“Not everyone is as lucky as you are,” is a phrase I’ve heard my whole life. I would just roll my eyes and march off, thinking of all the ways I didn’t have it made, all the little disappointments and injustices. My hair was unmanageable, I always had some pimples, my legs were never what you would call shapely. I was rarely permitted to stay overnight with friends and forget about going anywhere on a weeknight. I wasn’t what anyone would deem “cool” due to my penchant for riding horses and to make matters worse, I wore glasses.
Going all the way through school in the town you were born in presents its own problems. Guys don’t ask out girls that have thrown up on their shoes. Guys don’t ask out girls who write their English papers for them. Guys don’t ask out girls who don’t smoke weed, pretend to be dumb, and don’t wear flashy jewelry and experiment with makeup. High school guys don’t, anyway.
I had friends, though. They were all cooler than me. There was the cheerleader, there was the wild girl, there was the math whiz. I was none of those. I wore my cowboy boots and listened to the Beatles. I just wanted to be included on the weekend activities and have somewhere to go when I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t fall in with the girls who partied, I was no good at sports, and forget about being musically inclined. I just wanted to read, write, dream, and ride.
Enter college: my first attempt at fitting in. At last I was the new girl. I could be anyone I wanted to be. I thought I could finally be the GAP girl, the mysterious one, the smart chick. I’ll never forget my first day. I wore some short khaki shorts from The Limited, cute navy sandals with a heel, and a tank top that did nothing for my complexion but showcased my rack. I was so proud of myself. On the way to Morristown, I cracked open a can of sprite between my legs and ruined my dry clean only size 8 shorts. Luckily, I had a pair of Wranglers in the back from where I’d been riding the day before. Unfortunately, they smelled of horse and had sweat stains on the bottom inside of the legs where they’d made contact with the gelding. So much for being the cool girl. Oh well. Better than looking like I’d peed my pants all day.
I get to my first class, Animal Husbandry in Tech 130. I take a seat in the middle, happily noting that I would have been out of place in my shorts. Everybody was wearing Wranglers. This was where I belonged. I was finally with my people. Thank God for carbonated drinks.
Long story short, I made a ton of lifelong friends at that little community college. We came together over horses and hard work. I probably would have been better off as an English major, but I followed my heart and stuck with Agriculture, and it has certainly provided me with a decent living among honest people that I count more as family than friends.
Now, page 2, as Paul Harvey would say.
I have another love that started about the same time as horses. Books. I won’t bore you with the story of how my momma would take me to the little mobile library in the parking lot of the bank every week to load up my maximum check-outs….but I will tell you I have yet to find anything that comforts me more than a thick novel. That includes horses. Horses bite, no matter how much you love them. They also will kick you in the head, or get the bit and take off as you scream and try to ride it out. Books won’t do that, ever. I promise. And you can always stick them in the freezer if you get scared.
I had sort of lost touch with the library system as a whole after graduating college, depending on Books-a-Million and Amazon to satisfy all my fictional longings. When I discovered Amazon, it was like man discovering fire, I’m telling you. I used to haul around a list of obscure titles that I would search for every time I was in used bookstore. McKays wasn’t always the powerhouse we’ve come to know and love, there, newly transplanted Knoxvillians. But I was invited to join the board of trustees for the local library system and I jumped at the chance. Wow!! I was almost distinguished. Some might call me esteemed. And some might call me a snob, so I’ve heard. It’s true. I have a hard time getting myself AND my ego through the door, on occasion.
I’ve often wondered who I am to people. I know to many of you I am Amy Atthecoop. But who else? The Redhead With Crazy Pants? Johnny’s wife? Tiny’s Niece? I had this conversation with my hairdresser today. Depending on who I’m talking to, she’s either “my beautician” or simply “my friend Christy” because she is both and has been both since forever. It’s impossible to describe her without gesturing to my flaming hair. She’s dyed it every natural color of the free world, although I have longed for pink for two decades. Not very professional, or so I’m told. But neither is my accent. But it sets me apart. Never have I ever been able to make a prank call.
Anyway. So who are we? I was never cool, but I’ve found my niche. I have a well-rounded life. I have several close friends who know and love and accept me and my obnoxious attitude. And come to find out, they were never cool, either. Bullied in school, emerging witty and sharp, these chicks are at the top of their respective food chains. They may still not run in the popular social circles, but they are respected and admired and loved by many, including me. We may not have been the athletes or the prettiest girls, but now we shine. Now we know what’s important: and that’s not being identified for anything less than what we approve of. We’re comfortable and confident in our skin, even if we’re not size eights.
If you want to meet some fabulous ladies, come to my book club. We can also routinely be found at our favorite local watering hole. Where everybody knows our name. And where we want to sit. And what we want to drink. And they’re always glad we came.
Because we’re the cool girls.
And everyone wants to be us.
I’m sure you sniggered a little reading those words from me. ‘Cause of COURSE I know it. I know everything. That’s why y’all love me.
But no. I’m asking you, how do YOU know?
“How do I know what?” you ask.
Are you confused yet? Or just tired of me? I’ve not written in awhile and I feel like driving you just a little crazy before I get down to it. I’m not serving up meat and potatoes right off the bat! You gotta endure cocktail hour. Which, as we all know, is the best part.
Ok I’ll stop. I get tired of hearing myself ramble, believe it or not. And I gotta go to bed eventually.
How do you know it’s Christmas? Obviously not from the stores, who start placing their wares in June. (Looking at you, Hobby Lobby. But wait! I’m not complaining. I love Christmas. Drag out all the sparkles and glitter for as long as possible, I love it. Truly.) Do you know it by the weather getting that frosty edge of the morning? Or by the Christmas carols on the radio? Do you know it from all the tasty treats that start to become commonplace in the office? Maybe from well wishes coming to your mailbox?
I’ll tell you how I know. How I’ve always known, apart from looking at a calendar or judging by the weather. This is how.
And this:
These have set on my work momma’s workspace for as long as I can remember. Robin isn’t one to rush the season, but of course she loves Christmas as well as any Southern Baptist. She’s had these two little trinkets for many moons, long before I came to work for the Co-op at the start of the millennium. They’re tiny, just a few inches tall, and she always unpacks them from her drawer shortly after Thanksgiving and displays them either on her shelf, or, as pictured, in her window. Every time I went to the office I would check to see if they were out yet. And eventually, they would be. “Yay! It’s finally Christmas!”
No matter that I had been decorating the store for weeks. It was NOW Christmas.
And so, just before Thanksgiving this year, I was in a Hallmark store and came upon what would become my own tiny Nativity. And no tiny office Nativity is complete without a tiny crystal tree, so I hopped over to Amazon to get one of those, as well.
Get your own here: https://www.hallmark.com/gifts/home-decor/figurines/holy-family-mini-figurine-12886092.html
I hope those links work. You know how I struggle. And WordPress has, of course, changed everything since I last used the link button. And it won’t let me change the text that you click on to say something normal so you’ll just have to trust me that they’re legit. Here is the one for the tree: https://amzn.to/2SiMOpQ
WordPress is a real pain in my ass. I would never, nor have I ever, recommended them to people who ask me about blogging. What I generally say is, “Don’t do it!!! It’s expensive as hell, and just something else to keep up with! I’ve never made a DIME and I can still barely just get a blog posted.”
So here I am trying to write about Christmas and the birth of our Saviour and I’m off on a tirade about the perils of blogging.
Anyway. So it had been Christmas in my office for a few days when I thought, “What the heck was I thinking? I didn’t get Robin this little Nativity? She would absolutely LOVE it! It’s PERFECT for her and would fit right in with her tiny Christmas collection. As luck would have it, I was going back to the mall that very day and went to get her one. They were sold out, as my luck would truly have it.
Not to fear, there’s this great thing called the internet where anything you could possibly hope for can be delivered directly to your doorstep. Magically, though, another mall in my area had the little figurine in stock so I just made a trip over there to get it. Of course I called first. I’m no dummy. I worked retail for eons, computers can’t count. As an added bonus, I got a slice of cookie cake while in the area. 
Sorry, I bit his head off before I took a picture. His eyes were a little wonky, anyway. But I’m not complaining. Sweet girl at the Cookie Cake Factory got him out of the back for me because all they had on display were some REALLY GREEN Christmas trees and REALLY RED Santas, both of which would make my stomach REALLY ANGRY with me. And let’s face it, I put it through enough between Margarita Mondays, Taco Tuesdays, and the rest of the week’s various indulgences.
Robin was thrilled with her newest addition when I presented it to her the following morning. It made my heart happy to contribute.
And so it was Christmas.
I remember being in awe of the ladies who rode the elephants at the circus when I was little. They were sooooo glamorous, with their feather hats and sparkly costumes and beautiful smiles. They looked so elegant, perched upon those majestic beast’s necks, waving with one hand while holding to the sequined harness with the other. I so dearly wanted to be them, gracious and gentle and gorgeous.
Some girls want to be Disney princesses, some of us want to be elephant riders. *shrug*
Well, I didn’t get to run off and join the circus, but I still dream about it.
Here’s a print I like, but I need a great big huge one.
So it’s no big surprise that I never miss the fair when it’s in town. There are no elephants, but the excitement is there. And it’s by no stretch of the imagination the greatest show on Earth, but it is certainly every bit as entertaining. And I get PAID to go. Why would I miss it? It’s worth it, just for the food. It only comes once a year, for Pete’s sake. GO. Well, it’s too late now for my fair, but there might still be one happening near you. And if not, remember my words for next year.
I always have a good time. Even the year Johnny and I rode the double Ferris wheel and I was caught somewhere between passing out and throwing up. I was too scared to scream! And he was too, don’t let him tell you otherwise. I have never been so glad to have my feet on the ground.
I have a long history with the fair. As a child, I entered exhibits, from arts and crafts to watermelons and pictures. I showed sheep in the 4-H Wool & Woolies class, and I cheered on my box turtle in the turtle race. They really shouldn’t put an age limit on entrants. I still like to race turtles. And I promise not to cuss. Probably no worse than the dads at t-ball games, anyway. I showed my greyhound in the dog show when I was six years old and won first place. That was also the year I took 1st astride my stick horse, Blackie. I was sporting rhinestones and black velvet for that occasion. Alas, no feathers. I love the caramel apples, the kettle korn, the fried snickers, and the foot long corndogs. I can’t get funnel cake in my mouth fast enough. A few years ago, I was asked to write an article for the book about what the fair meant to me. I delivered, and I was proud, even though the finished product was chock full of misspellings that were not of my handiwork. I have a long history of working the sweltering Co-op booth, which has been inside the barn, outside in a tent rife with mosquitoes, and an 18′ gooseneck trailer piled high with watermelons to be cut and distributed. I have been a baked goods judge and a secretary for the goat show. I have been serenaded by the band at the entrance. I have had a ball.
I told you I’m a celebrity. I’m on the Wall of Fame. This was the Wool and Woolies. I was thankful for my second place, because the ribbon matched my outfit.
The original, in case you didn’t believe me.
We’ve got old tractors….
A week ago today found me toting 106 posters and $40 worth of Dollar Tree artificial flowers up and down that steep ramp in the back corner of the big barn. Several people had decorated their booths over the weekend, but you know me-nothing like the last minute!
I had met up with the community service workers (not to be confused with prisoners, they didn’t care for that at ALL) and their overseer in the parking lot, who had taken me for the “boss lady”. Not that I’m not, but I didn’t want to agree with him just because he had a gun. I got him acquainted with Cyndie, the Executive Director, (and my friend, which is why I torment her with her almighty title). She was slightly taken aback that I was traveling with a posse, but then remembered that’s how I roll.
The excitement in the building was palatable. People were hauling in crops and canned goods, macaroni art was being displayed, and the competition of baked treats was underway. Flower arrangements had yet to wilt, and the roosters crowed from their new accommodations. I couldn’t help but smile as I worked (and sweated). The scent of hay was sweet and I remembered all the times we’d check tags on entries, seeing if any of the Hicks tobacco placed, and wondering how it was possible there were entries from people we didn’t know. (I won’t lie, I still feel that way!) I strolled through the quilts with Sherri, and got more than a little nostalgic. “I love the fair,” I said, admiring all the wonderful things people had made with their hands. Things that couldn’t be bought. “Me, too,” she said. And she’d have to, she was the Executive Director for several years herself, a most thankless position.
So those I knew, I spoke to, and those I didn’t, I smiled at. I got to sample a few of the baked goodies after judgment, and sat in the air conditioned office for awhile, catching up with folks I haven’t seen since my Co-op days. There would be plenty of that to come within the week. The fairgrounds were a flurry of activity, even at 4:30 in the afternoon, with rides being assembled and cattle being fed. I felt confident I had done the best I could with my little dirt-inspired booth, and left knowing that the fair would be ready for Sevier County once again come the next afternoon.
I scattered pebbles all over it to make it look authentic.
I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed walking around in the relative peace, being able to peruse each display at my leisure. I looked carefully over all the photographs, admired the crafts, and wished I had entered my aloe plants.
Tuesday was opening day, and I entered through the big gates with my yellow vendor pass with my friend Rhonda.
We made a circuit through the main building first, seeing as how the food trucks weren’t open yet. We watched the unveiling of the Lego courthouse, which was way cooler than it sounds, and I ran into this wonderful man I’ve known for many years. “Are you gonna speak to me, or what?” I asked bluntly, sidling up next to him.
“Honey, I would if I knew who you were.”
“Oh, very funny.” I had lived next to this man for almost two years, and had worked with his wife, and had seen him in and out of the Co-op numerous times. I’d just chatted with them at the funeral home a few months ago. He’s nothing but a big cut-up, and I knew this was his latest idea of a good joke.
“I ain’t kidding!”
I looked in his eyes for the trademark sparkle, then to his daughter-in-law for a wink. She caught me just in time. “He had a stroke, he doesn’t know who you are.”
Well, you could’ve knocked me over with a feather. I felt about as high as a snake’s belly. I’m really excellent at sticking my foot in my mouth, and I had totally forgotten about his episode a month ago. Even after he told me when it was, I still didn’t remember, even though I had prayed for him. It occurred to me late in the evening that his wife had posted about some memory loss, but I had mistakenly thought it had been temporary and he had regained his full memory by now. Crap. I was embarrassed, but more than that, I was saddened. He said his wife had told him he would run into a girl named Amy, and he was to give me the message that she missed me and hoped I was still liking my job. How bizarre that he could remember that, but not me. Everything since 1976 was erased. And he was coping. He seemed to be in his usual jolly spirits, but I tell you, that weighed on me. You just never know where life will find you.
Finally it was food time. I made a beeline straight for the fried Snickers stand, and while that was still fermenting in my gut, I was reaching for some perfection of fried green tomatoes at the Ruritan building. We sat and ate those in the shade and listened to some bluegrass. I spoke to and hugged several of my former customers as they came through the main gate near where we lounged. I popped up to go get my last treat of the evening- a peach snoball- and ran into a few more. Also, one of my supervisors. I had just acquired my snoball and danced over to him. “Is that what those things make you do?” He wanted to know, as his grandbaby pressed her sticky face and fingers to my shin. “And aren’t you supposed to be up there?” he teased, pointing in the direction of our booth. I put my finger over my lips. “Don’t tell my supervisors! I’m avoiding the cattle barn!” Of course, we were both joking. Because even if I was supposed to man the booth, we all know I’d do more helpful socializing-I mean, networking- by walking around than standing up there sweating a river. By the time I made my way back over to Rhonda, she was ready to make a circuit through the fairway. There wasn’t a ton of action, and I was astounded that there was no Ferris wheel this year! Had there been a recent accident with subsequent lawsuit? What a shame. I got a great picture of it last year.
Next came the poultry barn where I was in for a real surprise. Rhonda. Is. Scared. Of. Chickens.
When she made this Earth shattering announcement, I was about halfway through my snoball and nearly dropped the precious thing on the ground (where, let’s face it, I would probably still scrape it up and eat it. Kidding. Not really.) “What do you mean?” I asked, eyes narrowed, waiting on some dramatic story where she was flogged by a blue jay as a small child. Or spurred by a rooster as a young adult. Both of which happened to me, and I’m not afraid of chickens.
“Well, I’m not scared of all of them,” she said timidly, looking around and staying in the middle of the aisle. “Like, I’m not scared of ones that aren’t real…”
I narrowed my eyes farther. Did she mean she wasn’t scared of the ceramic ones people use as decorations in their kitchens? That’s good, or she didn’t need to ever visit my aunt’s house next door.
“Or when they’re fried….”
At this, I cracked up and led us into the cattle barn, land of my people. No bird flu here, but she was eyeing their table of food like it had Mad Cow disease and would inflict her through particles in the air. We saw all the beautiful Angus and Charolais, then we sidled up to Kent for an invigorating chat about the state of affairs and rattlesnakes in the greater Rocky Flats non-metropolitan area. Rhonda really got a kick out of him, as I knew she would.
Feeling like the celebrity I am, we departed and the very kind gentleman from the Rescue Squad stopped traffic so I didn’t have to squeal the tires in Maggie. I did roll my window down and holler my gratitude as Rhonda laughed.
“I probably embarrass you to death, don’t I?” I asked, thinking over my evening’s antics.
“Not at all, sister. Not at all. You’re a hoot and a holler and all the sparkles and sprinkles.”
That’s all I ever wanted. Boring is the worst insult.
The next evening, my friend Beth had the great pleasure of experiencing the fair with me. It wasn’t quite as good as opening night, but we did have our share of fun. First order of business was of course, the funnel cakes. I had opted out of caramel apples since we’re going to the Apple Barn for book club this month, and they have the best ones. So we sat and enjoyed all the powdered sugar goodness. I ran into my cousin and his family as we perused the succulents, and I straightened my booth, amazed that people had actually came through and taken some literature and posters. After this, we made a pass through the Ruritan booth for the smoked bologna that Rhonda had raved about the night before that wasn’t on my agenda and I was too full to eat. She didn’t steer me wrong, and I very nearly ate the thing in three bites. It was a whole lot better than the singin’, I’ll tell you that right now. Bless their hearts. Luckily, Beth isn’t scared of chickens, so we perused the poultry barn at leisure.
And then, of course, I had to introduce her to my friends and their cows. But then- then- the funniest thing all evening transpired.
We had finished our twisty taters and were making a loop through the barkers before our final circuit and farewell snoballs. Where we beheld this….girl.
She was working…rather, she had her uniform on. Beth says to me, as I had not spotted her yet, “Would you look at that?”
I looked. She was holding what seemed to be a stack of brown restroom paper towels against her forehead. She was kind of leaning into them. She was holding a can of coke, which must have been empty, for it was tilted plumb sideways. She is completely, 100%, totally still, while the carnival bustles around her.
Beth: “I should have taken her picture.”
ME: “Do it. Do it!!!”
Beth: “Ok. Smile. I’m gonna pretend to be taking your picture.”
Me, striking a pose: “Am I really in it?”
Beth: “Oh yes.” Snaps quickly. “Ok. Let’s look at it.”
We hunch over the screen. It’s as hilarious as we’d hoped.
So we got our snoballs and tried not to puke them up, even though we didn’t ride a thing.
Disappointed that there were no camels. I’ve come to expect exotic creatures at the fair, I’m not really sure why. All I see are exotic people. I mean, really, where in Sevier County do these poeple reside? Kodak? Beth wanted bunnies. I wanted more room in my digestive tract for more yummies, but alas, it was not meant to be.
As we walked back to my car (the new one now covered in a week’s worth of fair dust), Beth remarked, “You haven’t really done the fair until you’ve done it with Amy.” I’ll take that as a compliment any day of the week. I may not be decked out in feathers and rhinestones, just a dress printed with watermelons, but I suppose I’m just as memorable.
Happy fair season, y’all! When you eat something especially delicious, think of me! xoxo
Postscript: Y’all just thought my exploits were over. I had to go by and tidy up the booth and replenish the brochures and whatnot daily. So I’m over there Friday, and leaving, when this Lexus SUV slowly creeps down the lane towards me. I can feel it coming. Some tourist, wanting to know what time the fair opens. And that won’t be good enough, they’ll want to know if it’s worth it, like they can’t see the entirety of it right there. It ain’t no Ohio State Fair, mister. We’re really just a small town inundated with lollygagging Yankees year round.
But I resigned myself to it. They pulled to a stop and rolled down their window, just as I knew they would. “Hello? You work here?” An Oriental woman called.
I hate that question, because technically I don’t….but really I sorta do. And I can always help. Look at the inmates, for instance. I mean, the community service workers that were escorted by the deputy. I helped them! “Ummm…not exactly, but whatcha need?” I asked her.
“Oh nooo….someone order Chinese food.”
“Oh, did they say where?”
“Just the fair.”
I know the Executive Director (she’s going to slay me when she reads this) eats Chinese food, I used to run into her and the former executive director there regularly. “Oh, it’s probably them in the office.” I instruct her where to go and she thanks me and drives off exactly to where I told her, because I watched.
So I’ve got my stuff all loaded and the air conditioner blasting because it’s 102 degrees out there and I slowly glide away, trying not to stir up any more dust than is absolutely necessary. Maggie looks like a pigpen already. Then I see this guy. He’s barefoot, wearing an old raggety shot to hell what-once-was-red t-shirt, plaid shorts that looked like they had survived the best years of the eighties, and was rubbing his shaggy hair into a bigger mess than it already was. He stumbles through the gate at the midway, looking like he just got out of bed.
Here’s my guy, I think. Should I tell him I sent his Chinese food to the office? Is he coherent? Is he a danger?
My empathy leads to me roll down my window. He probably eats fair food every day, give the man a break.
He squints at me.
“Did you, by chance, order Chinese food?”
He lights up. “Yeah!”
“I just sent her to the office.”
He knocks the heel of his hand into his eye socket. “OH man!!!! ….How far’s the office?”
I notice he’s cross eyed. And also barefoot, as I mentioned before. But he’s standing on pavement and no doubt crossed gravel to get where he is now sooooo…and no, my compassion would not lead me to give him a lift. Not in Maggie, anyway. Maybe the tailgate of Patsy. Maybe.
“Oh, it’s just right there. That big building. Just go up the ramp.” I’m pointing, but he’s already turned away. Hmm. Maybe him and the girl from Wednesday night had a party. Too bad I didn’t get a picture of him.
The remainder of the fair passed uneventfully for me, mainly because I didn’t go back over the weekend. The Vols were playing, and then I had a brunch date and supper date with some old friends. Busy busy. And Labor Day, well, I wasn’t about to labor. Beth did send us a video of her friend’s sweet child reading to the goldfish he won at the fair. That kinda made my throat tighten, I loved it so much.
So yesterday I go to tear my booth down and find a surprise. Except it wasn’t really a surprise, because Brandi couldn’t stand to hold it in, plus she was afraid it got destroyed. But I love it <3
So, really, that’s it.
Remember, support your local county fair!
It will rain today.
I can say this with authority because I made a deal with God six years ago today. I asked him if it had to rain, could it just rain everywhere but at our venue, and then it was free to rain every year on our anniversary, as long as it didn’t rain on us today?
And it didn’t. And it has. So it will rain today, I can guarantee you.
Indeed it rained all around us on our wedding day: it rained on my carriage driver and horse on the way in, they had to pull over and tarp the carriage. It rained at my house. It rained within a half of mile of us all afternoon. But not a drop fell from the sky at the Historic Ramsey Plantation. Sweat drops and tear drops were in abundance, I will say.
Wednesday, I had the pleasure of leaving the office and visiting a farm of one of my old Co-op customers. He happens to be one that I bought a quarter of a cow from a few years ago. He has a gorgeous place; his house sets on top of the hill, overlooking his spread. We met with him and his wife on the front porch, and settled ourselves on the cushioned swings. There was enough breeze to keep me from sweating a drop, even with my hair down. It was the perfect day to be on a call.
I knew his wife had been having some trouble with her health, but reports are kinda vague when it comes to older people’s ailments. But it didn’t take me long to discern what was wrong with her after we sat down to discuss the land tracts we could help with.
Her mind is gone. Always a good hostess, she offered me something to drink no less than fifty times. She wanted to know what we were doing, if we we’re buying the farm. This concerned her. She also didn’t like that we were with the government, so I would lead with how much money they would be getting every year to improve some of their property. That settled her. She was sure proud of the work they had done over the years, and pleased with her life on the whole.
I don’t even know how to write this to make y’all understand.
She knew she was eighty, when in fact she’s eighty-two. She gazed wonderingly when she pondered that she’d made it that long. Her parents died long before they’d seen their 80th birthday. But she didn’t partake in the type of lifestyle they led. She remembered she had two sisters, and she knew her husband’s brother’s name. She thought she might have had a brother at one time, “who was Bud??” But couldn’t place him and waved her hand away, dismissing the thought with, “I’m 80, it’s hard to remember.” And she’d giggle light-heartedly. What’s important to her now is being on the farm. She told me again and again how it was wonderful being away from everyone and raising your kids where they had room to roam. Their driveway is a literal country mile and she walked it every day to get the mail. Not anymore, of course. And did I mention their house is on a hill? She didn’t know how long she’d been there, forty years at least (46). She didn’t know how long they’d been married. She didn’t know how her husband got his nickname. She knew what schools she’d gone to, she knew her daughter was the oldest and her name, but she didn’t know how old she was or what she did for a living.
She thought her sons lived in Sevierville, but she wasn’t sure. In fact, one is in Mexico. We ran through the same conversation over and over, but surprisingly, it didn’t bother me a bit. I was content to sit there and answer the same questions and enjoy the view and the breeze. Not bad for government work, if you can get it.
I went to learn more about our programs, and what paperwork is involved, and see first hand what improvements can be made through my office’s assistance. Instead, I re-learned how to be patient and how to relieve someone from a caregiver position, if only for a few hours. I’m reassured I’m where I’m supposed to be, every minute of my workday. I wasn’t a stranger to this couple, even though I was a stranger to her that morning. The husband was comfortable leaving her in my care for a bit as he and Amber toured the farm discussing options and rested his mind from his new daily worries.
I’ll tell you what else I learned- when your mind slips, you still know what’s important. To her, where she lived was important. Making a home is important. Having friends to go and do is fine, but your life should be at home, with your husband and children, if you have them. “Lucky you!” she said again and again when I told her I had no children. She felt bad that I was an only child, but agreed that it was probably best that I’d never had any little ones (I couldn’t agree more wholeheartedly, this is something reinforced in my mind daily). It’s important to go to church, but not be a Holy Roller. It’s important to be proud of what you’ve accomplished. The less family and neighbors you have close by, the better. They tend to interfere and stir up undue drama, and there will be enough problems to deal with in your own household. Don’t go borrowing trouble. Being married six years still made us newlyweds in her mind, as she exclaimed with sparkling eyes each time I told her. When you’ve been married over fifty, I’m sure it seems that way. So we rocked the morning away, discussing life on her hill, and how to make a good life wherever you are. I learned a lot from a woman most would think didn’t have that much left to share. She was happy, that was obvious. She was thankful.
What will I remember when I get that old? Like her, I would be amazed to make it that long. What will be important enough for me to retain through -heaven forbid- the loss of my mind?
Happy six years to my husband. And if we make it to sixty four, I hope it feels like just four.
There’s a guy here in the office with me. He likes to talk. He will not stand still when he talks to me, he paces and peers outside and is just a twitchy human. He likes to tell me stories about hunting. I’ve grown up listening to hunting stories, and I tire of them easily. However, we don’t have anything in common so as long as I let him ramble on about his turkey club (not that kind) and camper, I don’t have to come up with anything to say.
He’s trying to be nice, I get it. I’d rather hear about his skydiving adventures, but he’d rather talk about hunting. So.
He has also kept me up to date about this friend of his vacation progress. First he was coming to Pigeon Forge. Then they decided to go to Florida. Then the tropical storm hit, so they changed their plans back to here. So they all went out to eat last night (Holston’s, if you’re curious. I didn’t ask what they ordered, even though I really wanted to know). As he was telling this story, I wondered how he knew this guy. I remembered he’d told me, but I couldn’t recall how it was. And I couldn’t ask, because then he would know I hadn’t been paying attention, and so he’d never bother to tell me any more Turkey Tales and then here I’d be, struggling for conversation. When it could have all been avoided.
So I didn’t ask him how he met his friend, but now I’m a little nervous that he’s going to come in next year and he’ll say, “Remember my buddy that came in last year that we went out to eat with? He’s back in town,” and I’ll be anxiety ridden again, trying to recollect what he does for a living and how they met.
If only he’d be still I think I could concentrate.
Sometimes he closes his door. I don’t know if it’s so he can do his physical therapy (he’s got a broken wing) or if he’s on a super secret federal phone call. That can’t be it, because you’re not s’post to talk on the phone about secret stuff.
So I don’t know.
I wish he’d close it when he clears his throat and coughs nineteen million times.
I’m pretty sure he’s as bored as me. He often has his checkbook with him, like he’s been balancing it.
Memorial Day, of course, warrants a post to the blog. When I sat down to write about it, I thought about all the people in all the different wars and decided to write a little piece on each one, what significance it has on me as a woman in 2018. So I began compiling a list: The Revolutionary War, the Mexican War, the Civil War, World War I, the Korean War, WWII, the Vietnam War, The Gulf War, and of course the War on Afghanistan. I didn’t want to leave anyone out that had slipped my mind, so, like everybody does in this day and age, I turned to Google.
And the results were staggering. I hadn’t touched the iceberg. I was barely in the right ocean. Many Indian wars, Shays’ Rebellion, Whiskey Rebellion (??? and it lasted almost four YEARS), Quasi War (with a “co-belligerant” of Great Britain), First AND Second Barbary Wars….did I even GO to history class? The list went on and on as my eyes got bigger and bigger. The wiki details are nominal, it doesn’t even list casualties, but one thing is clear: you can depend on the United States to have its finger and gun in everything coming and going. We’re a nosy nation. Movies glamorize our involvement, but there’s nothing pretty about death and destruction. There are no rock stars for background music as you run with your weapon through unfamiliar territory.
All these sacrifices, all these people with stories. How often do we hear, “Oh, Cousin Charlie was killed in the war. Becky had just had Raymond when she heard, it was hard on everybody. ‘Course, I was just a child myself and didn’t know…” I keep thinking of all the people that go to war, but aren’t on the lines. They’ve stepped up to the plate for little glory. They’re in communications, or they’re healing the fallen, or they’re reporting what they see or can find out to the families and citizens back home that depend on it. Spies: all guts, no glory. Because if they’re decorated, if they boast, they cannot be useful again. None are safe. The unseen, the ones not in the limelight get attacked, and more often that not, that’s the end of that. How much do we hear? And when we do hear it, for me anyway, it’s so commonplace it doesn’t even register. Just another line on the nightly news: “Eleven killed tonight in a surprise bombing in Syria…” It’s not a surprise to me. It’s something every day. But there are eleven lives lost, eleven families left grieving for a person that is no more. Someone who left here, probably fully intending to return home fully intact. Maybe the ol’ noggin would be a little rattled from the things seen, heard, and done, but that’s just part of it. But no. God and some Arab said no. And so there are eleven caskets with eleven flags on a plane bound for the States, to meet eleven widows and eleven mothers who will shed eleven thousand tears on their birthday, Christmas, anniversary, Thanksgiving, children’s birthdays, Memorial Day, and a hundred days in between. Every time they lay down at night. Every time there’s a reminder.
Everyone is entitled to an opinion. And that’s thanks to our American soldiers that enforce it, and the Constitution that insists on it. But I have a hard time swallowing back the rage that boils in me when someone says we don’t have to fight. Yes we do.
YES WE DO.
Darkness can’t be driven out with kind words and picnics. You can’t trust a handshake of someone in a bathrobe. I wish it were so, I wish the sacrifice wasn’t so extreme, but that’s not the way crazy works. And if you want to don your burka and go see for yourself, I strongly encourage you to do so. We’ll throw you a big party first, because it will likely be your last.
I hope you’ve had a relaxing Memorial Day. And I hope you appreciate why. I’m thankful for the rain. It’s like tears from Heaven.
America, America, God shed His grace on thee.
I don’t have much on my social calendar. Granted, I have more on it than I did five years ago, but I’m still not what you would call swamped. And I prefer it that way. I need time to recharge, time with my books. However, at the last board meeting, I cemented a whole whirlwind month’s worth of activities with my gal pals. We’re going to read and eat and watch the royal wedding.
Friday, I finally convinced Shug to try Aubrey’s. Of course he loved it, as I knew he would. What’s not to like?
Saturday was my mega-busy day for me: baby shower, hiking, dinner and drinks with two of my three lovelies. But then the rain. But maybe it wouldn’t affect the festivities. It didn’t matter to me. I could be just as happy at home, curled into a corner with my book. Unlike most people, I embrace the rain. Plus I’m too lazy to water my flowers, so it’s always welcome.
The best thing about baby showers is the food. The worst thing is the children. Luckily, there were no children in attendance, so the worst part to endure was the oohing and aahing over tiny socks. Once that was over (alas, there were no games where you couldn’t say baby or win a prize for having the most abnormal crap in your purse, I always win that one), Tracy and I split. We had hiking to do before the rain hit.
We were off to Porter’s Creek, home of the showiest wildflowers. I used to hike this trail regularly. When I worked 3rds at dispatch, I sometimes had a hard time decompressing and there is no surer way to soothe the mind than a picturesque stroll up the creek. I often saw turkeys, deer, and bear. That early, I was usually the first on the trail, clearing spiderwebs for the future travelers. I am not the hiker I once was, and absolutely a burden on poor Tracy. I kept encouraging her to go off on little side jaunts to see the farmstead or an over look while I leaned against mossy trees, panting like a chow dog in July.
Eventually, we reached the place I had predetermined would be my stopping point. Tracy could slog it on up to the AT as far as I was concerned, I would placidly wait by the stream. For Tracy. For death. For my breathing and heart rate to stabilize.
I jest. It wasn’t that bad. But it wasn’t that good, either. I took off my shoes and dangled my legs in the creek and watched for snakes.
Tracy eventually came flouncing down the trail, happy with getting her sweat on by scaling the mountain. Whatevs. My rear end was numb from sitting on non-synthetics. We did end up donning our raincoats for the journey back down the hill. Lots of people still hiking in.
We got back to Tracy’s and changed clothes again to go meet our newest good friend for red meat. But first, head rubs:
We were in search of a restaurant with patio. Google proved completely useless, so after ruling out what we didn’t want (Tracy veteoed Holstons, so in retaliation I vetoed Mexican…even though it was Cinco de Mayo. Which probably was a sound decision on my part), we ended up at Outback. Fantastic. I had an enormous beer and steak quesadillas while Beth had conversations with the wait staff about her imaginary friends who aren’t imaginary (us).
So concluded my most enjoyable Saturday on record for some time. No wonder the tourists like it so well here. I forgot how refreshing our mountains are.
I’m so glad for my bookish friends. I would be so bored without these gals. What did I used to do before them? I can’t even remember.
A lifetime ago, I was the new girl at the Co-op. I was continually dazzled and awed by the celebrities that darkened our doors. I’ve seen Phil Fulmer, Bill Landry, countless local politicians, loads of Partons (my favorite is Bobby), and the mule man from Silver Dollar City. Seems like everybody needs the Co-op at one time or another.
But some of the ones I remember the fondest are the ones who aren’t famous at all. There was an old gentleman, always neat, always precise, always cordial, that came in regularly. And to be honest, I was terrified to wait on him. I didn’t want to mess up. He frequently had one or two sons with him, and their presence just added to my nervousness. More witnesses to see me mess up.
One afternoon I didn’t have a choice but to wait on him and his five pound bag of bolts. Gary wasn’t there to bail me out and I had to look up every single size in “The Book”. That’s not the good book, but it is the Co-op Bible. Before the internet, it’s what we had for information. It was like a condensed farming encyclopedia with item numbers, descriptions, pictures, and prices because plenty of Co-ops still wrote hand tickets in the early 2000’s. Anyway, there were several pages of tables for pricing bolts. First you had to know what you had. Is it a carriage bolt? Is it a plow bolt? Is it a hex bolt? Is it bolt at all? Could it be a roofing screw? Or roofing nail? Or finishing nail? (The bottom fell out of a box of those one time on me. What a mess). Is it just a nail? What size? 10 penny? 20? 60? If it’s a hex bolt, is it Grade 5 or Grade 8? Or is it metric? In order to get tax off an item back then, it had to have a precise description. Unfortunately, bolts fell under the catch-all item number of MI1010, Gary’s favorite to this day. Of course these farmers wanted to save every dime they could (who wouldn’t? It’s hard enough out there without pesky taxes) so I was frantically scrambling for sizes and prices and remembering to take the tax off. I would type “MI1010” & the description would say “Misc Farm Equipment”. I would erase that and put in something like “GR5 3/8 x 2 1/2”.
It took an eternity.
These gentlemen never once became frustrated or impatient with me as I asked them sizes when I wasn’t sure how to read my extremely technical little red plastic device. I was flustered, but they tried to assure me they were in no hurry, to take my time and make sure it was right. In the meantime, he cautioned me against drinking anything besides water. This was how it all began.
I came to know the family well. They are highly respected and admired in not only farming circles, but the community. They have a reputable farm and a desire to help anyone they can, whenever they can.
I’m sad to say the father passed away several years ago but he left a lasting impression on me. His son counsels me regularly, and I take his word as gospel. If he told me to start eating lead for digestive health and sleep wrapped up in asbestos, I probably would.
I do tease him about having a pet dinosaur as a kid and tell me about creating fire just one more time but I do love him dearly. There are few people I regard so highly and am so determined to please. He’s an extremely busy man but has never been too busy to talk to me. We’ve ironed out some dilemmas over the years and walked a few miles figuratively and physically. He’s one of my most trusted advisors and I’ve gained a wealth of knowledge by knowing him. I’ll never be able to repay him for everything he’s taught me, but I’m thankful to count him as a friend. I’ve found that usually the best people are the ones who are the most humble. And you’ll find no one less willing to brag on himself than Mr. Sarten.
Today is his birthday. I hope you all have the pleasure of at least meeting Mr. Sarten if you don’t already know him. And I hope he has a wonderful birthday.
I hate stripes. And orange ain’t my color. ~Brandy Clark
Don’t worry. I’ll not be in either. I merely attended my very first commission meeting on behalf of the library. We were the gracious recipients of one million dollars for the Seymour building fund. Things like that get me out of the house (or a clogging lesson, as the case may be). So, rest assured, if you want to bequeath me a lump sum, I shall be honored to accept it in person.
I had never attended one of these meetings and wasn’t sure what to expect. Once Charlie let me through the security scan (which I set off, even after leaving Annie in Maggie. At least they didn’t strip search me, although he threatened to then waved me through), I saw lots of familiar faces. That’s nothing unusual 😉 It was pretty much a packed house. The GP girls basketball team was there to receive their proclamation, and about 40 notaries. I think I was technically supposed to go through some sort of swearing in process when I came on the board of trustees for the library, but somehow managed to coast right on in. It’s a good thing, ’cause y’all know how bad I blush.
We led with a moment of silence on behalf of Robert Delius, one of the commissioner’s relatives. I knew him through the Co-Op to be a kind man. And he had the patience of a saint. I couldn’t have worked for his employer for one day.
This was followed by the Lord’s Prayer, which I appreciated. Finally, the mayor led us in reciting the Pledge of Allegence. I haven’t said it since I graduated high school, and a wave of nostalgia washed over me. I’m proud to report I did not cry. Will the wonders never cease?
Then the action commenced.
I’ve never seen anything like it, outside of an auction. This bunch don’t mess around. They’ve got it figured out, and people everywhere could take a lesson in efficiency from them. It appears that all the kinks are worked out beforehand, which was fine by me. They had a copy of the agenda, and the current voting issues were on one screen while the list of commissioners was displayed on another, showing as they voted and locked in. I feel like our little county is pretty highfalutin’ in the grand scheme of things.
So they breezed right on through everything, the ten million dollars got no more attention than the rezoning of some subdivision properties. Fantastic. Suits me right down to the ground.
My excitement was over, but the real twists were upon us. Now it was time for public comments that were not on the agenda.
There were two spokespeople for…well, I’m not sure if either or both were for the Humane Society or for Pets Without Parents. One thing for sure, they were for the creatures without a voice. I may not agree with everything they said, but I give them credit for showing up and speaking up, unlike the thousands on Facebook just spewing venom but not taking any action to change policies. It takes guts to go to a public forum, speak in front of all our elected officials, look the audience in the eye, watch the three allocated minutes count down, and not stutter. They made their presentations, handed over their petitions, thanked everybody for the opportunity to speak, and sat back down. That is courageous. They had a handful of like-minded citizens there to back them, but there were no ugly comments or sideways looks.
The meeting ajourned quickly after. Lickety-split, like everything else.
I shook and howdied with almost everybody I knew afterwards, and I have to say I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I encourage you to go to the next one in your part of the country. It’s your right. And I guarantee you’ll learn something. Everyone will be glad to see you, out supporting your community. Because if you don’t, who will? Don’t let others be your voice for something you believe in. Go. Be present.
I used to wonder who would come to my funeral. I’ve attended many, many funerals myself, and wondered who would return the respect when it came time.
I was born an only child, and have remained that way for 39 years. I think it prepared me in many ways for the life I was destined to live. I never recall being lonely. I suppose I would call myself self-motivated, because if I wanted to do something, I did it myself. I vacationed alone before getting married, because I wanted to see places, and I wanted to see certain things in those places, so I didn’t want to be encumbered by someone who didn’t. Still, to this day, if I want to dine in a certain restaurant, or watch a particular movie, I’ll just go and do it alone if I know it’s something Shug or my assorted friends aren’t interested in, or have the time to go and do.
My very good friend Megan and I founded an “Environmental Club” around fifth grade or so to raise awareness about the effects of Champion Papermill’s pollution into our local water sources. We sent a petition and collected water samples and the whole nine yards. Bookish would be a polite way of saying I was a nerd, but nerd fits the bill accurately. I stayed out of trouble through my younger years, never “smoked no dope”, never broke into anybody’s house or was anywhere I wasn’t supposed to be. I was a good kid. I hardly ever missed a day of school. When I was 17, I graduated high school, the club a dim memory. I had already applied for college, and was accepted at all those which I applied (nowhere spectacular, my standards were relatively low). And I went, because that’s what girls did who were brought up in my day and age in my hometown.
Turn the page.
I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be an English major. But God said, “Take Agriculture classes.”
And so, even though I felt like a fish out of water for a little while, I did. Farmers believe in sustainable agriculture, because if you take care of the land, it takes care of you. Farming and the environment go hand in hand. I learned about different kinds of soils, and which crops would grow best in loamy, clay, or sandy conditions. I learned about vaccinating cattle. I learned fractions. Again. I broadened my knowledge on horse management and I found that people enjoyed reading what I wrote, especially about farms I visited.
And I graduated. I had my degree in Agriculture, which, admittedly, felt a little useless in this part of the state. I went to work for the Co-op, where I flourished. It is also where I withered.
I worked at Co-op for a long time. I met my husband there, I met a great many influential people of the county there. Nobody cared what kind of degree I held, or if I even had one. They just wanted me to tell them what to feed their livestock to make them gain weight, have healthier babies, or go faster. During my years behind the counter, I saw many people get promoted that I felt didn’t deserve it. Not to say these hires didn’t work hard. They kept their noses polished-but not always by the grindstone. But still yet, I stayed. Out of loyalty as much as anything, but also out of fear of the unknown. As the years passed, clientele changed drastically. My skin thickened. I made some lasting contacts through the extensive customer base I had cultivated. Many patrons became friends. They came from all walks of life. Some were on the agriculture end, some were owners of bars and farmed on the side. Some supplimented their income by raising dogs. Some just liked to come by Co-op and see what they could find.
I watched many people I had gone to school with move on to have successful careers and “good” jobs. These contemporaries couldn’t spell their way out of a 1st grade spelling bee, judging by their Facebook posts. It ate at me. Occasionally I took a work trip to a worthy location, but for the most part, I floundered away behind the sales counter, ordering horseshoes and talking ruminant nutrition. God told me, “Be still.” So I was still. My husband had a good job. I didn’t need for a thing. It was just hard.
I continued with my best behavior, even though it seemed virtually everyone around was doing something they weren’t supposed to be. I remained a square. I paid my bills on time, and established solid credit. ‘Cause Lord knows I couldn’t afford nothing on my salary! I rarely missed work, mainly because I couldn’t afford to, but also because I never had a good enough excuse. Except snow. I don’t do well in snow, regardless of my four wheel drive.
Turn the page.
Through one of my many influential customers, I was offered a spot on the library board. And because I’m a nut about books and libraries, I took it. Because God said I should, even though it was strange and new and I felt out of place and superfluous. Because if you’re going to be a member of the community, you should serve your community. You should make an effort to make it better. In the very least, you should know some people and what makes it tick.
And there I met many more wonderful people that continue to shape me.
The squarest square.
Turn the page.
So when the opportunity arose to leave for a job that had a better schedule with an improved salary, I would like to say I leaped for it. But I didn’t. God said, “Go, child.” So, with His hand on my back pushing, I went.
Turn the page.
And it was fine. I made some money, I made some new friends, and I grew some dang thick skin. I was resolved to make a go of it, even though I felt utterly useless most of the time. I stuck it out. I wasn’t changing lives, but how many people really are? I wondered how long I had to pay my dues. I watched more friends on Facebook be promoted in their line of work, start their own businesses, succeed. But I was fine. I had a good job. The owners were wonderfully generous with me. I worked hard and proved I was worthy, and they reciprocated. As an added bonus, I got to wear my wildest leggings and nobody batted an eye. Well, that’s only partially true. But they gradually became accustomed to them. Brian did liken me to Rainbow Brite crossed with the Star Spangled Banner one time. Brian the estimator was my sounding board, the one I could argue with and laugh with half a second later. He drove me batty, but kept me sane. He was my biggest cheerleader and I give him all the credit for getting me through so many difficult days when I wanted to collect my turtles and never look back. I also became close with Roxy, my Knoxville counterpart. We worked together like a greased gear. She understood all the problems that come with running an office and dealing with a bunch of gruff men. I got the job because I had fire, but I felt like it was weakening with each passing hour.
Then one day, God said, “What about this, child?” And he placed a job right there in my lap. I had no choice but to pick it up. And I asked, “Where did this come from, Lord?”
And He showed me.
He played for me a reel of images from years spent at the Co-op, smiling at my favorite farmers, handing them a ballot at the annual meeting, or their blend sheet, or a packet of okra seed. He showed me a series of portraits of myself patiently helping patrons select a herbicide, or talking to them about when to plant rye for optimal yields. He kept them coming, thousands of times I recommended a blackleg vaccine, counting terramycin pills, hunting the fly rubs in the rat and spider infested warehouse, and ordering a delouse spray brand new to the market. He knew every shear bolt I plucked from the cabinet and every rake tooth I tried to label because the new cashiers didn’t know the part number was 22442. He saw me at every funeral for these people I’d come to love. He saw the compassion in my eyes as they told me their stories. Even when I thought I didn’t have time to listen.
He saw me giving it my all in a different pond, learning about chain link fences and how to use Quickbooks. He saw me deciphering what the Spanish guys were trying to tell me, and calling in gas leaks, and wondering how I was going to schedule 8 crews 12 jobs in one week. He saw me wonder why it was so hard to get a confirmation for some material and wonder how someone could be so impatient and indecisive but still be successful.
And so he gave me this. After all these years, he gave me a new job, combining all my cumulative skills from Co-op and secretarial duties from the fencing outfit, with a little bit of my environmental awareness mixed in. I’ll have to be self motivated and entertaining and a gracious hostess to the public at farm related events several times a year. I get to have an impact on the county again, this time in a very straight forward way.
He’s placed me here, and there, and here again. And now I see why I am all the things I am.
I don’t deserve all these blessings. But God saw fit, and who am I to argue? So as I have struggled, the greater plan has now been revealed. I had to grow my knowledge, and get my husband, and learn all the things about the whole county to be ready for this. I had to meet all the people and shake all the hands and give them my trademark smile with a dose of wit. I was always myself. I didn’t cater and bow to anyone, no matter how important they thought they were. I treated them well, until they treated me rudely. I had to be able to pass an invasive federal background check, complete with fingerprinting (it was digital, I felt like I was on CSI), a credit check, and a drug test, and things I probably don’t even know about were scrutinized. I’m a division of the USDA. The position required someone who was self motivated and who could be trusted with minimal supervision. Being an only child made me a perfect candidate. I am nothing if not self entertaining.
Co-op wasn’t a lot of things for me, but it certainly influenced my life in a thousand different ways. The saying is true: Life really IS what you make it. Sometimes it just takes awhile.
I had been interviewing for the last 15 years with the entire board of my new job. The ones who needed to know me have watched me all this time, in every situation.
And they still picked me.
And I am grateful. I just wish I could tell Joe Woods my good news.
I helped my farmers for over a decade, and in turn, they returned the favor of a lifetime. And now, I get to help them again.
I think these five would attend my funeral if it didn’t interfere with their farmin’.
Turn the page.
