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.
When I was five years old, I was eating lunch at my desk in Kindergarten. I clutched a pack of mayonnaise that my five year old hand could not manage to rip open. I didn’t want to use my teeth, and I wasn’t about to ask my partner, Kenny Harvey, to open it, because obviously he had cooties and would infect both me and my mayonnaise. So, I did what anyone would do.
I squeezed it.
Nothing happened.
I squeezed harder, bringing it closer to my body for leverage.
Naturally, a packet of mayonnaise can only withstand so much pressure, and it promptly shot out and straight up my nose with a measurable force. I had mayonnaise not only in my nose, but in my eyes, in my hair, on my shirt, my pants as it dripped. I was, by all accounts, a mess. I was sent home for a bath and change of clothes.
I don’t remember any more events of this nature until 5th grade, when I was sitting next to Brandon Gallespie this time, who was trying to use his modern glue pen. You remember: they were the size of the jumbo magic markers, filled with clear glue, and had a round spongy end for blotting the exact amount you needed onto your construction paper. Neat, and helped regulate drips and excess application. It was the start of the school year, and all our supplies were brand new and sparkling. Brand new trapper keepers sat on our desk, showcasing our favorite trend. Lisa Frank and Hello Kitty pencils were on display next to our college lined spiral notebooks. You know.
So the glue pen hadn’t been broken in and Brandon was squeezing to no avail. I should have warned him. Surely I had a flashback? You would have thought I would have at least had a premonition. But oh no. He squeezed, he banged, he sighed with agitation.
And all of a sudden, the tip flew off and glue came spurting after. The pen had been pointed towards the ceiling at the time of expulsion, so now glue rained down on us. I remember Brandon had it in his eyelashes as he blinked at me, wondering what happened. The little cardboard obstruction that was supposed to be removed prior to application was stuck to the ceiling tile above us. I had glue all over me and once again was sent home for a bath and change of clothes.
Over the years, I have experienced many projectiles to my face including, but not limited to: lotion, ketchup, soy sauce, toothpaste, shampoo, horse liniment (that STINGS), dressing, barbecue sauce (really, condiments of all types), eye cream, I can’t think of what all. It’s been some time since I’ve had anything happen. I think there was an incident at dispatch involving tartar sauce. But the reason y’all find me so endearing is that I share all the incredibly stupid things that happen to me. And, admittedly, that I do to myself.
So, this afternoon, I was purging items from the vanity to make room for my latest Rodan + Fields shipment. I noted once again that I have waaaay too much lotion. I don’t even use it except in the dead of winter when I have chalky legs. I picked up one that looked pretty old. It was Bath & Body Works brand in the squeeze tube. The body butter or whatever. The extremely thick kind. You know where this is going, but I should mention that I was still dressed from work, not in my lounge clothes yet. My hair was as close as it ever gets to being fixed (i.e. down with mousse), I had my diamond earrings still dangling from my earlobes, and was still donning my favorite top of all time (navy cold shoulder 3/4 length).
The lotion looked kinda separated at the bottom. It looked a little liquid-y. Hmm. Better investigate. I’d hate to throw out perfectly good five-year-old lotion, you know. Clearly a need for 5 gallons is bound to arise in the next two weeks. I flipped open the top and placed the tube under my nose so I could get a whiff. I squeezed.
That shit EXPLODED.Â
I think I screamed a little bit. It was all over my glasses, in my mouth, my nose, my neck, of course my hair, and coating the front of my shirt. I immediately got my top off and bent over the bathtub to douse my head under the faucet and rinse my shirt. At this time, Johnny chooses to check on me. Of course, I am not at my most attractive at this point, but I try to explain what has happened. He just shook his head and moved on. Nothing surprises him anymore.
I have washed the shirt, but I hang it to dry and it’s too early to determine if the lotion will be life threatening to it. If so, I shall be devastated.
They say everything you need to know you learned in Kindergarten. I have not yet learned my lesson not to squeeze.
I’ve had a semi-eventful weekend, as far as things go in my hermit life.
Friday morning, as usual, found me at IHOP. I love their crepes, what can I say? When I opened the first set of doors, I was greeted by a buggy full of grocery bags stuffed with…well, stuff, I guess. Possessions. Clearly the style favored by the homeless. Seated on the bench, facing the bright sunshine coming in over the tops of the trees, was an old black woman. “Good morning,” I chirped brightly to her. Then I realized she must be the owner of the buggy and bags, and probably had some mental health issues and would not understand me.
“Good morning,” she returned clearly.
Huh. How bout that?
Before I had time to puzzle on her much more, I was led to my table. The thought did cross my mind that if I were a better person I would offer for her to dine with me, but I’m not that brave. When I looked back for her, she and her buggy were gone.
The poor waitress was the server for the entire dining room, and looked like I felt most days. She was making laps with drinks, straws, and food. Another girl finally showed up to help and she relaxed a little.
I’ve discovered it’s pretty much impossible for me not to eavesdrop at IHOP. I’m by myself, the internet doesn’t enthrall me, and people talk loud. Their problems are on full display. There were a couple of gentlemen across the way bidding a job. I’m not sure if the other guy was supposed to be telling him as much as he should, it was like he had insider information. There was a group of deaf people, so obviously I don’t know what they were talking about. And the couple seated in the booth I was facing, well, she had problems.
It’s funny when you hear stranger’s woes. You’re totally removed from the situation, and it has not escaped my notice that I’m pretty detached, anyway. I don’t know if that comes from my former job, where if you had a big problem, somebody died. This stuff with your boss not liking how you schedule is not a big issue. If she doesn’t like it, she should show you a better way. Or you could take it to her every week for approval until you get it right. Or find a different job, because it sounds like you hate it there, anyway. The poor guy she was with just sat there patiently while she got it all out. By the time he had his turn to speak, I was all absorbed in my breakfast and had lost interest. You can see why.
IHOP is glorious.
I had a hair appointment that I was about four weeks overdue for, so my plan was to swing into Food City and pick up a few things and then head to the salon. However, the universe had a slightly different version. Nothing major- Christy text me that I could come on, she had a cancellation, which works to my benefit. I went straight over to give her a little breathing room. I was processing, and having the most stimulating conversation with this other client about books, when my phone rang.
It was my boss.
My boss NEVER calls me.
Never, ever, EVER.
Naturally, I panic. I freeze. Something has gone so wrong, I just know it. It was because I was judging that woman at IHOP a little bit ago. I must have gone white, and me stopping in the middle of a thought is a dead giveaway that something is wrong, because Christy paused her clipping and was like, “What is it?”
I have no choice but to answer. Face the music. I can always go work at Tractor Supply. They have low standards.
“Hello?”
“Amy, you know I don’t ever bother anybody on their day off because it ain’t right and I don’t like to, and I’m really sorry but I have to and I’m in Knoxville–”
“What’s wrong?” I cut him off. I can’t stand it.
“That bid you turned in yesterday-”
Oh God, oh God…
I’m not going into the rest of it to bore you to tears but it wasn’t any big deal, he just needed me to send it to someone else and since it had been so large a file, I had sent it through Dropbox, and nobody was really certain how to do it. So all I had to do was call the other Christy in my life and walk her through it. Presto chang-o.
I wiped the red goop off my phone and went back to book recommendations. After my rinse, I was back in the chair, and before I knew it, the other lady was showing me her clogging skills. I was trying to convince her to join my class. I think she just might. I was also telling her about book club, and how she might enjoy either the one I’m a part of, or Fireside, but they meet in the middle of the day, and that probably wouldn’t work until she retired from her teaching position.
Christy started cackling. I raised my eyebrows, unable to look at her, seeing as how my jugular was centimeters away from her scissors. “It’s just…Nancy is gonna be like, ‘I’m taking up clogging! And I have all these new books to read! And I’m joining a book club!’ And her husband is gonna be like, ‘What happened?‘ And she’s gonna say, ‘I met this redhead today….'”
I smiled great big. I love it when I change a life.
Christy went on to wonder what it’s like for my husband, when he’s telling people about me. “‘Yeah, my wife reads a lot. She’s in a book club. She’s on the board at the library. Oh, no, she works full time, she’s a secretary. Yeah, and she blogs and clogs…'”
“And she’s shithouse rat craaaazy,” I completed for her.
“Noooo!!!” She howled, swatting me.
I am, though.
My life has become increasing busy here lately. I like having an activity. I have become quite sedentary as of late. After exchanging emails, I was on my way to my next destination. I always see people I know at the grocery store, (hazard of a small town), and more often than not, I am genuinely happy to catch up. This time I was checking out before I saw a familiar face. One of my farriers from the Co-op, of course. It took him a minute to place me after I spoke (last time he saw me I was blonde and 30 pounds lighter) but recognition came into his eyes and he strode over to hug me. He told me he was chatting with a mutual friend the other day and said “I haven’t seem Amy in I don’t know when, but I sure do miss her!” He knew where I was working and I told him some things hadn’t changed: people still call me for feeding recommendations, and worming directions, and what to plant and when to fertilize. We had a good laugh and he went on his way.
Next: Let’s See If We’re Still Early Voting On My End of the County
Sure enough, we are. Of course, lots of familiar faces there, too. More catching up. “How’s life outside the Co-op?”
“Better than I could have imagined,” I admit with a genuine smile.
“Let me just get you to verify your information. Still at {rattles off my address}?”
“Yes.”
“Primary?”
“865-216–”
He interrupts me with a braying laugh. “No, Republican or Democrat?”
I laughed so hard I almost couldn’t answer him. I mean, hello? What was I supposed to think? Phone number always comes after address. And we were just talking about the Co-op, where your order always starts with your phone number. Shit fire.
Luckily, everyone in the room was laughing with me. Another lady said she didn’t feel so bad now, since she’d given some sort of crazy information herself unprompted.
Leave it to me.
I caught up with yet another of my former customers just outside after turning in my ballot and getting my sticker.
He told me about the decline of his neighbor, a tough old man I had finally worn down with my charms after a few years. I hated to hear he was unwell, but I’m confident he’ll pull through. He’s that kind of guy. I asked about Jerry’s family, and he asked if I was still married 🙂 This is the oldest of jokes. As always, it was followed by, “He’s a good man.” Which is also true. Another hug, and I was off again. I wanted to go by the local nursery and get some flowers for my crumbling planters. And some basil to go with my cherry tomatoes and mozzarella pearls. I ended up dazzled and amazed by all the varieties of their plants. I wanted it all. I so wish I had the time and energy to devote to making my yard a garden like my Mamaw maintained next door. But I’m lazy. And I clog. Haha.
By the time I got home, I was past due for a nap, and since I had gotten the majority of housecleaning done before my hair appointment (all I was gonna do, anyway) I decided a nap was in order. Shug was in the tattoo chair and wouldn’t be home for awhile.
When I woke up, I had some texts from my girls. I couldn’t concentrate on anything until I got something to eat. I declared I was starving and the plan was made that we meet for Mexican at mine and Tracy’s favorite location, the one Rhonda calls La Cucaracha. Because of one person happening to find a critter in their frijoles eons ago. I was the first to arrive, because I was the hungriest, I guess. I wasted no time ordering fortification in liquid form.
We had a great time, and got loud and rambunctious as always. And we each only had one. But they were potent, I tell you! I saw the son and daughter-in-law of the man I had spoken with at the voting station, the very ones I had inquired about. I couldn’t catch their eye to tell them about the coincidence, though. Then one of the girls in my dance class came through (I did get to speak to her on my way out). At 8:45 I started panicking. “It’s dark,” I announced worriedly.
Conversation continued.
“It’s 9:00!” I yelped.
“Look at us, among the living!” Tracy exclaimed, surprised herself.
“I gotta get home! It’s so late!” This is not sarcasm. I really prefer to be in bed by 9:30. Shug was camping, so I had no one to actually come home to, but no matter. “I’ve had such an exhausting day!”
“You were off today! You took a nap!” Rhonda protested.
“I’m still so tired! I had lots of interaction with the masses!”
She shook her head and reached for her glass. “After your leisurely breakfast at IHOP and then a visit to the beauty parlor…”
My dear friend sounds a little mean, but she’s probably the sweetest one. She just likes trying to keep me in perspective.
So we slurped the final dredges from our cactus glasses (aafter we debated about this woman I swore up and down was a hooker) and made our goodbyes in the parking lot. I got home, shed my bra & washed my face, and collapsed on the couch once again. I read as much as I could until my eyes drooped.
What a great day off, with two more in front of me.
So yesterday, I fixed breakfast for us and then Shug took off to the rod run with a friend who has recently acquired a candy apple red Corvette. Talk about flashy. Here at the modest plantation, I finished my book, took a nap, and had Chick-fil-a for lunch. I’m one of those dumb people who will sit in the drive-thru that has cars wrapped around the building instead of going in. (It was packed in there, too, but the main reason I didn’t want to was because my shoes didn’t match my outfit). I love Chick-fil-a. Ten minutes in the drive-thru is a small price to pay for delicious chicken.
Time to plant flowers.
I have this vinca vine that is going to be the death of me. I also have another vine that has been here since before I was born that is the bane of everyone’s existence. They struggle for life in my flowerbed by the redbud I tried valiantly to kill when I thought it was just a super hardy weed. After making two worms out of one, I called it a day. I did get everything in the ground or a planter. My Columbine has really came along in the past year. I started it from seeds!
It’s Annual Call For Aloe, you guys! So let me know. We haven’t moved them outside yet, but I can assure you, I am, as always, overrun. I ended my time outside with a tick crawling along my arm. Yech. Immediate shower and supper at 10 p.m.
Now or a last few runs of laundry and make a big dent in my latest book. Hillbilly Elegy came through on my Kindle yesterday but I’m still not convinced I want to read it. I’m scared it will make me angry to a point I will want to go burn the books. Hence me getting it electronically. And I need to practice my Rooster Run and High Horse.
My weekend probably doesn’t seem like much to many of you, and I hope you don’t feel cheated after reading all this, but I feel very fortunate for the life I lead. I consider it full and enriching and I generally have a really good time. If you would like to join in, please give me a holler. You know where to find me. (Right here, goobers. Comment and I’ll get with you!) And then you can say, “So I met this Redhead….”
