums in my head or use a sewing machine.

But I know about true friends, and fake ones, too. I know what it’s like to travel alone, to a destination hundreds of miles away that I’ve never visited. I am well versed in sitting in a quiet house all day, flipping pages of a book and cooking a pasta dish from a recipe I stumbled across online. I understand how it feels to not want to get up and do it again but you have to, because there is no one to bail you out. I’m familiar with being on my knees, sobbing, crying out to the one who formed us, unable to form words or see a way through. I know what it’s like to be under appreciated and taken advantage of, to be expected to be at someone’s beck and call, even when they are not at yours. No one is perfect, and a sincere apology and promise to do better will set it right again. As long as there is effort and a willingness to accept they acted unfairly. I can tell you about the unparalleled loyalty of a dog, I can write for hours about these mountains I call home. I can wax nostalgic all day over the heat of a southern summer in Savannah. I can explain why being stubborn and not becoming complacent is preferable to getting comfortable. I can quote Gone With the Wind, Lonesome Dove, and nearly every episode of Friends and Designing Women. I can explain about nutritional values in horse feed, and coach you in buying a horse to suit your needs. I can instruct you in making many southern foods, and give you tips about fishing (don’t expect to catch anything and you’ll never be disappointed). I can teach you how to piddle.

Because piddling is what I’ve done for three solid days, with one short-lived bout of housework yesterday.

Piddling requires dedication and a lack of goal setting. One must commit to no deadline, or an expectation that any project will be completed. Even calling a task a project is frowned upon. Piddling is just something you find yourself doing, like cleaning out the junk drawer, or rearranging a shelf in the basement when you found two empty spray paint cans in with the bug killer. Piddling is slicing an onion and realizing how dull your knives are, so you stop making lunch to instead sharpen all the knives in the house. Piddling is picking up sticks in the yard that bleeds over into fixing the gate that hasn’t been quite right in some time, that leads to restacking that odds and ends pile of lumber in the corner of the garage. Or scraping wax out of pretty glass jars to use as vases or storage.

Ahhh, piddlin’. There is no end. It can be soothing if you’re of the right mindset. But this blog and my resolution is not for the piddlin’ type. It would be so much better if I wrote like somebody with some sense. I even piddle in my writing. I’ll start with one thing I want to say then get off on something else, and wind up talking about something else entirely. I remember writing a research paper my junior year. The outline was due like, two or three weeks before the paper. This was enough to send me into a tailspin. How was I supposed to write an outline? I didn’t know how it was gonna go till I got into the paper and saw how the tale was gonna fall out. I tried to explain this to the teacher, who tried reasoning with me that was the purpose of the outline, to keep me focused and on track. Have you ever tried reasoning with a 16 year old redhead? No, I don’t recommend it. As my memory serves, I loosely wrote my research paper in two days, and hammered out the outline from it. Then I coasted until the first draft was due.

So a piddlin’, procrastinating writer is what I am, who is loved by a dog, and who craves a good cheeseburger more than is normal for any forty-something lady.

Tomorrow is Monday, in case you forgot. I might have to stop for biscuits and gravy on my way in to soften the blow.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

It has been an altogether pleasant day. I slept in, made me half a pot of coffee, and drank it quite leisurely, with my sweet dog at my side. So very much at my side, in fact, that I’m thinking of changing his name to Barnacle. I could call him Barney for short. Then I decided to clean the winter gunk from my patio table and dine alfresco. It was late for breakfast, but I wasn’t having a Bloody Mary, so I hesitate to call it brunch. Food just tastes better outside. I don’t care if it’s just a bologna sandwich, or peanut butter and crackers, there’s just something about the sun on your face and the wind in your hair. I watched a woodpecker sail right into the hole in the dead tree and clouds puff across the robins-egg-blue sky. I watched all the cars race by, people on an important mission to do things they probably didn’t even want to do. People who would probably be bored to death sitting on a porch watching woodpeckers and eating biscuits with their dog glued to their side. I wasn’t bored, but I was procrastinating. Saturday is housework day.

But I got everything vacuumed and dusted and swept and scrubbed. I did not strike a lick at laundry or cleaning my furniture, as is my custom on time change weekends. Yes, I am aware I’m a week late on the time change cleaning, anyway. See procrastination statement above. There’s always next weekend.

So here I sit in my clean house, on a beautiful spring Saturday night, listening to more people run the roads, and I don’t have the slightest desire to be anywhere else. I think I must be old. I already know I’m dull. But I’ve already had my night on the town this week. I’m content with my new candle flickering on my (dustless) coffee table, Barnacle—I mean, Chester, dozing beside me and making gentle shuffling noises in his sleep, and the prospect of finishing another book tonight. Somebody has a fire going nearby and the smoke is beginning to curl in through my open windows.

I am often alone, but rarely lonely. I saw a TikTok today that had a man giving pointers to other married men on how to woo your wife. One tip was letting her sleep in ✔️ Another was offering to take the kids for a few hours so she could do whatever she wanted in peace and quiet, like take a bath or eat junk food and watch TV. And for the millionth time, I was once again thankful I didn’t have children. I cannot imagine having to cater to tiny humans constant needs and having to carve time out of my day to do the things I see as commonplace. Lort. It’s hard enough being responsible for a dog, and I’ve been doing that my entire life. I’m glad I don’t have rabbits anymore. What a pain. I do miss horses, but not enough to go get one. Yes, I am completely aware of how selfish I am. But I’ll ask you again: is it selfishness that I had the foresight to realize what my expectations of life were and know that children would affect my desired lifestyle, so I chose not to have them? Not trying to start a debate here, but when people call me selfish, I wonder if they thought about it like that? To me, selfishness would be if I had a houseful of young uns dependent on me for supper and baths and I went flitting away for a night on the town with the girls. On a whim, I mean, not as a planned excursion with a sitter lined up, or what have you.

But at any rate, this is my life and I’m happy with it. Maybe I learned to be that way, that adjustment was necessary. I had a conversation this week about the definition of weak minded. In my opinion, it means letting circumstances cut you off at the knees and not trying to recover. Things that happen to everybody eventually, like the loss of a parent after a terminal illness, or a breakup, or a surgery, or the loss of a job, or a car wreck. Obviously truly traumatic things like the death of a young child or a house fire or something equally catastrophic warrants a longer recovery and professional counseling. I’m not trying to trivialize anyones distress, but you’ve got to overcome so many things throughout life and just keep trucking. I’m not saying don’t grieve, I’m saying don’t wallow. The other person saw it as more of mind over matter, like willing yourself well when you were down with the flu, or endurance of lifting objects for an extended period. It reminded me of a karate class I’d taken way back in college. We all lay on our mats and our sensei (instructor) asked us to move our right foot. We did so. Then our left foot. Then our big toe on our left foot. That wasn’t so easy- you try it. Then our pinky toe. I found it impossible. And sitting here, I still do. Mind over matter? Maybe,

Now, a word about Bradford Pears.

I hate them, they’re invasive, they smell terrible, they wreck havoc on my sinuses, and they break and make a great big mess. They’re killing out native pears and completely taking over. Farmers can’t stay ahead of them; they’re worse than cedars. The hybrids have thorns. Right now is a clear illustration of how much they’ve spread, just look for their white blooms. As if our farmers didn’t have enough to do. “Something else to fight,” one sighed in a recent conversation.

So stop planting Bradford Pears. Start chopping down every one you see. I’ll give you a quarter- that’s what I used to get for hoeing thistles. Must provide evidence of dead tree. Limit $5, then you’re just doing it for the greater good and I thank you 😁

I hope y’all have a lovely Sunday and find things to enjoy and be thankful for.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

I have eaten the awfullest mess of garbage today that ever was. Just like I didn’t learn a thing from Thursday night’s escapade. Oh well.

It was a rainy, stormy morning here in East Tennessee and I just couldn’t see the effort in driving to work and spending the day with Sniveling Jake. So I didn’t. And I’m glad of it, I’ve had a rather cozy day here eating whatever didn’t eat me. I feel like I stayed on the phone all day, and checking my log, it appears I pretty much did, from 10-6. Not all work, but some. But you gotta keep up on current developments with friends. And I did get my latest Lisa Jewell book knocked out mere moments ago. It was a hum– dinger and I recommend it to those of you who like “what if” type books or books about amnesia. The title was The Truth About Melody Browne. I liked it, I liked it a lot.

Some adulting things I’d like to share: stop buying Rice-a-roni, the San Francisco treat. It pales in comparison to Uncle Bens. I know Uncle Bens fell victim to the marketing attack a few years ago, and I also know it’s a smidgen more expensive, but I’m telling you, it’s worth it. It cooks better, it tastes better, and it makes more.

Adulting #2: like everybody else and their brother, I have Pyrex storage containers. They’re really great, they’re clear glass so you can easily discern what’s in them, they’re durable, and they’re easy to clean. I’ve noticed several lids cracking in the last few weeks. Not a big deal for refrigerator use, but if I need to freeze it could be problematic. And I can’t complain the lids are giving out, because they’re 12 years old this summer. So I get on Amazon to buy replacement lids. You probably know what I’m fixing to say.

I can buy the whole new set for $10 more dollars than what the replacement lids are gonna cost! I would have thought the glass would be the expensive part. Nope. Or maybe they just know that the majority of people are just gonna want the lids and have driven them to the threshold of pricing, where the public will teeter totter on “I don’t need them but…..”

The lids, at $21.99, are in my basket. The entire set is not. I am not wasteful. But dang.

It’s unsettling how many people don’t like tomatoes, or only like tomatoes in cooked form. It should please me, because that would equate to more tomatoes for me. But I’m under no false illusions that I could consume any more than I already do. A friend who eats only the cooked varieties (salsa, spaghetti sauce, soup, etc) asked me today how to even eat one. This is not a young person, and obviously it’s evident people eat them on burgers and sandwiches, as a rule, not an exception. But I took the opportunity to share my favorite tomato recipe. Many of you have seen it multiple times over the years.

First, get you two slices of white bread. Any will do, but if I have my druthers, I like that Nature’s Own Crafted bread. The wheat is what I use when it’s not tomato season. Getcha a jar of Duke’s mayonnaise. Lightly toast bread, slather on mayo, sprinkle salt & pepper. Peel garden tomato, or hothouse if that’s all that’s available. Slice into thick slices. Put as many as you want on the bread. Cram it in your mouth as hard as you can go while preparing a second, identical sammich.

That’s how you eat a tomato.

I will leave you with a quote from The Legend (self appointed). John Alan had to work overnight Tuesday. So, in other words, when he got up at 6 on Tuesday, he worked all day, then got called back in before he ever went to bed, worked all night, and then all day again Wednesday. He said he was asleep before his head hit the pillow Wednesday night. “I mean, hell, I thought I was younger than that.”

Yeah, no. Not in a long time, cuz. And all I’m trying to do is stay awake long enough to write a little something. Till tomorrow ~~~

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy