It terrifies and saddens me that I almost lived a life without Neil Gaiman. He is most wonderful and gifted and unique and I was thisclose to never knowing.
If you need a vacation for your brain, if you want to slip into something more comfortable, if you’re tired of the pretentious books with parallel meanings and readers’ guides (why can’t they just say what the want to, for the LOVE), if you can’t stand the thought of another book hailed as a “gripping suspenseful novel with a twist, the likes of which have been unseen since Gone Girl” THEN READ NEIL GAIMAN. On second thought, just read him for the love of reading. Read for the childhood you think you’ve lost. It’s just there, around the bend. Step in. Step through the wall. Perhaps you’ll meet your hearts desire. Maybe you’ll catch a star.
Buy it here I don’t know why it’s not showing the picture….it’s a pretty fantastic cover. There’s a unicorn in this book, for Pete’s sake. A UNICORN.
Here are a conglomeration of Facebook Birthdays to my reliable pickup I bought on Friday the 13th, 2000. That’s right, almost twenty years ago. She has been my everyday vehicle for the duration. She’s only had one set of brakes in her lifetime. She’s seen me through two wedding dresses (but only one wedding, think on that), three speeding tickets (all THP), and I don’t know how many French fries and fishing trips. When the finance manager at the dealership asked how long I intended to keep her, I answered firmly, “Until the wheels fall off.” I bet he would be surprised to learn that I’m still behind the wheel.
2014: Happy Birthday to Patsy, my beloved Chevrolet. She was bought 14 years ago today. It was Friday the 13th. That has proved to be exactly the opposite of a bad omen. She has been an excellent vehicle. I had $2500 in the bib pocket of my overalls for a down payment that night. My salesman was like, “you would bring cash…” Like it was a bad thing. She has hauled hay, saddles (there’s one in the seat right now), wedding dresses, bookshelves, & @$$!!! I’ve got the speeding tickets to prove it. But truly, everyone said I couldn’t afford it, I would hate being in something so big, I would go broke on the gas mileage. Gas was $1.47 per gallon the day I bought her. I still wouldn’t change a thing. Hope she’s still runnin’ in twenty more years.
2016: Happy Birthday Patsy. Sweet 16.
Like a rock.
(A rock doesn’t have air conditioning, either).
Here’s y’all a Patsy story I’ve never told on here:
I’d had her less than a week & had a hankerin’ for a doughnut. So, like any true Southerner, whupped into the Krispy Kreme for some tasty morsels. I bit into a raspberry jelly filled one pulling out of the parking lot & it squished out a hidden orifice of the pastry.
Unbeknownst to me, it wound up on my seatbelt.
Hence, in my hair.
I didn’t realize it until hours later at my destination when I wondered why my shirt was so sticky. By that time, I’d managed to get it all over the door, too.
I celebrated with doughnuts again today. But a little stickiness would have been the least of poor Patsy’s ails lately. We’ve come a long way in 16 years, with ice cream in the floorboard, barbeque sauce in the shifter, & mayonnaise on the headliner.
She’s safely delivered me to and from every destination all these years. Maybe not the easiest thing to park…and certainly was an attention getter in her early days (remember the stripper at Target, Meg??) but I’ve always been proud and felt invincible in my rig. Thanks Patsy. You’re a good ‘un.
I like fountain cokes and mountain dews in cans, I like sweet tea that crunches and Snapple because of the satisfying plop sound it makes when I open it. I’d recognize that sound in the furthest galaxy. I like cold milk with any dessert and I drink lemonade when I think of it. I like coffee flavored sugar milk when it’s below 50°. I like ice cold water first thing of the morning.
I like bats and swallows, because they dine on mosquitoes.
I used to like okra.
I like bumper stickers (saw one yesterday that said “do you follow Jesus this close?”)
I like people who drive fast but talk slow, and barbeque with cole slaw on the side.
I like standing at the tide line and feeling the sand getting sucked from under my feet.
I like sea turtles and sea otters and sleek seals. Simply put, I like the sea.
I like trucks that aren’t afraid to get muddy.
I like my tattoos, and don’t care if you do.
I like eating crab legs and oysters outside on a wooden deck with never ending bottles of beer.
I like fishing.
I like slobbery, happy, goofy dogs who make no apologies for being glad I’m home.
I like it when the tv is off.
I think everybody needs a fence 🙂
I like witty church signs that make you think the congregation has a sense of humor.
I love Peyton Manning with almost my whole soul. I think we’re the last two people on earth who religiously write thank you notes. Wait–and Cheryl Stranahan.
I like Frank Sinatra’s voice, the Rolling Stones, bluegrass, Kacey Musgraves, Gary Allan, Dwight Yoakum, Miranda Lambert, Ricky Van Shelton, and Patsy Cline. I also like Taylor Swift, but don’t tell anybody. I love Elvis and Aerosmith and sometimes Eminem. I like banjos and fiddles and harmonicas. But nothing makes me happier than catching Dolly on the radio when I’m in downtown Sevierville. I sometimes crave good old church music.
I believe they should teach the words to the Star Spangled Banner and how to shake hands in school instead of the beginning of the Constitution. I think the bigger the flag, the better.
I like Rolos and Reese’s Pieces.
When someone dies, you go to the funeral. You go if you didn’t know them, because a person you love loved them. And you hug that person until they let you go. You don’t turn loose first.
I like mermaids and I’ve always liked unicorns. I don’t think there’s an age limit to liking either one.
I like going to my beautician and growing up and growing old with her. I like how she doesn’t really ask what I want, because she knows I’ll speak up if I want something different (whatcha doin’ with that curlin’ iron? Twist this shit up and pin it, it’s hot and I’m ridin’ with the windows down!) I like to pretend I’m at Truvy’s.
I like manners in young and old alike.
I like to start my day by making my bed, then picking out my shoes and build my outfit around them.
I find serenity in trees. I disliked the desert because it is so vast and empty, devoid of trees. The only exception was the Saguaros.
I like books about things I’ve never thought about….and books about things I think I know. I like talking about books. I like looking at books. I like books about books.
I like Stephen King and Shakespeare.
I like everything about Scarlett O’Hara, even the bad parts.
I like festivals and fair food and running into people I’ve known all my life. I like live music and people with a beat.
I like sitting on the porch listening to the locusts chanting and watching the dogs and birds and the neighbor across the road pick up sticks. No porch is complete without a rocking chair or swing.
I like picking blackberries and squinting in the sun and worrying about the bull across the pasture.
I like poetry that rhymes.
I like gathering eggs.
I like turkey sandwiches, pickles, sun ripened tomatoes, and barbeque tater chips. But I also like sushi.
I like the smell of vanilla candles, hay, and suntan lotion.
I’ll eat cranberries in any form.
I like old houses, most especially the ones with the prospect of ghosts.
I like people who laugh without restraint and look me in the eye.
I like decorating for Christmas.
I like the color pink.
The only birthday cake there is comes from Village Bakery, so I don’t have to even say I like birthday cake. You know I do.
I like riding horses taller than me. Bonus points if they’re grey or black. I also have a soft spot for bays.
I like that people in the South smile at you for no reason other than you made eye contact. I like it when Yankees move down here and notice and want to adapt to our ways.
I love Newport Oregon, Savannah, Charleston, and New Orleans. I like Las Vegas alright. I would live in Idaho or on the Oregon coast if I could only convince the southpaw journeyman I’ve chose to spend my life with. I want to go to Scotland, Ireland, and Alaska before I die. I would also like to visit Paris, but only with a translator, and Australia if they drive out all the snakes.
I would get a massage every single day if I could afford it. I would also pay somebody to worry about my hair and keep up with my phone if I were a billionaire. I would wake up on my private yacht every day on my way to somewhere else.
I love to vote & believe everyone should if you’re allowed. I think that would be my most upsetting priveledge to lose if I ever found myself in prison.
I like rainy days and the crisp bite of autumn when it finally comes.
I like corny jokes and catching crawdads and swimming all day, and thinking about all the days I squandered doing just that.
I love the fantasy of Pinterest and how sometimes it becomes a reality.
I like cows in my Facebook feed better than anything else in this whole world.
I wish you didn’t feel the need to impress us with your life that we all know isn’t perfect.
I like history and antiques and people who can tell a worthwhile story, like Ray Ball. I love Ray Ball.
I like Amazon, Etsy, & Abebooks. I am thankful for the internet. I like putting things in carts like I’m a ba-zillionaire.
I like playing pinball and skeeball at arcades.
I like napping on Sunday afternoons while golf is on.
Trains make me lonesome, but I like them anyway.
I like things monogrammed.
I hope this brought a tiny bright spot to your day or made you smile and say, “I like that, too!” If it didn’t, you should probably go get your passport updated. Take that any way you want to.
I spent one of the final days of summer on my porch.
My porch is nothing fancy. I know this shocks some of you to your very core, seeing as how I’m such a fancy cat myself. But it’s utilitarian, concrete, with no handrail, no screening, and no paint. However, it does boast a rocking chair and two slobbery companions. The view is alright, far enough from the road to be apart from the action with a wide expanse of grass in between.
I sat there and took note of an irregular breeze that caused a few leaves to rustle and spiral downward. I watched a few birds come and peck out sunflower seeds. I started a new book, and put it down to pick back up one I’ve been trying to read for a few weeks now. But neither one held my attention. At least the neighbors were nowhere to be seen, nor their constantly barking dogs. I relished the quiet. I watched Lightning repeatedly invade Sugar’s space. She didn’t act like she noticed. I think she’s past caring.
I’ve cooked everything this weekend. I feel like I spent all my time at the sink or in front of the stove. I made bacon wrapped pickles, crab dip, and stuffed mushrooms for the game yesterday. Johnny declared it “weird” and barely touched it. By 8:00 I felt sorry for him, since all he’d eaten was a bowl of Apple Jacks and a few hot pocket triangles (so much better than originals), so I made spaghetti. It was a good choice, as I had the mushroom stems to use and two ounces of cream cheese.
Today I made biscuits (the frozen kind, lets not get too carried away), bacon, sweet tea, boiled 10 eggs for Shug’s breakfast this week, and fixed up four chicken bowls for lunch this week. Then I added artichoke hearts, velveeta, more hot sauce and Worcestershire sauce to the crab dip to see if that made it any more edible. Velveeta and Texas Pete helps everything, according to the muscles of the plantation.
I’ve had a pretty good month so far. I’ve got to read my favorite sentence three times. What, you don’t know it? “Amy was right.” The first time was when one of my former coworkers text me to let me know a certain coworker I detested was fired. “She was crazy. You were right.” I don’t know why it took them this long to figure it out, and I also didn’t know that she had doubted me. The next was in a work email, but I don’t remember the details. And the last time was just moments ago on Facebook. One of my friends has a snail problem in her fish tank but she kind of likes them, but they’re beginning to take over. She was wondering if she removed all but one or two if that would be a problem. I told her she’d be back in the same boat before long, because snails do not need a mate to procreate. And some stranger chimed in with, “Amy is right.” ***Cheshire Cat Smile*** Not that I had any doubts, I learned that in a science class decades ago. Some stuff just sticks with you. But it’s always nice to hear. Or read, as the case may be.
Anyway. That’s ,y day. I hope you find time to reflect. It’s the pause button of life. Use it wisely.
It’s a little embarrassing how much I loved this book, most especially after I was so sure I was going to hate it. Nothing like being wrong.
First of all, THAT COVER. *stars in my eyes* I haven’t figured out how to do all the fancy italics and emojis on here, so you’ll just have to inject your own enthusiasm and implied meanings.
This book took me by surprise by how good it was and, of course, the sexual overtones that popped up out of nowhere that ended up being the entire premise of the novel. If you make it through the first chapters (which seem totally out of sync with the rest of the book…not sure what purpose they served) you’ll be gone up the river with them by page 50. I suppose I’ve never given much thought to anthropologists and what their work encompasses, besides being completely filthy all the time. Ick. Not for me. And a struggle for Bankston, our male protagonist, as well: “‘And I am bad luck in the field, utterly ineffective. I couldn’t even manage to kill myself properly.'” But he does get sick, as he says this. It’s almost like he brought he omen on himself, as no mention has been made to his poor health. “The spangles returned at that moment from all sides, and my eyeballs ached suddenly and painfully. The world dimmed, but I was still standing. ‘I am perfectly well,’ I said. Then, they told me later, I fell to the ground like a kapok tree.”
Anthropology is the studying of people, and digging to the root. It’s psychology in its truest, most bare form. As an added attribute, Nell is an author. “I would have liked to sit at the messy desk, read the notes and the underlinings, flip through the notebooks and read the typed-up pages in the folders. It was a shock to see someone else doing my work, in the midst of the very same process. As I looked at her desk, it seemed a deeply important endeavor to me, though when I looked at my own it seemed close to meaningless.” All the characters are so wonderfully imperfect and real (and well developed, with the exception of Fen, but I could care less about him), and it’s funny how although it was set in the ’30s there’s still so much to identify with. He has major abandonment and mommy issues that Nell addresses immediately. The self-described “tall brooding slightly unhinged Englishman” whose “height can be disturbing to certain tribes” (I bet!): He talks about his father: “My father had a big moustache, which often hid a small smile. I didn’t understand his humor until I was grown and he had lost it, and took him very much at his word, which amused him, too. He was interested, for my entire childhood, in eggs.” And his mother: “We had a special bond because she did not want me to grow up and I did not want to grow up either. My brothers did not make it look easy.” “‘Were you close to your brothers?’ she asked. ‘Yes, but I didn’t know it until they died….And then six years after John, Martin did die and I felt like–‘ And then my throat closed entirely and I couldn’t force it open and she stared at me and nodded into the silence between us, as if I were still talking and making perfect sense.” She’s able to do it with everyone, it seems: “Nell was laughing with him and I wasn’t sure what had happened: who had asked the questions, whose questions were asked, how we got that story out of him when he did not want to tell it, when he had kept it as a secret all his life.” And this woman: “she speaks several local languages but only a small bit of pidgin so we mostly flapped our arms and laughed….By the end of the visit she was trying on my shoes.” See? Women everywhere are nearly the same. It is explained in this way: “You don’t realize how language actually interferes with communication until you don’t have it, how it gets in the way like an overdominant sense. You have to pay much more attention to everything else when you can’t understand the words. Once comprehension comes, so much else falls away. You then rely on their words, and words aren’t always the most reliable thing.” And not to profile, but it does seem like deaf people are so much more in tune with other’s emotions. I always want to hide my face from the way they peer so intently; it’s almost as if they can see straight into your soul. Maybe that’s why children make me uncomfortable, too. And there are loads of children in this book, not just the dead ones. “Kanshi’s grandmother called out from her mosquito bag that she was napping and could they please go and drown themselves.” This cracked me up, further proof that people are the same all over.
I don’t know how much of this the author drew from case studies (or Nat Geo), or just out of her brain. The rituals and the traditions and the superstitions all felt real to me. Maybe it’s from growing up in the South that has its own ways of doing things, passed down from generation to generation. I guess we’re not so far removed from the jungle, after all. Especially the higher up in the hills you go…or the further in the swamp. Which brings me to religion…we all have our idols, whether it’s Jesus or Buddha or a totem or Dolly Parton. Or, like it says at the beginning of chapter 4, “I was raised on Science as other people are raised on God, or gods, or the crocodile.” But he feels a void at the end: “His spirit has gone wandering, they said….He was once a man of fire and he came back a man of ash….They appealed to his ancestors, reciting their long names, and to the land and their water spirits. I watched how fervently they prayed to all their gods for the return of Xambun’s soul to his body. Tears sprung from their clenched eyes and sweat beaded on their arms. I doubted anyone had ever prayed for me like that, or any other way for that matter.” I’ve felt this way in some churches, watching how people believe and worship. It’s fascinating but also exhausting.
I liked the grid, the grouping of people on a compass. Unfortunately, I’m not a Southerner. Perhaps I used to be, and then was ruined. At any rate, the idea has merit. And the assigning lovers as wine or bread: wine is thrilling and sensual, while bread is familiar and essential. Makes sense, doesn’t it? And sometimes when the wine qualities run out, bread just isn’t enough. Maybe the bread is stale, or worse yet, moldy. Or maybe it’s sourdough, which you don’t even like to begin with. “So often a woman’s pleasure felt to me a mystery, the slightest wisp of a thing you were meant to find, and she having no better idea of where to look than you did.” 🙂 He’s on to something here, for sure. But he knows how to follow his heart: “I followed. Of course I followed.” And I love this: “the Tam believed that love grows in the stomach and that they went round clutching their bellies when there hearts were broken. ‘You are in my stomach’ was their most intimate expression of love.” I wonder if that’s part of why they say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach? I know this is true, Shug proposed to me after he found out I could make cornbread. I didn’t even have to prove it!
This line made me happy: “She claimed ami was the Zuni word for rain.” That explains why I love it 🙂 And there’s this story, that may well be my very most favorite ever: “‘At three or four I had a big tantrum and locked myself in my mother’s closet. I tore down her dresses and kicked her shoes all around, and made a terrible amount of noise, then there was an absolute silence for a long time. ‘Nellie?’ my mother said. ‘Are you alright?’ and apparently I said, “I’ve spit on your dresses and I’ve spit on your hats and now I’m waiting for more spit.'” But her family life was much different from Bankston’s. Whereas he was encouraged in the sciences, and to learn all he could, hers was the very opposite: “Not sure things could have been much worse. We were raised to know nothing, to think nothing. Chew our cud like the cows. Say nothing. That’s what my mother did. Said nothing. I made myself as useless as possible in order to stay in school.”
“‘I love you,’ she said, her lips still against mine. But it meant no.” I think she loved him for his mind, for it was so aligned with her own. But she didn’t recognize it at first. “I wish the three of us could paddle out tonight and get all turned around and use it to find our way back.” Or maybe she still thinks she can possess them all.
I hate Fen. I hated him on sight. He was apple cider vinegar in a wine bottle. “He is making himself perfectly well understood and people are much less apt to laugh at him as he is a man and taller than all of them and the dispenser of most of the salt & matches & cigarettes.” He’s like the school jock that nobody honestly likes but they pretend to for his riches and pool.
“Strange how a ship was our doing and now our undoing. Let him rage. Let him rage across the oceans. But he will rage alone.” I feel that she gained her original strength back, once she was away from all the distractions of the tribe. I can’t believe she stayed with him as long as she did. I mean, she never took his name, which was a pretty daring move back then. Something was amiss from the beginning.
“Let go now, the moon said. And the man, who had no more strength left, let go and fell directly into his canoe and paddled home to share his wife, as all men did, with the moon.”
I felt like I could read two thousand more pages of this love story in the wilderness, but of course that’s how all the best books leave you. And if it was longer, it wouldn’t have been as perfect. I purely loved it. I can’t wait for book club, for discussion questions that draw out the double meanings and make you look at it with new eyes.
I’ll leave you with this, how the book would have ended if we lived in a perfect world of happy endings: “He is wine and bread and deep in my stomach.”
I didn’t want to go to work today. Sometimes I have an ominous feeling on the anniversary of September 11th, those are the days I keep my bug out bag within arm’s reach. Sometimes I’m despondent, dwelling on the lives lost starting with this fateful day through the War on Terrorism. And sometimes I’m just mad.
Today I was dejected, thinking about how useless it all is. And the hurricane, on top of all that. And yes, it could have been a lot worse, but is that how we’re going to live our lives? It was going to be dreary and wet and cold. So I just wanted to loll in bed and read, and kinda forget the rest of the world existed for one day. In short, I wanted to be selfish.
On this day. This day. THIS day.
The day when selfishness was banished from society in one of the hardest cities on Earth.
When strangers kissed on rooftops, thankful for their lives.
When emergency personnel rushed into burning, tumbling buildings just to save one more life, knowing they probably couldn’t save their own.
When the President of the United States of America kept reading to kindergarteners after receiving the worst news possible whispered in his ear.
So yeah, I could get out of bed. I could do this.
And so I drove to work, thinking about people in New York City and Washington 16 years ago who had probably been dreading going to work, another mundane day of pushing around papers, fighting over money, deferring to their superiors, and waiting on 5:00. People who were boarding flights for their next connection or destination.
All the while evil lurked beside them.
I thought about my day 16 years ago.
Have you forgotten? Or did you never know?
I understand now how my Grandmother’s generation carried distrust and hate for the Japanese their entire life. I understand why they got so emotional on the anniversary of Pearl Harbor. I know why it’s so frustrating for people to disregard and not honor our true heroes- the soldiers, the firemen, the police, the volunteers. The mourners.
I mourn to this day. I don’t know if I will ever stop.
And I wonder if in two hundred years, they will tear down our monuments. If they’ll want to eradicate the memory of the fallen. If they’ll say it’s too painful to remember and it’s not fair to the generations that dwell here now.
There’s a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes and I don’t know if it’s from the injustice or the anger or for the stupidity of our great nation.
I want y’all to think back. Take a minute and remember. Need some help? Remember the silence in the air. Remember the curfew. Remember your stricken heart as you called everyone you knew, double checking that their flight wasn’t today. Remember not wanting to drive too far from home. Remember gathering your children a little closer than normal, holding them just a little bit longer. Remember reading your Bible and finding comfort. Remember looking twice at those who had brown skin. Remember the flags and patriotism. Remember, remember, remember…
Thank you for remembering, America.
Now help someone else who doesn’t because who knows how the history books are gonna tell it when we’re gone.
Oh, football weather is once again upon us. And I’m happy. I’ve got veggies, bottles of ranch dressing, and all the fixin’s for nachos.
I also bought some sushi, but that can be our little secret.
So anyway, the preparations have been underway. We’re flying the colors and sporting our best orange.
Mom has been out to the graveyard to get Grandmother ready, too. I approve of this, mainly because it’s cool and I couldn’t do it if I had to. I can still see her, perched on the couch, her back ramrod straight. “Hold ’em boys, hold ’em.” She’d be puffing away on that cigarette and probably wishing for a shot of Jack Daniels. Grandmother was a big Vol fan, as we all are here in big orange country. Knoxville is a sight to behold on game day.
Not sure if you can make it out or not, but the little football says “Go Vols” on it. My contribution was the “live, laugh, love” part because Grandmother wasn’t very religious and all the scriptures just felt wrong. She was all for laughing and loving, though.
So that’s her little piece of Big Orange Country, about ten miles from Neylabd Stadium. I’d say she can hear the cheering and feel the stands thundering as 100 thousand strong make their voice heard.
Here’s the 2016 season. I couldn’t find one from 2015 or older, though I know Mom has done this for several years now.
I always wonder what other visitors to their beloved’s gravesites think when they come upon it. Probably what most people think when they meet members of my family: “Good Lord, they’re crazy!”
We play in Georgia tonight. Hope they’re ready. Vol Nation has descended once again.
I decided the other day I was tired of sunshiny, waxing nostalgic posts about the South. My beloved, mosquito-infested, sun-tea South. I wanted death and mayhem. It was a Stephen King kind of day. But instead of reading one of his tomes, I thought I’d try my hand at my own.
There’s a little hotel in Seymour, my hometown, that’s been around since before me. Seymour isn’t a destination; it’s a place you pass through to get somewhere better. We have no attractions, unless you count McMahan’s Nursery. Generally, if you come to Seymour, you’re visiting relatives, and if they’re not crazy, you’re staying with them. If space is tight, or they don’t have a pool, you’ll stay in Sevierville. Preferably close to the Cracker Barrel.
I digress. The name of aforementioned hotel is The Wayoma Hotel. I don’t know what it means, I’ve never really thought much about it. It used to have a teeny tiny pool out front, surrounded by a utilitarian chain link fence, but when I started doing my Google-based research I saw that it has been filled in and now serves as a “playground”. Read: patch of browning fescue where you might walk your dog.
I’ve had it fixed in my head forever that this was a no-tell ho-tell, you know what I mean? *drops a suggestive wink* I also thought it was always a little dirty in general, perhaps a place a man might stay while he’s working out divorce proceedings. I mean, why else would the place exist? It’s not a big hotel. Oh no. It’s maybe ten rooms at the most, all ground level, laid out in an L-shape. It’s dull crème and brown exterior encourages no one to look twice. Situated next to a body repair shop quite close to the highway, there’s no view to speak of, and I can imagine the smell was greatly improved while Parton’s was in business across the road smoking butts. Pun intended. (But that really was the name of the barbeque joint). I could never actually see the pool, as it is positioned on a bit of a knoll, but I had envisioned a permanently stagnant breeding ground for tadpoles and the like. That part may be true, but since it’s filled in now, I will never know. And it never has a vacancy. I figured the neon sign was stuck, because who would be staying there? Of the divorcing men in Seymour, the majority of our population in this day and age could certainly afford something better. This is not the Seymour of 1985.
And here was going to be the location of my story. I figured on murder. I figured on suicide. I figured on a rotary-dial phone and dirty carpet and cigarette butts discarded on every surface. I wanted the grease, the grime, the stagnant stench of stale air and body odor.
Like I say, I went to Google. Turns out, there is only one Wayoma. I have to wonder if it was a woman’s name, like Winona. Or maybe the original owner was fixated on Winona but didn’t want to be found out and have to pay royalties and changed it to Wayoma to avoid legal fees. *shrug* We’ll never know, because I couldn’t find a thing about the history of the place. Granted, I didn’t look long, because what I found discouraged me from writing anything.
Oh, you think it’s really sordid now, don’t you? Have you already googled it yourself? Well, spare me a few more words.
The first thing it pulled up was four images. Of course I clicked. Hmmm. Pretty standard. And certainly cleaner than some places I’ve stayed in (looking at you, Shelbyville hotels the week of the Celebration). And it had four stars, which was laughable. Have these people ever stayed anywhere besides a teepee? Perhaps an Embassy Suites? Or even a Holiday Inn? But as I read the reviews, my giggles stopped short.
This hotel seems to owned by my cherished third grade teacher. It does not keep an updated presence online, but the customers she has are repeat business. They are simply hard working people who tend to come in for family reunions or funerals. Sometimes holidays, like Thanksgiving and Christmas. Well, that explains why it seems to be permanently booked. There’s always somebody dying. And you don’t want to make a vacation out of the visit, that seems vulgar. Even the people on the viper pit group of Seymour Speaks Out wrote positive things about the hotel. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I’ve had it all wrong. I can’t even blame it on “looks can be deceiving” because I’m now seeing it in a new light. It’s simply dated, architecture from the industrial era. The paint is new, it’s just dull. I suppose unobtrusive would be a better adjective. Don’t get me wrong, I’m tickled there is no darkness in that little building. It’s a relief it’s still owned by a local family that takes pride in their business. I’m thrilled that not everything has to be updated and brand-spanking new to be successful.
There is no link to share, as there is no website devoted to this little gem.
So there will be no suspense thriller from me. At least not one set there. I should have known. I don’t remember ever taking any frantic 911 calls from the business, ever. Maybe I need to replay some of those in my head for a locale. Or maybe I need to stick to the moonlight and magnolias.
I know it, you know it, everybody knows it: Actions speak louder than words. But today, I got to see that ugly truth up close and personal.
I have a new ritual. Every Friday morning that I’m not doing the secretary gig, I skedaddle down to the International House Of Pancakes to devour crepes. Usually I have a former cheerleader as my waitress, the always bubbly and pert Farrah. However, today, it seemed that I was an orphan, as I had no less than three serving my every whim. I have no idea which one I actually tipped.
I was seated by a sweet girl that I would guess is of Indian origin. Indian like Taj. She offered to bring my drink while I looked over the menu. “She’ll be with you shortly,” she promised as she made her exit. “She” never appeared, so instead my hostess took my order (banana crepes with Nutella this week). Another waitress stopped by moments later to ascertain that my order had been taken.
I was just sitting there, mildly enjoying the buzz of activity from people around me. The overall mood was one of merriment. I don’t know who these people are who aren’t at work on a Friday morning. They’re of all ages, and I’m typically the only one there dining alone. Frequently there are pairs of men, strictly business, chatting about this joint venture or that merge. Last time there was a lady with her two daughters seated in the booth behind me, celebrating the birthday of one of the daughters. This I understand. These giant groups of people whooping it up? I got nuttin’. Oftentimes there are older couples, clearly retired, just out running errands together. I find this exceedingly sweet.
This morning as I waited on my decadent crepes, a couple of ladies were seated behind me.
All at once, their voices began an assault on my eardrums.
The most nasally, obnoxious, nauseating Yankee accent known to Southerners spewed from her throat a litany of complaints. Something was too small, she complained immediately to the hostess. “Why did they make them smaller, they were too small already…” She whined.
I dared not turn around. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.
Then she went on about the eggs, how she would really like some nice scrambled eggs, but she’s not going to order them because every time she gets them here they’re cold. So cold, in fact, that butt-ahh will not even melt on them.
Her dining partner is suitably aghast.
I’m wondering why she keeps coming back if their eggs are so bad.
Then I wonder why I care, and try to scroll Instagram, concentrating on sandy beaches and the like. I don’t want to eavesdrop on them, but it’s dang near impossible as she is sitting a scant twenty-four inches away.
Why don’t they put me in the way back? Maybe next time I’ll act intimidated to be eating alone. Or maybe I’ll just ask for seclusion. At any rate, here come my crepes.
The one-sided conversation behind me continues. Now she’s counseling the woman with her (mother? sister? Surely not a friend, no one would voluntarily put up with this kind of abuse) about what to eat, how to order, and why she shouldn’t get what was evidently discussed in the car trip here. She seems to have some health issues and doesn’t eat regularly. The complainer starts telling her how she doesn’t need to eat cereal, she needs to eat bananas. And how, when she does feel like eating, she shouldn’t overdo it.
I am now envisioning a Jersey woman: overdone hair dyed black as pitch, overdone makeup with lots of oily coral colored lipstick, gobs of gold jewelry, but no bangles, because I haven’t heard them. It’s a little early in the day for animal print, so my guess is probably basic black with teal accents and the animal print on a scarf that’s tied to the handle of her 1999 designer bag. Her companion is elderly, meek (duh), and shriveled and could certainly use a few extra calories she hopes to glean from her French toast donut or whatever it is she wants.
The waitress comes for the order. Lo and behold, the complainer orders eggs! Of course, they come with strict instructions on the temperature, and the reasoning behind her request. She also has a list of directions of how she would like her food prepared, down to the salt and pepper dusted on the toast. Completely over the top from being a picky order, I couldn’t remember it all if I tried. The poor waitress questioned one thing, to make sure she had it right, and she answered in the most condescending tone I’ve heard in quite some time. I was about to choke. Of course, she ordered first, and when the other lady went to order, she broke in, adding “And that’s all.” I would have punched her right in the throat and called an Uber.
Orders taken, the waitress moves off. Jersey picks up with a new list of problems, these related to the church, where they’re presumably helping feed the homeless through a local rescue ministry. She doesn’t have a problem with that, what she has an issue with is people eat seven days a week and the church is only feeding them five. Not only that, but just one meal a day. People eat three times a day. You can get by with two, if you eat breakfast late enough, but isn’t it simply atrocious that they’re not doing more?
I have yet to hear what commitment she makes towards this provided meal, but the other lady makes deviled eggs. “Well, that’s fine, if that’s what you want to do, but it adds up if you do it every week. I’m just saying.”
Evidently her generosity doesn’t extend to making much besides criticisms.
I can’t think of what it was she asked the other lady, but when a response didn’t come her way, or at least the one she was satisfied with, she asked again. She was put off. “I was just wondering. Just being nosy,” like her admitting it made it okay.
Dear Jesus, here comes their food.
The waitress was rewarded by, “No, that’s hers, that’s all. Yes, this is mine. Mine. Mine. Now I see that I didn’t get {insert offense here} after I specifically asked for it, and this isn’t right, you’ll have to take this back. Now, I guess I’ll just have to wipe this silverware off because I asked for clean and you didn’t bring that, either. It’s fine. Now, extra napkins, and take this.”
The poor waitress apologizes timidly and scurries away as fast as her legs will take her without actually running. I want to chase after her. I’m sure she’ll try to send someone else back to their table. I would. I want to tell her it’s not the end of the world, this woman is a terrible creature who must be destroyed.
But no, she returns with the replacement of whatever was wrong and keeps moving.
“Naaaapkins!!!” the evil Yankee screams shrilly after her.
I’m completely mortified to even be in the same restaurant as this miserable cow.
I’m rubbing my eyebrows off as I try to remain calm and not spew my venom all over her. Then the unthinkable happens:
She begins to pray.
My head is about to EXPLODE.
And once she’s done with her little talk with Jesus, the dissatisfactions begin again. “I don’t like our waitress,” she says around a mouthful of what I assume is eggs.
“Why not?” the other lady asks.
“I just don’t. She just seems…I don’t know. I bet she’s new.”
Undesirable waitress in question arrives with my bill.
“Excuse me, are you new?” she asks her.
Unbelievable.
The waitress shakes her head.
“It’s just because….well…could you bring me….no, I’m good. Nevermind. Nothing.”
The waitress is clearly relieved to be excused once again.
I wish I’d hit the Powerball the other night. I would have bailed this poor girl out on the spot. And I would have probably had to hire a lawyer to make amends for all the things I would have said to this good for nothing customer who has ruined my perfectly delicious and beautiful crepes with all her loudmouth grievances.
I signed my slip and began to compose a note to the good people of IHOP before I could get thrown in jail. While I wrote, she droned on about the state of her vehicle and how her top concern was tires. Lord help the automotive establishment she ports in.
The last thing I heard before I stood up was the other woman wanting something sweet, and she was berating her, “Look in front of you. What is that? What is it? Something sweet!”
I got up and finally turned my most evil stare on her, sizing her up for the first time. She was nothing like I pictured. The first thing I noticed was her hair- a mess of gray, SOS pad wiry sort-of curls that were way past being a flattering length. She had on a dirty t-shirt that did nothing for her oversize figure. Maybe the booth size was what she had been griping about when she first sat down. But she probably requested one just so she’d have a platform. I’m no wisp of a female, myself, and try to be respectful of other’s feelings, but this woman was a breed alone. I should not extract one iota of sympathy for her.
How I would have loved to smash those cold eggs right into her pinched face.
I hope that the poor waitress’ day was not ruined, I hope that she doesn’t remember her come tonight when she’s home with her children helping them do schoolwork, or maybe taking her own night classes. I hope that wicked bitch never crosses her mind again, unless it’s when she thinks back to when she got more than a tip on a debit card slip.
I’ve lived through some pretty vicious customers of my own nearly every day. What made it better was having people on your side, most especially the next person in line who would roll their eyes and tell you not to let it get you down. Don’t spread the hate, just laugh them off for the worthless patronage they are, and don’t dwell on how much time you wasted.
I didn’t pray before my meal, but I did pray during, to keep me from saying something that would make me so angry for months to come that IHOP would forever be tainted. My prayers were answered.
But Lord, if she didn’t deserve it.
Inferno: A place or region that resembles hell.
Two weeks ago the community was told that the state’s call record for November 28th had mysteriously vanished without a trace. Sound familiar? I won’t bring national politics into this, but it sounds suspiciously like another time citizens demanded answers that for some reason, couldn’t be supplied. And now we have the EMA director who was in his position for eight years taking a Operations Director position with a construction company. After a lifetime spent in emergency services, this is unheard of. Something tells me he knows the government has failed. He was the one on the phone with the state, pleading with them to issue an evacuation. The call was dropped due to cell phone towers being engulfed by flames and the evacuation warning never came. The state reasons they didn’t want to send citizens deeper into the inferno, which is a reasonable excuse…however, not doing anything proved to be just as lethal.
Some people in the community are saying drop it so we can move forward. We’d be glad to, as soon as we know what happened. Or rather, what didn’t happen. How do you make your peace without answers?
Regardless of what officials were telling people in the county, one thing is for sure: 911 was handling it the best they could. For all their training, nothing could prepare them for the night of inferno that spread down the mountain like blood on the hands of a butcher. I want to prove that bunch was doing all they could within their powers to bring help to the county. As they do all day, every day, and all night. Holidays, sacred days, and the witching hours. They keep watch. And they need rest. They don’t need to second guess their actions of that night. They don’t need trotted out for the press and a few misguided citizens to pick over. Their skin is stripped, their innards are trailing and knotted, and their emotions have been wrung out long ago. They’re normal people, just trying to make a living and eek out an existence so they can go to the beach once a year and keep their houses warm in the winter and Chinese for supper once a week. I know of one soul in particular that worked 7 days straight for a total of 91 hours, 31 of them in just two days. Imagine being tethered to a desk for that long, listening to people screaming, people begging, people crying. And that’s just the callers. In your other ear, you’ve got all the agencies blasting out of your radio unit–I don’t even know how the six of them managed all that, the ambulance service, the Rescue Squad, and all the individual fire departments scattered throughout the county trying to communicate with Central. And on top of all that, they’re listening to their county burn down. It’s their home too, don’t forget. It’s their school. Their church. Their park. They’ve ridden the chair lift, and went to a graduation party in that cabin, and driven those roads to get home. They may have taken a call from a relative that night, stricken with terror as they were trapped in their home. So on top of carrying their own worries, now they’re living with each additional tragedy that they took a call on. And I’m not just talking about the fires, now. All the calls. Ever. Because when an emergency comes in, you instantly replay all the other ones you’ve taken and you want to make the outcome different.
You want every single person on your watch to live. Draw one more breath. Don’t you die on me. You cannot will it hard enough.
No helicopter could come-the winds were too strong. No immediate relief in sight from rain. And no way to get these huge heavy trucks to the top of those winding roads.
Think about this. Let’s all praise the firemen, the police, the ambulance service. Yes. Absolutely. They put their lives on the line. But when you call 911, you don’t talk to these people. You talk to someone who is stationed there in a room, tuned like a bloodhound on point to listen to your words and deduce from your hysteria where you are and what the problem is. They are your connection to the heroes you’ll encounter. And you forget about them as soon as someone shows up. They are but a vapor. But they sat with you and counted the compressions out for you and were the one person you latched onto during the scariest moment of your life. And they got you your help.
Now. Let me explain to you how the 911 system works. When you call 911 from a landline in Sevier County it rings to Central, unless you’re in Pigeon Forge proper, and it rings to the police department. If you need fire or EMS, they stay on the line and connect you with Central. If you call 911 from your cell it pings off the tower closest to you, and if that tower is in Sevier County, it rings to Central. There are twelve 911 lines, and five non-emergent seven digit lines that are recorded on each console. The six dispatchers can all listen in on each other’s calls from their station. Then there are ten “black phones” in the building which are used to make personal calls, or that the media calls on. The twelve 911 lines each branch off what’s called a trunk line. If memory serves, each trunk could have 12 calls in que. So that’s 144 911 calls at a time ringing into Central. As those lines fill up, the calls that continue to come in roll to the five non emergent lines. After those aren’t answered, they roll to the black phones. If THOSE aren’t answered they roll on to Sevierville Police Department, Sevier County Sheriff’s Department, then Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg Police, and Sevierville Fire Department. To keep this safe, a foolproof method continues onto neighboring counties. Then to their surrounding counties. At this point, you can safely say that things are out of control. But the moment they roll out of the dispatch center, dignitaries know that part of the state is in serious trouble.
They rolled that night. Oh, how they rolled. And Gatlinburg’s phone lines melted down, literally. 10,000 dispatchers and 10,000 firemen wouldn’t have been enough.
Please watch this video of dispatch that night.
The people who want us to sit down and shut up are probably the same ones touting forgiveness for the 9/11 crashes and bombs. I won’t forget. I won’t forgive. Call me heartless, but I’m not letting it go until we know what went wrong so we can learn from it.
I don’t have a dog in the fight, as I’ve stated before. I didn’t lose a thing except sleep. But I hope my words will serve for those fourteen souls that can’t speak, or the countless ones that won’t due to repercussions with their government jobs.
For the love of God, if your neighborhood is on fire, don’t wait for the damn mayor to call you. Don’t wait for a big red fire engine to pull up to your front door. RUN. Run like the wind blows. Because where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And there had been plenty of smoke for days prior.
So when the 911 tapes are released this week–the calls that weren’t “lost” like the official state records–remember that they’re just human. They’re just like us. They wear flannel shirts over t-shirts and they have children out in the world. They read and color and work crossword puzzles during down time to keep from losing their minds. They like chocolate cake and tattoos and fishing. They dread their job and they love their job. They drive five year old cars and shop at Dollar General and they pray when they can. They don’t make a lot of money. They do the best they can. Some are married, but more are single because it’s hard to have a social life when you work in that kind of place. They are kind, tenacious, aggressive, and passionate.
They are weary.
They are alone.
They are survivors.
They do it every day.
They came to work the next day, and the day after that, as new tragedies unfolded. They answer calls about husbands of 50 years not breathing, and nieces having seizures, and babies locked in cars. Oh yes, you haven’t forgotten about that, have you? They listen to trailer park drama and sixty eight calls coming in as accidental cell phones dialing, and twenty three about a wreck on the Parkway “but I’m not sure if anyone’s hurt”, and Spanish speaking callers who blast you with words you can’t understand while your partners try to raise a translator. They take calls from the same drug seekers week after week and the woman whose husband beats her but she won’t leave.
It’s hard out there for a dispatcher. Don’t look to them to lay the blame. They were doing all they could.
