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.
It’s hard to be a woman. To be a fashionable woman, that is.
First of all, hoop earrings. I didn’t know so much stuff came in contact with my ears until wearing hoop earrings. And they’re not even that ostentatious size that could double as bracelets. Just, like, nickel size. My fingers, my hair, my bracelets, keys, my shirt…I don’t know.
Then there’s scarves in summer. Some women are able to pull off this accessory flawlessly. I am not one of those women. I am one of those women who just look sweaty and uncomfortable. And vaguely strangled. Because I AM. I live in Tennessee. It’s barely cold enough in January to justify them.
This brings me to dresses and tops without zippers. That doesn’t sound so bad until ….dressing rooms. And then it’s too late. They slide on easily enough. Just pull them over your head and slither them over your pudgy skin. Maybe five minutes ago would have been an opportune time to try the Spanx shaping garments because now you can’t get it off. You tug, you pull, you cuss, you pray. You sweat. You panic. You wonder who is near the mall that could dash to your aid. You finally give up and hold your breath and jerk and hope you don’t hear a rip. Because then you’re either going to have to live with your guilt forever, or buy it and the saleslady will judge while she rings you up, thinking, “She didn’t have any business in this size…or this print/ color…or this fabric. Serves her right that it tore.” *high society sniff* Very distressing.
Dressing rooms make me think of bathing suits. And not fondly. That’s the very worst kind of shopping. Shug once told me to “have fun” when I was on such an excursion. I didn’t know whether to cry hopelessly or drive off a bridge. I think I just laughed like the maniac I am.
Understated jewelry for certain events, but statement pieces at other times. Know the occasion and dress accordingly.
Tank tops. Men can run around everywhere without a shirt on and no one bats an eye but a woman has to wear, first of all, a bra. We shant scandalize the population with our free will. Then a bralette or cami to fully cover the offensive bra, and because summer shirts are thin. And they’re racerback to optimize minimal fabric touching sweaty skin. They’re thin because it’s summer and it’s HOT. But now we’re up to three layers!! Three!! Just so no one sees our chest.
Garbage, I say.
I have yet to master the art of eyeliner. And don’t even talk to me about bronzer. First of all, I’m scared. Second of all, I’m Irish. I would just look like I’ve been rolling around in a pot of gold.
Your eyelashes get thin along with your hair, so you have to use this incredibly expensive stuff called Lash Boost just to make them normal again. Biotin doesn’t cut it. Eyelashes are finicky. There’s another lash enhancer out there that works, but I’ve heard if you stop using it your eyelashes fall out.
Get waxed. What you’re too bashful to get waxed, shave.
Moisturize, deoderize, accessorize. Hydrate and exfoliate. Whiten and condition.
Highlights.
Lowlights (I don’t even know what that means, but they exist, I’m told)
Pedicures.
Manicures.
Massages.
Wrinkle cream. (3 steps plus toner, twice a day, in a specific order applied in a specifc motion)
Sunscreen.
Tanning beds are a thing of the past, thankfully, but now there’s spray tan or sunless tanning lotion.
Straighten curly hair, but curl straight hair to give it some body. You’re gonna need a full arsenal of “product” to apply to your highlighted, keratin treated, layered hair.
Lip liner, lipstick, lip gloss.
Careful where you put those tattoos, you don’t want to generate talk or be labeled. Same goes for piercings.
But that’s not all. That’s just the “pretty” side of things. I’m just getting warmed up.
Women have all sorts of problems specific to our gender. Menopause. What comes for the thirty years before it. Breast cancer (I know men can get it, but I think it’s pretty rare). Gallstones (I understand that these are most commonly brought on by pregnancy). You can take a pill to prevent pregnancy but it causes cancer. There’s zits evidently till you’re 40, I can’t speak past that just yet. But I have a feeling they’re here to stay. We contract bladder infections super easily caused from a plethora of the most ridiculous culprits: too much yogurt, too tight pants, too frequently wearing pretty underwear! We’re covered in stretch marks after puberty and pregnancy. We get heartburn from bananas or ice cubes. But don’t belch or pass gas! But at the same time, try to sneeze or cough without peeing a little bit. We can’t sleep for worrying but if we manage to drift off and snore we catch hell from our husbands because for one night we got to rest. We’re criticized for anything we eat- “a moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips”. We’re expected to work full time, raise two children (exactly two, never more, never less -or we’re critically examined for that as well-and you simply MUST breastfeed, but only if you’re tastefully covered), keep a spotless house, maintain a healthy sex life (but not procreate if you’ve already achieved the two children), cook at least six dinners a week (that’s not hamburger helper, thankyouverymuch, we need gluten free with plenty of kale on the side), and have the slim and trim body of a woman who’s a perfect size 8 (to clothe modestly, but at the same time, trendy). Bake a cake (or is that dated? Cupcakes now? Flan?). Pair socks. Freeze a casserole. Take the dogs to the groomers/vet. Make sure they get their heartworm pill every month- coordinate it with your breast exam to simplify. Don’t forget to call your boobie buddy! Grow basil so you can make your own pesto. It’s so much HEALTHIER without all those PRESERVATIVES. Schedule dentist appointments. Keep up with momma and whatever diet she’s on and whoever last offended her at church/ Rotary/ grocery store. Arrange for activities, rental cars, and accommodations for vacations. Declutter. Plus we must entertain on a regular basis, visit the elderly and infirm, keep a engaging circle of friends as well as play dates for said children, attend church regularly (because it’s good for the kids), volunteer once a month, craft decorations from Pinterest, and speaking of social media….You’re just so OBLIGATED.
You should be able to arrange flowers, bake biscuits from scratch, hem pants, read music, keep up with current events (presumably so you’ll have something to talk about while swilling wine at the next dinner party or backyard barbeque/ birthday party), eat sushi with chopsticks, get in and out of any vehicle in a skirt without showing your good girl, walk with perfect posture, type (preferably without looking at the keyboard but not strictly required), French braid our own hair, drive a straightshift, and remember to keep our knees together and our ankles crossed every blasted minute.
And we shant curse.
*eye roll*
Yes, you must be also be a lady while you’re just struggling to be a woman.
And don’t forget to pay the bills. And while you’re doing that, better send a thank you note for the thoughtful invitation to the Pampered Chef/ 31/ Scentsy/ wrap/ shake party. You were a good friend, you bought $50 worth of stuff you might use once.
But please don’t go all emotional and cry just because you’re overwhelmed! Take your problems to your preacher, your Sunday School teacher…or better yet, just cry in the shower. Don’t show the world your weakness. You’ll give women everywhere a bad name. We’ve worked so hard to be an EQUAL.
And that’s why it’s hard to be a woman. Tammy was right. Now don’t say I’m taking on too much. In the words of Ouiser Boudreaux, I do not make the rules. These are not my rules. They are society’s. Heavens no I don’t abide by them. I toss them right out my rolled- down window. That’s another thing. No ballcaps unless you’re at a baseball game. Headscarves are fine for convertible riding. I don’t have a convertible, I’m just too cheap to get the air conditioning fixed in Patsy. Why bother? I’m never going anywhere fancy.
I’m wearing myself out.
Men, of course, have their own share of responsibilities. They have to know how to change their oil, unclog toilets and sinks, identify all makes and models of cars from the last fifty years, kill spiders, recite statistics from five different sports teams for two different sports for the last ten years, mow the yard, and flip breakers.
They also must clip their own toenails before vacationing. But hey, they don’t have the option of covering up zits with makeup. They must simply deal with it. So there is that.
The first time I ever cooked Shug supper I burned the bread. It seems par for the course he was about to embark upon.
Our anniversary is coming up and I often think what a wonder it is I’ve managed to maintain my husband for five whole years. Really six, because we lived in sin for a year prior. Hey, I needed to know what I was getting into! You don’t wait 32 years just to jump the broom with someone you’ve never shared toothpaste with.
I’m pushing the limits of a size 12. I forget to have my hair dyed until its two weeks past time (it’s a glorious mess, anyway), manicures destroy my nails instead of strengthening them, and my glasses permanently reside on the tip of my nose, streaked and smudged. Skinny jeans are not for me and I can’t walk more than 50 feet in 3″ heels. I used to could, anyway. There’s a year’s worth of Family Circle magazines piled on my coffee table. I have good intentions of finding some sensational new recipes and gardening tips.
Oh, did I mention the only thing growing in my planter boxes on the porch is last fall’s lettuce?
There are piles of books everywhere and I insisted upon a yellow kitchen. I put off everything till the last minute and I hate crowds and stilted conversations with polite company. There are usually food drippings on my clothes.
But hopefully I’ve got my priorities straight. Of course I’m as addicted to social media as anybody, but I get my interaction through my beloved book club, exercise via my mind, civic duties fulfilled through the library board, and my devotion lays with my country, my husband, and my dogs. I try to keep up with my blog, but I fail miserably, as I don’t post daily, I’m not set up for email alerts, my link is broken, I rarely add links in my journaling, and it’s uncommon for me to include pictures. I’m here for the words.
Thankfully Shug does so much. I am graceless. I am lucky to remember my blood pressure pill, let alone Bug’s medicine. He feeds the birds and as an added bonus, he can sew. He even sends me flowers on our anniversary.
I don’t deserve him most of the time.
He helps with the laundry and the dishes if I’m just not feeling it, and understands on the days I offer him grilled cheese and tomato soup from a can for supper.
He sticks it out with me because I never run out of toilet paper and I can make cornbread and soup beans.
I wouldn’t call him my best friend. We don’t discuss all this stuff. You need a girl for that. But he does let me cry all I want (which is a LOT) and eat all the cake I want (also a lot).
I still burn the bread. If J remarks at all, it’s only to say that’s the way he likes it.
It’s hard to be a woman. But it’s a little easier if you’ve got a good man.
For the Mountain People
I’ve been whittling on this since the day after. It seems I run a full mill of emotions as I work through it. It’s disjointed and twisty and repetitive but I’m leaving it as it is for now because that’s what it’s been like here-confusing and excessive and unsure. Maybe one day I’ll come back to it and get it right, but for now it will have to be enough to get it out.
It’s been seven months and five days since the sun rose and illuminated what remained of Gatlinburg. Seven months and five days later…it is raining. And rain is appropriate. We’ll still take all we can get. Even on the Fourth of July.
I say hooray because it will put a damper on fireworks activity. Fireworks start fires. I never TRULY believed that until my days at dispatch. Here’s what happens: It’s high summer, which generally means it’s been fairly dry. People drink all day, out in the sun, then they play with fireworks. They may possibly even hurt their fool selves, or the kids who don’t obey orders to “Get back!” (or maybe the kids were never even warned, or maybe it’s just bad luck). The dogs are barking, or howling, or quivering in the corner. The cattle and horses are wild eyed at the explosions. The veteran is inside, trying to block memories and reminding himself it’s all in celebration of a victory won years ago and repeating to himself to relax.
The firework lands on a round bale of hay, or the shingle roof, or the dry weeds in the ditch.
And just like that, you’ve got a brush fire.
Or you know, two teenage boys playing with matches in a severe drought with high winds. That’ll do it too. Even though they had no intentions of anything like that happening. Clearly. I played with matches all the time in the National Park. Sure I did. Wanna come over and ride my unicorn?
I guess we’re just going to have to agree to disagree on how we feel about the delinquents who INTENTIONALLY set fire to the Chimneys. I have a hard time finding forgiveness. I honestly believe that in their little minds they’ve convinced themselves that it was an accident. Sure, they didn’t set out to burn half of Gatlinburg. I think the final tally was somewhere in the neighborhood of 1500 buildings.
And fourteen people.
But they did mean to start A fire, no doubt. They’re probably sorry now, after they saw how out of control it got and the grief in all the eyes of people nationwide and their parents living with the stress of getting them a pardon. And they must face the consequences. My hope is that although the punishment is not going to come from the state, perhaps it will come from the National Park System or civil suits. How many times have you done something you didn’t MEAN to do, it just happened, stemming off another decision that could have been avoided? But you learned from it, surely. After you made it right and paid up.
Every day there has been a headline in our little county newspaper about the fire. New stories about the generosity of strangers, the strength of our community, and Dolly Parton. Always Dolly.
Where were you the night of November 28th? I bet anyone who lives in Sevier County can answer that question without batting an eyelid. Some were snug in their homes watching TV with their family. Some people were running for their life. Some people were running for the fire engine.
I was picking out a Christmas tree that would stand bare in the corner of our living room for two weeks.
And when I finally did decorate it, I cried.
I didn’t lose a thing. I didn’t lose a family member, a friend, my home, my business, or my job.
I did lose sleep.
I did worry about friends who live up that way. I was terrified envisioning what hell that must be coming off the mountain. It hasn’t been far from my mind in all this time following it. It’s hard to forget-we’re surrounded by well wishers and signs for help and of course, the scorched hills themselves. I replay in my head what I would have done. I like to think I would have left days before-when the smoke was so bad it was hard to see, when it burned your throat and nose and eyes. I would like to think I would have calmly packed some suitcases and everything we could get into our vehicles and sped to Knoxville. But I don’t know. You feel safe at home. But we wouldn’t have waited on city officials to tell us to get out, I know that. When the sky is yellow and people are wearing masks to walk down the street, and the air is so hot it feels like Santa Fe in July, it’s time to get the hell outta Dodge. And that’s what it was like on November 28th, 2016. I know, because Sevierville was only a fraction better. We watched ashes rain down all day and wondered what, if anything, was going to happen. It was that ominous waiting you have in your core, like waiting outside ICU to hear the outcome of surgery.
But I didn’t escape my burning house to get on my burning road blocked with burning trees to get off my burning mountain to try to get to safety in my car that is catching on fire.
I DON’T KNOW what it was like in Gatlinburg Monday night.
However, I was in Sevierville Monday…and pretty much every day before that since the fires started. It got progressively worse every day. Monday was almost unbearable. I looked outside at ten o’clock & it was just….yellow. I don’t know how else to describe it. Like a chemical fog enveloping all of us. Ashes fell like snow. I was reminded of Schindler’s List. By two o’clock, you couldn’t be outside. We were coughing and hacking and sneezing and gagging inside with the windows & doors closed. The sun was barely visible, comparative to how it appears from Mars. Just a pastel orb you can only make out after studying the sky for several minutes. My husband was texting me at 8:30 that morning saying how bad it was. His jobsite was 50 yards from the Park Vista & he couldn’t see it. People were walking around in dust masks on the sidewalk. He said it looked like we were having a smallpox threat or something. He sent two messages to his project manager trying to convey the magnitude of the situation.
He got no response.
By ten thirty, the guys all had wet bandanas tied around their mouths & noses. You couldn’t see down the hallway where they were working. Ashes rained down heavy all over downtown. The wind would blow, carrying with it heat from the fire up the mountain.
At 12:09, I received another text from him. The general contractors were shutting the jobsite down. He was leaving, regardless. The wind had picked up and now debris was flying all over the road, creating more hazards. It was becoming pure havoc and he couldn’t get out of town quick enough. He hammered down through the spur to the relative safety of Pigeon Forge.
I worked till 5, developing a greater sense of unease the longer the day went on. Driving home, I longingly admired the Christmas trees displayed beside the Rescue Squad. But I’m not allowed to shop by myself for trees, as I get ones that are too big for my house. Or Biltmore. And besides, it was too smoky to enjoy the excursion.
As soon as I got downtown things cleared up significantly. It was so hot people were running their air conditioners but nothing helped evade the smoke.
After I’d been home a little while, we went out to select a tree from the Boy Scouts. I had no idea what was currently happening to our friends in Gatlinburg. But when we sat down to eat our big greasy Hardees cheeseburgers I was perusing Facebook & began to see some very disturbing posts. This was around 7:00.
There was nothing in the news about it.
I received no text to evacuate, but why would I? We live twenty miles from the mountains. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I texted my friend who still works at dispatch, on the off chance it somehow was exaggerated. But she was off, and miraculously didn’t get called in. She hadn’t heard anything about it. So I was glued to Facebook until nearly midnight. Shug wasn’t surprised by the turn of events. He was, however, confounded that there was anybody left to evacuate. He said one of the guys he works with lives on Ski Mountain & his wife called around 10:00 and said the fire was only about 50 yards from their yard. Needless to say, he tucked tail & ran O-F-T.
So I ask you, why did people wait all day to leave? Why did they depend on a text from city officials to tell them to get the hell off the mountain? I’m so confused. On the front page of the Mountain Press a few days after was a family that claimed they had repeatedly called the city administrators to be told there was no immediate danger. Um. If there was any question in my mind, I know that I would have been skinnin’ it out of town. Do people really think firemen have some sort of magical powers to protect them & keep them safe? If it has been raining ash all day and you can SEE FLAMES right down the road and the wind is blowing fifty fucking miles an hour, why the hell would you stand around videoing the sky? To post it on social media later to gain attention while you cry that no one came to save you? Because I’m sure back before cell phones, you were responsible for yourself. Oh, wait….aren’t we still?
Anyway. I’m a little perturbed by these people who were waiting for some dignitary to tell them what to do. And I’m sure that’s nothing compared to what dispatch was hearing.
A nightmare is what it is. And now people are wanting to point fingers & place blame when it was mother nature taking a little back. That and those boys who started the whole blamed thing.
Shug finally went back to work in Gatlinburg seven days later. He said it was sickening, & everybody was gonna croak when they see it. He couldn’t hardly bring himself to take pictures. He took one, though, of what was left of a foundation of a cabin near his work. All that remained was a chimney & a dryer. “And there’s a thousand of this same scene. It’s everywhere.” He said it hurts to look at the chair lift, & the Cocaine Castle is just some burnt timbers jutting from the mountainside.
Another thing I had, and continue to have, a hard time swallowing is all the sightseers. All the vultures that were up there gawking at all the misery and loss. Some people who didn’t have a dog in the fight were miraculously up there before homeowners were. They were taking pictures of the rubble while firemen and linemen and state officials were still trying to work. I hadn’t seen it first-hand until I went to supper downtown at the end of April and it still turned my stomach. Even though things were greening up and growing back the devastation was still real. And I’m sure it’s still raw to many. We need to give them space, give them prayers, not give them something else to despise. Tourists never understand the thinly veiled contempt from locals when they ask prying questions. Why we shun their suggestions and turn our heads from their ways and nasal tones and continue to do things the way we always have, even though it may take just a moment longer. We do want you to come, and enjoy our park and all the attractions and make memories, but we don’t want you to change us. We don’t want you to laugh at our ways. They’re OUR ways, not yours.
Volunteering is a sure way to change your life. The people in command may not have any business being there, but there they are, most likely because no one else stepped up. No one else devoted the time. They may be getting wrong information. They may not know what to do with you. The best thing you can do is just leap in, feet first. Even if you’re just sweeping the floor. Eventually people will seek you out as a leader and you’ll have a little army of workers, everyone pitching in and making the chores whiz by.
You’ll get the wrong information. You’ll hear lies and rumors. You’ll try to update people via your Facebook only to find out ten minutes later that it’s wrong or stagnant information and things have changed. It’s discouraging. But don’t quit. Because a year later, when people ask you what you did, you can look them in the eye and say simply, “I helped.”
I helped.
I shoveled manure and I stacked hay and I sorted clothes with strangers and friends and I moved chicken pens and I restacked hay and I made calls and I begged and I threw away and I organized and I transported and I laughed and I cried and I hugged.
I helped.
The fire was overwhelming and spread extremely quickly. There was no way to get help to all the areas immediately. Save yourselves! Nobody has a foolproof disaster plan. Not even your leaders. We’re all just doing the best we can. But when it comes down to it, you are responsible for yourself.
So. In summary, whether you’re volunteering and looking for your place, or you’re in a dangerous situation waiting on direction, DON’T EVER WAIT FOR SOMEONE TO TELL YOU WHAT TO DO. Act on instinct. Do something. Move.
And as far as a emergency text message…well, that wouldn’t be a bad idea…if the cell phones were even working. Because most of them weren’t. The smoke was blocking satellite signals, and the rest were bogged down with everyone trying to call out.
I have to wonder if the verdict would have been different if government buildings had been affected.
But what am I saying? Of course it would have.
And I’m rolling now.
I have milled this over in my mind a hundred times. Lots of people are begging the people of Sevier County for forgiveness on behalf of these boys. Personally, I believe they’re not remorseful for all the death and destruction. I know I wouldn’t be able to live with myself… I think they wanted to see “their” fire on the news and know that they had caused it. I’m familiar with this concept-again, something I learned while working at dispatch during Halloween. A whole slew of redneck boys would drag tires out in the road and light them just to hear the dispatcher’s tone out local fire agencies.
And so, while I didn’t lose anything but my faith in the government once again, I still think these “kids” should be rotting under the jail. At sixteen, you know better. At four, you don’t. Don’t give me your bullshit. I can’t take any more.
But today, it’s raining. And I rejoice. It’s coming a good ‘un. So maybe the mountains will be smoky for the right reason.
About a week ago, there was a post on the Sevierville Speaks Out Facebook page. A gentleman was requesting local writers message him their word rate to write a local article, 2000-4000 words, twice a week. I was tagged by four people. So I thought, I’ll humor them. “Good morning” I wrote, using his name. “I was tagged by a few people on your post in Sevierville Speaks Out. I’m a native Sevier County resident. I worked at the Co-op downtown for 13 years, and now work as a secretary for {I’m not publicly announcing my location to potential stalkers}. I’ve met a lot of local color…some might say I AM the local color. 😁
I’ll be completely honest, I don’t have a rate per word. I have a blog that I started last year. Please feel free to check it out and you can get a clear idea of my style. Amysappalachia.com
I have written two articles for our local fair book, an article for 911 magazine, and the feature for the first installment of Sevierville Living.
I would be interested in learning more about your position. Thank you.”
The message I got in response five days later was clipped and standardized. “Hello. We offer 3 cents a word. If you are still interested, please send you name, address, and a sample writing the 3rd person to …. Regarding Gatlinburg, Pigeon Forge area.”
No personalization. This tells me lots of things. One, they don’t care. Two, it won’t last long. Three, I already don’t like them, they’re obviously not local themselves or they wouldn’t reach out to the masses. Four, he didn’t proofread.
But at y’alls persuasion, I thought I’d give it a try. And here are my false starts:
They talk about how rich they are, but as she surveys her surroundings, all she sees is poverty. There are broken flowerpots and random pine boards scattered around…long past-their-prime couches that had migrated from the living room to the porch to the yard, after space was needed for the stacks of cardboard, boxes of glass bottles, and piles of newspapers. There are derelict appliances, battered automobiles…and a boat, she notes with some surprise. The boat has a tree growing on the starboard side in front of the steering seat. A goat wanders aimlessly, a dandelion dangles from its mouth. It eyes her with some suspicion…or is that just the natural expression for goats? She isn’t sure. This is the first time she’s ever encountered one in real life.
Hannah wasn’t even sure she’s even in America anymore, this is so far removed from Chicago. On the twisty road getting here, two people had waved at her. Well, she supposed it was a wave. It was kind of a peace sign flicked up for just an instant, but judging from the looks of the men who saluted, they weren’t of the hippie persuasion.
“What’s that smell?” She asked her hosts before she can stop herself.
They regard each other seriously.
But then I thought, I can’t start in the middle, it needs a background. So I wrote:
She didn’t know the mountains. People had warned her, though: don’t try to win over the neighbors, wait for them to bring you some jam. Weird advice, but Hannah was smart enough to take it.
It was three days after the last of her belongings had been delivered, and she was out in her yard, inspecting the gutters, when she saw it. A long black tail, attached to what she could see was a very long slender body. There wasn’t a shotgun in the house, but she knew she’d seen a shovel leaned against (according to what she researched via Google) the well house. She was just fixing to stun the snake when they ran up shouting.
“Don’t kill it!! Don’t kill it!”
A lady in a flower patterned blouse and a man in a blue checked shirt sped up to her, nearly tripping in the gravel in their haste. Once they got closer, she noticed their heavily lined, tanned skin and small, untrusting eyes.
Natives, she deduced.
No jelly jar in sight, they each offered her their right hands, which she shook reluctantly and without much force. This would be remarked on later at the Baptist church evening service.
But then I thought, well, they don’t necessarily want a story with a plot, they probably just want a description.
So, then this:
Sevier County:
It’s bluegrass festivals and southern gospel conventions. Country music up-and-comers at the theater shows. It’s sleepy, sweaty, sticky children. It’s moonshine tasting and horseback riding and mini golf. It’s waving when somebody lets you into a line of traffic, or asking directions at a gas station and getting five differing opinions from three locals. It’s a church on every corner and Big Orange Saturdays. It’s rain followed by sunshine as quick as a hiccup. It’s fudge and apples and fried chicken. It’s taking a backroad and stopping for turkeys to cross. It’s shopping for pottery and candles. It’s riding the tram and seeing the lights and catching a parade that has more tractors than convertibles. It’s tin roofs and overalls. It’s hearing the train whistle on a clear, still day.
It’s Dolly.
It’s all of this, surrounded by the mist and magic of the Great Smoky Mountains.
But then again, there was no person anything, so I started back with this:
Margaret Ann didn’t know any better. She thought everybody was this friendly. Maggie grew up in Sevier County.
No good. Again, telling stories. Am I over thinking this? And I liked the name Charlotte better but couldn’t bring myself to use it.
Should I just tell it like it is? That always worked for me before…but if the object was to draw people here…for some cabin company that probably bought the land for a song and proceeded to build a bunch of shoddily constructed cabins on it, essentially ruining the view for countless others, how can I sleep at night?
I can’t sell my soul. Especially my soul at three cents a word.
So, in summary:
I found it pretty much impossible to write something in third person about where I’ve been completely saturated my entire life. I could probably write about living in the city in third person, but not my hometown. I’m too close.
The difference between natives and locals are the natives don’t do the touristy stuff. They just don’t. They may be persuaded to go to Dollywood once a year– if someone gives them tickets. They don’t go on “Sevier County Days”, no sirree Bob. Too crowded. They might go to Cades Cove one Sunday evening, just as the sun’s going down, and count every deer they see, and put up with Dad’s relentless comments about “I wish I had my 30.06…”.
It’s benefit auctions and pancake supper fundraisers for people you’ve known so long, you don’t remember how you know them, you just do. It’s tent revivals and baptisms in the river. It’s Douglas Lake when it’s sweltering and a moon pie and a mountain dew from the Dam Store on the way. Or maybe Greenbrier if it’s extra special hot and humid. It’s family Bibles proudly displayed and real Christmas trees cut off the back forty. It’s deer meat at Thanksgiving because it’s also muzzleloader season. It’s threatening to shoot the neighbors dog if it barks all night again and confederate flags on rusty pickup trucks. It’s fly swatters on top of the refrigerator and heading to the funeral home too often to count. It’s a fried bologna sandwich and sweet tea from the corner store consumed while you lay in the hammock and pretend to flip through a magazine, but really you’re not doing anything because it’s too hot to breathe. It’s being proudly defensive of our heritage but not flaunting it.
I started to write about my Sevier County, but then I decided I don’t want to share it. I didn’t realize I was so angry and defensive until I started trying to write something to submit and it made me feel dirty and untrustworthy and just flat-out wrong. Sure, the tourists keep the tax dollars flowing but they don’t bring life to our town. They bring impatience and waste. They bring their mannerisms and rules and want to change us. We don’t want trash pickup, we want to burn it. We don’t want a city park, we want our land taxes lowered so we can buy more acres of our own. We want to grow our corn to feed to our smelly cattle without you saying what we get to spray on it to kill Johnsongrass so we don’t have to hire a Spanish Armada to keep it weeded. We want to carry our pocket knife in the bank without being looked at like we’re a hoodlum.
We want our county back. And take your drugs with you. (You should probably leave the left handed cigarettes, though). And if we had coal mines, I’d want them back operational, too.
And I don’t want to write in third person.
I’ve learned a few truths in my 38 years on this spinning blue-green rock.
When you’re little, you spend your money on toys and candy.
In your teens, you spend it to impress the object of your desires, on clothes and other frivolities.
In your twenties, you’re driven by alcohol, teetering stilettos, and fast cars. You’ll live in a hovel to have a nice vehicle and clubbing necessities.
(Obviously, some of us have a hard time letting the fruity fun drinks go…)
The thirties, I’ve found, are for upkeep: home repairs, wrinkle creams, and inspecting what else needs fixing. Massages, hair coloring, and pedicures are vital upkeep to your aging body.
In your youth, you are driven by the need for attention. If someone repeatedly rejects you, you learn to survive without them and if they make an appearance later in your life, you resent their presence. You’ve learned to be independent and comfortable in your own skin and need no approval. Be confident. Be assertive. Don’t be scared, be smart. Try to pick a partner who compliments you for more than your beauty, because beauty will fade, guaranteed.
If you want the tattoo, go for it.
If you’re tired, take a nap.
Don’t vacation in the same spot every year. It may feel comfortable, but you’re not learning anything.
Spend time by yourself.
Know that it’s impossible to support only businesses you agree with politically.
Don’t regret growing older. It’s a privilege denied to many. (~unknown)
We are all going to die. No matter what-whether you eat kale everyday or lie in a tanning bed. Whether you speed or work out for thirty minutes daily. No matter if you never miss work or if you eat a cheeseburger every day. We’re all going to go eventually. Don’t take everybody’s advice to heart. Do what YOU want to. Be selfish. Vote for your candidate, date the wrong guys (you’ll learn your lessons on your own time instead of wondering “what if?” for the rest of your life). Eleanor Roosevelt tried to impart this wisdom years ago. She added, “for you’ll be criticised anyway.”
Just make sure you love. Make sure your relationship is right with the Lord. We may not get another shot. This might be it. So be thankful for what you’ve got and work for what you’ve not.
This post is not going to win me any popularity contests but, eh, my mouth never has.
Is it just me or has this graduation business gotten totally out of control? Sure, Kindergarten graduation is kinda cute, their little mini-everythings, I get it. But 5th grade graduation? And 8th grade graduation? Give me a break. You have no choice but to go on. You haven’t really done anything. You’re proving you’re getting older…that you did, indeed, learn your multiplication tables. I am not convinced that the majority learns the difference between to, two, & too. Or they’re, their, and there. Or then and than. Or through and though.
But I think these are just personal peeves and it doesn’t bother anyone else nearly as much as it gripes me.
Am I just jealous? I only graduated twice-high school and college. And they were treated with the proper amount of importance and pomp. But I just can’t get on board with this crap. I think it’s a money racket, just like Valentine’s Day. A complete and utter waste. Totally over the top.
Enough with the graduating.
Celebrate something else. Like Nobel Prize winners. Or Watermelon Seed Longevity Spitters. Or Most Moon Pies Consumed During A Full Moon. Or Best Behaved Sibling. I mean, something with sustenance.
Go on. Slay me.
Get it here. You’re gonna want to, trust me.
Of course I’ve known of Rebecca for years. I’ve had it on my TBR (that’s “to be read” for those of you not down with fanatical reader lingo) list for over a year. I was going for it last year when I changed my mind to Jane Eyre for whatever reason. They’re similar, in that they’re both that of the Gothic Fiction variety, but that’s where the similarities end. This book gets right down to it, and there’s less of the fawning over the dashing Maxim de Winter, thanks be to God. Not that there’s less love, there’s just much more compelling drama and livelier characters. Mrs. Danvers took shape in my mind immediately as a former coworker of mine, Judy. I won’t go into that here.
I don’t want to say too much, you should read it and wonder as I did. I had no trouble at all envisioning Manderley, the author is quite talented (obviously) at spinning a vivid portrait of the glorious estate. I wanted to sit under the chestnut tree, and walk along the shingle beach, and eat a scone in front of the library fireplace while rubbing Jasper’s silken ears. Yes, I would like to send for a new frock from London. And freshen those flowers while you’re here, won’t you? I wouldn’t have a bit of trouble being the lady of the house.
So, thanks to my book club for forcing me to read another one I would have probably put off for another year or more. And let me tell you this, crazy bitches could take some notes from this one.
In the South, everyone has at least one snake story. I guess they probably do up north, too, but I don’t make a habit of drawing Yankees into conversation if I can help it (Jeannie, you are excluded). And it’s that time of year, snake season, where everybody and their brother is telling about having one in their yard, house, or car. Anyway, here is mine:
I had bought my new bedroom furniture and it was delivered and set up while I wasn’t home. I didn’t know that the frame legs and hardwood floors didn’t go together until a few months later. So I had to call the store up and tell them about their faulty installation and make plans for my uncle to accompany them into my home since I couldn’t be there–I had to work to pay for said furniture. The day they scheduled I also had a riding lesson, so I didn’t get home till dusk-thirty.
The first thing I noticed amiss was my grill brush lying on the far side of the porch. Normally it’s on the grill stand. My old dog, Crockett, wasn’t acting like he was the culprit, so I just continued on my way up the sidewalk.
That’s when I saw it. On the backside of the concrete step was a long, slender, black tail dangling from a crack in the cinderblock. I began to move much more carefully. My heart rate increased a hundredfold. I went around the side of the porch as quietly as possible to stage my attack. There were no garden instruments nearby, I would have to go through the house and down to the basement where they were stored. As soon as I was in the house I kicked it into high gear, praying that Crockett wouldn’t spook it. I raced downstairs, snatched up my favorite snake execution tool-the hoe-and about broke my neck getting back around to the front.
The snake was still there. I had time to plot my next move, which was risky business indeed. It looked to me like he was chasing his meal-probably a very cute mouse-and the mouse made it through the crack, hopefully avoiding the jaws of death. Otherwise, the snake was happily enjoying his furry dinner, so much so, had not taken the time to properly attain a suitable dining spot.
I shuddered and set to task.
I eased forward inch by inch, Crockett eyeing me like I had a new screw loose. I thought it best to take a solid whack, then hope it didn’t turn on me. I would have to squish it down and maneuver the hoe back to whacking position super swift-like. Swift doesn’t come naturally to me, and neither does graceful, so I was hoping that the initial whack would suffice.
I drew back, picturing myself as Babe Ruth at the bat with a hoe.
I whacked.
Nothing happened.
I paused, praying my heart wouldn’t explode. The snake never moved. I creeped forward marginally. I was within two feet now. Striking distance for Mr. Serpent.
I poked him bravely with my hoe. He didn’t even flinch.
I began looking around, sure I would find my uncle peering at me and snickering from behind the lilac bush.
All was quiet, except for Crockett’s panting. I looked at him. “Where did this come from?” I asked him. After years spent living alone, it’s not if you’ll talk to your pets, it’s how frequently. In my case, all the time. He cocked an eyebrow.
“I know it’s fake,” I told him. “Uncle Dale thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he? Let’s call him.”
So I rang him up as I stood outside sweating and having heart palpitations over a rubber snake.
“Hello, Pilgrim,” he greeted me as always.
“I suppose you think you’re comical,” I shot back, straight to the point.
“What?”
“This rubber snake you left me out here in the porch I’ve been trying to kill for ten minutes. I figured you were hid in the yard, waiting on me to come home.”
“IT AIN’T FAKE!” He hollered, and I stepped back two feet for good measure.
“Well, it ain’t doin’ nothin’ when I hit it with the hoe,” I retorted. “It ain’t even bleedin’.”
“I guess I was able to kill it, then,” he remarked thoughtfully, with a small hint of pride.
“You better tell me how I’ve come to have a dead snake hangin’ out of my porch.”
“Well, I went out there to save the furniture crew from Crockett, and I saw it laying in the flowerbed. I knew you’d freak out if you saw it again, so I was looking for something to kill it with and all there was was your grill brush.”
My stomach did a flip.
And I noticed something I hadn’t seen before in my panicked state of inspection-he had some lacerations that had oozed blood slightly. I gulped.
I had a dead snake. In my porch.
And the murder weapon was an implement I would have used in the future to clean a cooking surface.
I eyed it distastefully.
“So he made for that crack, and I hit him a lick, and it slowed him down, and I guess he kinda got mad and swelled up…I couldn’t get him out. So I left him for you.”
I looked at Crockett for help. He looked behind him.
“So what am I gonna dooooo????”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can pull him out now, maybe the swelling went down some.”
“But that means I’ll have to touch him!” I wailed.
“Well, aintcha got no gloves?”
Hardly the point.
I went to searching for some plastic gloves. I didn’t have any, so I settled for plastic bags. I pulled on my thickest leather haying gloves and then the plastic bags over them. And then I took a deep breath.
I would like to say then I pulled, but I didn’t. I felt faint, so I sat down a ways away, eyeing the long black snake. I was pretty sure I was going to be sick. It was getting dark, I was going to have to get this over with soon. A pep talk was in order. First I talked to my dog, then I talked to myself because he lost interest. “I can do this. I can do this,” I repeated.
I grabbed hold. Now that is an icky feeling, let me tell you. Even through layers of plastic and leather. So I grabbed hold, and I pulled.
Once again, nothing happened. He was stuck fast. I pulled harder. He gave a little, like a waterhose does, but sprang back to his original shape when released. A fine mess I had myself in.
I don’t live in the country, exactly, but there are plenty of possums and coons and the like around, so I figured I could just leave it and something would come along in the night and find a handy meal. So that’s what I did.
At this time, Shug and I were not married, we were dating, and when he called I enlightened him of the whole spectacle. He thought I was making it up.
“I know it’s unbelievable, but I swear, there is a snake stuck in my porch.”
So I go to sleep, praying the wife of Mr. Snake wouldn’t be lying in wait for me the next day, and that a scavenger was enjoying the bounty.
The next morning, imagine my surprise when I found the same scene. I didn’t have time for this, I had to be at work.
So all day long, as the temperature rose, so did my worries. I extracted advice from coworkers. I had worked myself into a fine frenzy. “He’s gonna be more swelled, since it’s so hot, and he’s gonna stink, and what am I gonna dooooo???”
The suggestions weren’t so helpful. I bought a bag of powdered lime, thinking it would dry him up with less smell. Maybe I would get lucky and a daytime creature had snacked on him.
Of course, as y’all know, I’m not really of the lucky sort, and I came home to much the same setting as before. What I could see of the snake appeared even more dejected and limp, if that were possible. I sighed, and donned gloves and new plastic bags. And pulled. A little of the skin moved, and I had this awful premonition of the entire snake popping in two with a horrible snapping noise and splattering me in the face with snake goop. That just wouldn’t do.
Johnny was coming over, so I’d receive suggestions from him.
Turns out, he was as disgusted as me, but also considered it entertaining since he didn’t live here.
“Who does this happen to?” He asked, trying to disguise his mirth.
In the end, on the third day, I ended up taking tree pruners and lopping off as much as I could manage, which wasn’t much, because I couldn’t get the handles between the porch and step. I was left with about six inches of snake to rot away slowly in the coming summer weeks.
We still have not patched the crack. I don’t like thinking about it.
So that’s my snake story. Top that.
