These emails that say “get ready for best deal/sale of the century/ deepest discount” etc. make me wonder exactly how I need to prepare. I mean, I’m just reading. Nothing has ever came through the phone/ tablet/ computer/ pages for me. What’s fixing to happen? How do I get ready? Read under a table or desk? Hide in the closet? Bite my nails and take a Xanax? Maybe a gin and tonic? I’m just not sure…but I do like that last idea. It’s almost alarming. BLACK FRIDAY!!! They shout. Support Small Business Saturday! tout Facebook pages. Cyber Monday all day Sunday!! And don’t forget about Giving Tuesday, coming in at the end after you’ve effectively spent all your money, your end of year bonus, your grandfather’s war pension, your childrens’ college funds, and the tax refund you haven’t even applied for yet. Then all the sales are prolonged. It goes on forever.
Well, I must go brace myself before opening my emails. Ta-ta for now.
November Writing Challenge Day 25
Smoke.
Not an easy one to write about, as we’re nearing the one year mark for the Chimney Tops Fire, but I’ll do my best.
Last year on this day there was smoke in the valley. There was smoke on the hills and hollers, both. There was smoke everywhere.
It’s a year later and nobody can believe it. Friends from out of town ask how things are…and I don’t remember until I’m reminded. Life has gone on, pretty much as scheduled, since summer and green once again took over the hillsides. For me, anyway. But I’m not in Gatlinburg every day. I’m not in Gatlinburg at all.
I don’t see the devastation or the rebuilding in person. I’m not depending on the generosity of others to help me face another day as I struggle to have half as much as I used to. I was talking to one of my friends who works for dispatch the other day, and she brought up a new kind of post traumatic stress disorder that hadn’t even occurred to me. People who were right there in the smoke and the fire and the mayhem are having trouble being around it again. As you would. So here we are at the anniversary, and everybody’s memories are being jarred again and again by news agencies as they recount that horrible night that no one was prepared for. Even though it’s been wet and dreary much of this month, the law stays in effect about not burning without a permit. But people can easily call and obtain one. And so this man had, and it was controlled in his backyard, and his neighbor was losing her mind. She had been a victim. She had lost everything. And so it was understandable. And the fire marshall had to go speak with her and talk her down.
These people need help on a psychological level, as well as a monetary level at this point. As you would.
It still makes the front page of the paper almost daily, some something related to the wildfires, whether it be a change in leadership, or a new development, or Dolly has helped in some way again.
So we put our Christmas tree up today and I keep remembering how last year’s sat here for over a week before I had the heart to decorate it. And when I did, I cried.
This year I’m just lazy, and whining because my back aches.
I’m glad the chair lift reopened, and I hope it’s never overshadowed by the next big attraction known as Anakeesta. I’m glad the Aquarium was saved, as well as the Candy Kitchen. The “distilleries” are a dime a dozen, but it’s probably a good thing they didn’t catch fire, too, for obvious reasons. And Lord knows Best Italian could never be replaced.
I wonder if Charles the Pig is still living it up. I hear he got a book deal. I wonder if that smartass from Chalet Village is content with his five minutes of fame or if he’s still stirring the pot. I wonder how Michael Reed is coping. I wonder when and if the park service will reopen access to the Pinnacles. I wonder if Fish will choose to meet those people he prayed with and fought for in the elevator. I wonder if those young men who started the fires (this is not up for debate) can sleep at night again, or if they ever could.
I wonder if Sevier County will ever again have a dividing moment, or if we will always say, “before the fires, it was like this, not like this.” Hopefully if there’s ever a next time, people have learned that where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And you better run like the devil’s on your tail.
‘Cause he is.
November Writing Challenge Day 24
Something was off.
It’s understandable. Everything had been so on for so long it was a relief, actually.
It was the TV. Thank God. It seemed as if I had watched every sporting even for the past ten years. It could have been worse, it could have been hunting shows. The only thing more boring than watching men sit in blinds all day was watching men hit little bitty white balls all over gently rolling green hills. And golf I could sleep through, so really, it wasn’t that bad.
So the TV was off, and I couldn’t figure out why. Then I realized something else was off…the house had a very distinct abandoned feeling.
I crept down the hall. There was dust on the floor. How long had I been asleep? Not just the TV, but everything was off. No whirring of the fridge, no air unit thermostat clicking. Then I noticed the windows were open. No, that wasn’t right, they had been blasted out. Glass shards lay everywhere, like they had just exploded from…what, exactly?
And then I remembered.
Oak Ridge had been bombed.
But…I had survived? How was that even possible? I had counted myself lucky since I was little that if something happened at the Lab, I wouldn’t know it. Life is but a vapor, indeed. I was secure and comforted by this knowledge. But obviously, I had been misinformed.
I knew instantly that I needed to write about this as soon as possible. I grabbed my pen and jotted down “something was off.”
November Writing Challenge Day 23
Whispers.
It had been a challenging day. The house was full of relatives and their noise and needs. But that’s what Thanksgiving is all about, right? Everybody under one roof, pitching in or watching football, opinions about everything possible being vented.
The sisters were into it in the kitchen, this time over mashed potatoes. One wanted them creamed, because the others made them too lumpy, one kept adding more salt much to her siblings dismay, and one wanted more butter to the point they would be yellow.
The sisters never agreed on anything, from to where to eat to what their husbands were thinking. The husbands in question were scattered around the living room, watching them placidly. They knew better than to get involved in any debate-those women would eat them alive. The only one that could do anything with them was their blessed daddy, who was snoozing in his armchair. Their mother just made them worse.
Dinner eaten, too much wine consumed by one sister and her husband, and now they were having a whispered conversation about her by the sink. Three were grouped together, talking low and clandestine while the fourth cleared the table of crumpled napkins and smeared dessert plates.
She didn’t know her sisters had noticed. She wasn’t aware the sisters knew about the affair. She was oblivious to the worrisome glances they kept shooting her way while the whispers continued.
November Writing Challenge Day 22
Distorted sounds.
When you’re sitting at work and there’s a crash-boom-bang and it’s 50 pieces of toprail rolling off the pile after the guys cut the band.
Or you’re there by yourself and something keeps popping and you think somebody is messing with you but it’s just the metal roof contracting as the sun melts the frost.
Or you’re home alone and something falls in the closet and you jump out of your skin and belatedly reach for your pistol, even though you would be dead by now if someone was coming in.
Distorted sounds will make you crazy if you let them.
November Writing Challenge Day 21
You, again.
Do you have someone in your life that keeps turning up like a bad penny? Someone you’d love to forget and never see again? Someone you wish would move to the other side of the planet?
But yet, there they are. Every time you turn around, someone is mentioning them, or you see them, or you run into them at the bank and the grocery store and the courthouse? It’s like you can’t catch a break. And you’re reminded of them every time you drive past the road they live on or see a dog the same breed they used to have or some song you know they would love?
And you hate it. And you snarl and think, you again.
It would be nice to be able to block people from our lives like we do from Facebook. But I guess that’s asking too much.
November Writing Challenge Day 20
Hello.
So much better than goodbye.
Hello is full of new beginnings and happiness. Goodbye is fraught with tears and you’re left with memories.
Make your hellos while you can. Don’t be afraid to say hello. Most people are friendly. You might discover they’re also crazy, but at least you tried. They might have been needing a hello.
Most of you I met through the Co-op, and my hellos began as simply that, “Hello.” Which eventually morphed into a “Hey!” which may have become a hug and “Where have you been? Tell me all about yada yada yada, and when can we go out?” in a few years.
I’ve said my goodbyes to many, too. The most painful ones are the ones they couldn’t hear as I stood there snuffing into my Kleenex next to their bright and beautiful flowers. It’s so hard when they didn’t say goodbye before they left. It’s impossible when you don’t know why they’re gone…even if they did tell you goodbye.
Never be afraid to say hello first. You might really make a difference in their life, or more likely, a difference in yours.
I’m so glad you all said hello back. ❤
November Writing Challenge Day 19
Rules change.
Yes, they do. They change so quickly that sometimes I can’t keep up with them.
The unspoken rule for Southern Ladies is: school, university (which you’re allowed to drop out of if you meet the right man), token job, marriage, babies, volunteering, and then you wait on death. Laugh all you want, it’s true. Look around you. How many women stray from that? And how are they regarded? Maybe the rules changed in other parts of the country, but not in well-to-do circles. Not in Appalachia.
Rules change for what you fight for. The right to vote. The right to drive. The right to wear pants! Or no pants!
Rules are made, followed for a time, then people begin slacking off until it’s no longer an enforced rule. And that generally benefits me, because I’m not much of a rule follower. But I don’t know that I’m a breaker, either, unless I feel justified.
Rules about running in halls, no skateboarding on sidewalks, stop for pedestrians and school busses, clean up after your dog, be kind-rewind…how many rules pop into my head. It’s so restrictive. But what else? We could be an anarchy nation, no governing bodies to keep us in line. And then what? Murder and mayhem, that’s what.
So yes to adaptive rules. Because we have to upgrade from our muskets and powderkegs eventually. We no longer drink from pewter giblets and think tomatoes are toxic. But some things shall remain forbidden, for good reason.
I feel like I talked in circles without saying anything in this one. Much like life. Confusing.
November Writing Challenge Day 18
Her husband.
Her husband was suave and polished and wore a tie to work. He regarded football as a Neanderthal sport, preferring polo or maybe an occasional tennis match. Something more dignified. Her husband drank red wine and knew which fork to use and talked about hedge funds. Her husband sat on the hospital board and the foundation for the historic district. Her husband was an alumni from Brown. Or was it Cornell? All those Ivy League Schools blended in my mind.
Her husband was a total bore.
And here I sat, listening to him drone on, while I swirled my French 75 and wondered if it would be rude to drink it as fast as I wanted. I glanced around, noting the cornices and architectural details that set this house apart and screamed wealth. Or rather, quietly drew your eye to the next lavish design or painting.
Her husband was still talking about his uncle’s bird dogs in South Carolina. I watched the diamonds flash on his watch. I then watched the diamonds dance on my bracelet and wondered how long it would be before I could take off these ridiculous shoes.
My husband didn’t have a college degree. My husband had to rent a tux for a yearly event. My husband loved hockey and beer and nachos.
My husband was eyeing the caviar with distaste but I knew he would have to try it before we left. My husband would fall asleep in the car after he made a remark about what a buffoon her husband was.
Her husband drove a Lexus and worked in a high rise.
My husband owned the land it sat on and only remembered when we had to attend the annual Christmas party.
November Writing Challenge Day 17
Grass cuttings
You know summer is on the way in the south when you smell wild onions.
Most people have Kentucky 31 fescue with a healthy heaping of weeds. People will build half million dollar homes and then slap two bags of grass seed on their plot and call it done. It was quite the joke at the Co-op. And some people cut their yard so short, grass has no choice but to die.
Growing season is March through October, fescue prefers the cooler seasons and will go dormant in the hottest part of the year. Or will get brown patch disease and look like hell. But heaven forbid you suggest Bermuda to anybody. That’s a weed. Gets in the flower beds and you can’t pull it out.
Sigh.
It’s hard out there for a seed salesman 😉
But anyway. I remember as a wee tot I’d gather up all the grass cuttings and go to town, covering up my tomcat, Sylvester, or making a nest for my Greyhound, Candy. Sometimes I’d go make a bed for the rabbits or feed it to the cows through the barbed wire fence. I really felt industrious. I was a primitive grass catcher.
I guess that’s about the best I can do with this topic. Why can’t they give me something I can relate to, like cornbread? Then I could share recipes and stuff.
