This is a book about a lie that never ends.
I like almost all books set in the south, so it’s no surprise I enjoyed this one (makes me wonder why it took me three and a half years to finally reading it after I purchased it). I wonder if I would have rated it five stars if I hadn’t read it on the coattails of The Stranger in The Woods, but I don’t think so. There were a few discrepancies that I find hard to ignore, mostly with the weather. I find it hard to believe that it was chilly enough on Christmas Eve in Florida to warrant a fire. And the heat is barely mentioned, although I know for a fact Florida is positively stifling in the summertime. And Lord at the bugs. But anyway.
The book lags for the first third, and to me, didn’t become truly compelling until about halfway. However, don’t write it off because it’s worth a read. And it goes fast! I love how the maid is named Blanche, I can see her clearly. I love how Miz Ora Beckworth grows and develops even as she ages outwardly. I absolutely ADORE her sharp tongue. I wish I had been witty enough to use her one-liner: “Nice day, idnnit?” “It was.”
She taps all the Southernisms right on the head, right down to the closeness of families and the fine veneer we all polish so you don’t notice the big crack at the base. She has the small town gossips down to a T and doesn’t hesitate to say how things really are, even though they’re flawed.
“I said a quick prayer that this apple had rolled a good way from the tree.”
Her observations are similar to my own: “I wasn’t one to pray often. I was raised Methodist myself and we were taught not to bother God with anything real specific.” “Doing the right thing is apparently harder than it sounds when politics are involved.” “Never underestimate the power of baked goods.”
Ora was a society wife, and with no children, her social life was made up of Junior League activities and fundraisers and such. She understands the importance of your momma’s silverware but finds it difficult to apply to life after her husband passes.
“I’ve had a nice life and Walter was good to me for all practical purposes. It’s just that their questions made me wonder how my life might have been different if I’d lived it for myself and not for the man I married.” She says later, about his death: “It was not a good feeling, mind you. It was more like having been tethered by a lifeline and being cut loose in a gentle, but persistent tide.”
I believe her thoughts are shared by many women of her generation who lived a similar life.
As far as her windowed life and family go, her relationship with her maid and the Peecan Man, she did what she thought was right for the time, and she did the best she could, in keeping with everyone else’s wishes. She helped make dreams come true, she believed in the perseverance of getting what you want, even if it wasn’t what she necessarily wanted. “‘I always wanted to be a lawyer.’ Sweet Jesus, here we go again.”
Read this novel about deceit, because it’s also about trust, and ask yourself what was right. Who lost? And what would you have done in their situations? Put yourself in each of their shoes.
It is National Disptacher Appreciation week. I didn’t even know there was such a thing, but some of you may see where I occasionally like a post on Diary of A Mad Dispatcher’s page & that’s where I heard about it. Anyhoo, in light of Boston Massachusetts, & West Texas, these unseen people are on my mind a lot. I was a dispatcher for about a year & a half & I can count on one hand all the times I was publicly thanked or appreciated. I didn’t ever expect recognition, but when it came, it warmed my heart, just like it does any one of you in your life for a job well done. So, anyway, my point is, you’re seeing a lot of appreciation for the firemen & policemen & they DO deserve every bit of it, but don’t forget the dispatchers. They are keeping up with several agencies at one time, consisting of several hundred men & women. This is in addition to the regular calls that are coming in for car wrecks, accidental cell phones, heart attacks, what have you. If you’ve ever had to make that call, you know how calm that voice is. You plead with them to get help there quickly. You beg them to tell you what to do for the person in distress. And when the lights & sirens pull in, you hang up, & they probably never cross your mind again. Now, that being said, imagine your house is on fire. You call the fire department. No one is there, so it is forwarded to the local gas station. They get directions to your house. They call the fire chief, who calls the firemen, who head to the station to get the trucks & get their turnout gear on. This is all done on landlines because there are no cell phones. The year is 2001. And this is Wears Valley. 911 wasn’t in Sevier County until 2002. Some areas of the United States still don’t have it. Another scenario is you’re home alone with no car or friends, neighbors, family close by. You get stung by a bee, & you’re allergic. Your throat begins to swell. You call the ambulance service located in central Sevierville. After about 4 or 5 rings, the hospital picks up. They tell you they will send help. They can’t get ahold of anyone in the amulance service either, so what do they do? They call Atchley’s. Not kidding. They had a siren, a que. That was 1985. Be thankful for 911, & be especially thankful for your dispatchers.
Protecting the Three
I am the Officer, follow me
Preserving the peace is where I’ll be
I am the torch that lights the way
In darkness my courage will pave a way
Leading the others, that is me
I am the Officer guiding the three
I am the Fire Fighter, follow me
Into the flames is where I will be
I am he who battles the beast
To protect that on which it would feast
Leading strength to the others, that is me
I am the Fire Fighter supporting the three
I am the Medic, follow me
Easing the pain is where I will be
I am the one who helps them survive
Lifting the fallen to keep them alive
Treating the others, that is me
I am the Medic healing the three
I am the Dispatcher, don’t follow me
Agony and chaos is where I will be
Working in obscurity, this forgotten place
Not death, but insanity is the danger I face
Answering the call, that is me
I am the Dispatcher protecting the Three
–couldn’t find the author. Somebody said Steven Kaminski but couldn’t verify.
Here’s the requisite amazon link
I love it when I finish a book in a day. I could have read it in a few hours, had I been fully committed and devoted, but Easter. Not that my family is unaccustomed to me having my nose stuck in a book the majority of the time, I do try to pretend to be in the mix of things on holidays.
I always read the one star reviews on Amazon. Always. I find they are more honest than the gushing five stars. Also, you can tell by the grammar and spelling whether their opinions are valid. Additionally, a surprising number of people don’t seem to understand the star system, or perhaps they get too excited and hit one when they mean to choose five. Whatever.
The disparaging reviews came from two types of people: Gossip mongers who read primarily tabloids who found the research about hermits through the years tedious, and people who thought the book was an invasion of privacy. ………the question begs to be asked: Sooooooo why did you buy it? Obviously Mr. Finkel planned to capitalize on the story. He may have donated some funds to Christopher’s family, but from what I read, they would have instantaneously rejected it.
I found the book fascinating, as I knew I would after coming upon an article about him on Facebook last year. From that moment I had hoped a book would come out detailing his life. I didn’t realize I was so entranced with hermits, until I was reading the end of the book for suggested reading. I have read, or have on my shelves to read, a number of the books mentioned. I fell in love with Walden way back when in high school when a few passages were required reading I’ve remarked many times in my life that I would love to do it myself. Maybe not forever, but maybe start at a year and see where it takes me. But I’m lazy, which is part of why I want to do it, and also why I’ll never be able to. I’m of the hermit variety that needs running water and indoor plumbing. And someone to split firewood and bring me game.
Really, I just want to read undisturbed and uninterrupted for long stretches.
Alright, I gotta get on with this book review before I lose you.
“Those with less become content, those with more become confused.” ~The Tao Te Ching
“One becomes free not by fulfilling all desires, but by eliminating desire.: ~Socrates.
“Hell is other people.” ~Sartre
“I have no friends of any sort and I don’t want any.” ~Michelangelo
“What did Knight do for a living? He lived for a living.”
His situation was not ideal. He had to steal for the whole quarter century he was out there. He never built a fire to heat himself or cook his meat on (he used stolen camp stoves hooked to stolen propane tanks), and he couldn’t-or wouldn’t- fish or hunt. He didn’t have some lofty idea of what he was trying to accomplish or some fantastic ideals to incorporate into society. He wasn’t on a religious pilgrimage (although he does admit to praying when it was 20 below and he was cocooned in his sleeping bags. Like he said, there’s no atheists in the foxhole. Ha!). He just wanted to leave, and be left alone. He didn’t fit in anywhere besides by himself. “His commitment to isolation was absolute.” Once he was arrested, people offered him all sorts of help, from offers of land to use to be a permanent hermit, bail money, TV interviews (seriously?? Know your subject), and marriage (again…). But he accepted nothing.
In the first encounter with the author, Chris comes across abrasive and snarky. He said the letters they had exchanged had gone through a series of rough drafts to remove unnecessary insults. “only necessary ones remained.” However, sarcasm doesn’t seem to be something he understands and I was frequently reminded of the Sheldon character on Big Bang Theory. “I’m not going to miss you at all,” he tells the author on one visit. And on the last, ” I deny you my magnificent presence.”
He hates all his labels, especially the term crazy. “‘I understand I’ve made an unusual lifestyle choice. But the label ‘crazy’ bothers me. Annoys me. Because it prevents response.’ When someone asks if you’re crazy, Knight lamented, you can either say yes, which makes you crazy, or you can say no, which makes you sound defensive, as if you fear you really are crazy. There’s no good answer.” Crazy hermit has a point 😉 “Knight said he cannot accurately describe what it felt like to spend such an immense period of time alone. Silence does not translate into words.”
There are several hauntingly beautiful insights to the hermit’s habitat, among them: “At last came the call of the loons, the theme song of the North Woods, pealing like a laugh or a cry, depending on your mood.” Sometimes I read lines like that and wonder how close they were to being cut. What resonates with me and paints a picture may not strike the same chord in others. But I can see those ducks, with their necks stretched up in the moonlight, their red eyes glinting. And I see the shadow of Chris dart behind a tree.
One of his most endearing qualities, I thought, was his burning desire and craving for certain books and the difficulty of procuring them. “He stole every book on military history he saw. He pilfered a copy of Ulysses, but it was possibly the one book he did not finish. ‘What’s the point of it? I suspect it was a bit of a joke to Joyce. He just kept his mouth shut as people read into it more than there was. Pseudo-intellectuals love to drop the name Ulysses as their favorite book. I refused to be intellectually bullied into finishing it.” I could not agree more. Chris wasn’t totally out of touch-he had stolen a tiny black & white TV but after listening to all the news on September 11th, 2001, he never watched it again. I felt the same way. Imagine being totally isolated and hearing all that. You would believe nothing would ever be the same again…and in a way, it wasn’t. He lost track of the years and charted time by the moon, by seasons, and later, in jail, by chin hair. “His closest companion may have been a mushroom…this particular one, a shelf mushroom, jutted at knee height from the trunk of the largest hemlock in Knight’s camp. He began observing the mushroom when its cap was no bigger than a watch face. It grew unhurriedly, and eventually, after decades, expanded to the size of a dinner plate….The mushroom meant something to him; one of the few concerns Knight had after his arrest was that the police officers who’s tromped through his camp had knocked it down. When he learned that the mushroom was still there, he was pleased.” I think I get it. I used to get so mad to see children taking their aggression out on tree limbs, stripping them of their leaves and kicking them relentlessly. A tree doesn’t have feelings, but I do. That was my biggest complaint with the desert: There are simply not enough trees.
There is a section on noise, which I find endlessly interesting. I didn’t have cable TV until just last November, and I rarely had it on at all. When I got married, things changed. My husband feels the need to constantly have the TV on, all the TVs, as a matter of fact. Even if he’s outside mowing the yard. This drives me absolutely bonkers. And even that isn’t enough. He’ll be surfing on his phone, too. I absolutely cannot stand it and usually retreat to another room. It’s all too much. My brain feels like it’s vibrating in my head and is trying to combust, which obviously interferes with my concentration. A quote by Nicholas Carr from his book about the correlation between brain science and screen time: “The internet steadily chips away at one’s capacity for concentration and contemplation.” I know that’s a fact. I can no longer read for more than half an hour before I feel compelled to check my phone. Notifications are addicting. “According to more than a dozen studies conducted around the world, Knight’s camp–an oasis of natural quiet–may have been the ideal setting to encourage maximum brain function. These studies, examining the difference between living in a calm place and existing amid commotion, all arrived at the same conclusion: noise and distraction are toxic. The chief problem with environmental noise one can’t control is that it’s impossible to ignore. The human body is designed to react to it. Sound waves vibrate a tiny chain of bones–the hammer, anvil, and stirrup, the old-time hardware store of the middle ear–and these physical vibrations are converted to electrical signals that are fired directly into the auditory cortex of the brain. The body responds immediately, even during sleep. {I KNEW sleeping with the TV on was terrible for you!!!} People who live in cities experience chronically elevated levels of stress hormones. These hormones, especially cortisol, increase one’s blood pressure, contributing to heart disease and cellular damage. Noise harms your body and boils your brain. The word ‘noise’ is derived from the Latin word nausea. You don’t need that much quiet to change things, or even have to be alone. But you do have to seek out a soothing environment, and do it often. Japanese researchers found that a 15 minute walk in the woods caused significant decreases in cortisol, along with a modest drop in blood pressure and heart rate….a Duke biologist working with mice found that two hours of complete silence prompted cell development in the hippocampus, the brain region related to the formation of memory. Studies of humans in the US, Great Britain, Holland, and Canada have shown that passing time in quiet, rural settings, subjects were calmer and more perceptive, less depressed and anxious, with improved cognition and a stronger memory. Time amid the silence of nature, in other words, makes you smarter.” Right?! I’m not one to blindly accept everything I read, but I absolutely, 100%, steadfastly believe every bit of that.
I found the history intriguing and pertinent. Perhaps some of the information about became a little repetitive, but I’m sure that was from lack of material due to Chris’s reluctance to talk. We learn about the estimated million protester hermits living in Japan RIGHT NOW. They have “rejected their country’s competitive, conformist, pressure-cooker culture. They have retreated into their childhood bedrooms and almost never emerge, in many cases for more than a decade. They pass the day reading or surfing the web. Their parents deliver meals to their doors, and psychologists offer them counseling online. The media has called them ‘the lost generation’ and ‘the missing million’.” Some Hindu followers (about four million) “file their own death certificates as their lives are considered terminated and they are legally dead to the nation of India.” One of the stranger passages refers to the “ornamental hermits” in eighteenth-century England. “The job paid well, and hundreds of hermits were hired, typically on seven-year contracts, with one meal a day included. Some would emerge at dinner parties and greet guests. English aristocracy of this period believed hermits radiated kindness and thoughtfulness, and for a couple of decades it was deemed worthy to keep one around.” Tell me that isn’t the weirdest thing you’ve read today.
There was a woman named Diane Perry (who changed her name to Tenzin Palmo, I think because she became a Buddhist nun-the 2nd in the world!) who, in 1976, at the age of 33, moved into a cave in the remote Himalayas. She spent 12 years there. “Her solitude, she said, was ‘the easiest thing in the world’. Not for a moment did she want to be anywhere else. She overcame the fear of death, she insisted and felt liberated. ‘The more you realize, the more you realize there is nothing to realize. The idea that there’s somewhere we have got to get to, and something we have to attain, is our basic delusion.'”
“Everyone dreams of dropping out of the world once in a while. Then you get in the car and drive back home.
Knight stayed. He followed a very strange calling and held true to himself more fully than most of us will ever dare to. He clearly had no desire to be a part of our world.”
Now that I’ve ruined all the best parts for you, please read it.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t they all good? 😉
I know that typically it’s a day of fasting and penance, to commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus, that he gave up his life for our sins, and I feel somewhat guilty that I really had a wonderful day. But that’s human nature, I suppose.
This one was especially good because it was the first time in my entire working life I was not working!!! My place of employment was CLOSED. Heck to the yes. So I took full advantage. I acted like a normal human with a holiday: I cleaned house, watched a few episodes of Designing Women, then I met some friends at the movies. I drew a blank while purchasing my ticket, which did not amuse the ticketseller. Sigh. After saying, “It’s got animals…it’s set in World War II…” I was able to spit out triumphantly, “The Zookeeper’s Wife!”
I thought we were going to be the only people in the theater, but then a couple came in, followed shortly by some guy going on about “sitting right behind them & kicking their chairs.” Turns out, we knew him and his wife, and they recognized us before we saw them. They did indeed sit behind us, but there was no kicking.
The movie was paralyzingly depressing, and it was no time (I think) before I was asleep. I can count on one hand all the times I’ve fallen asleep in a public place. Spanish class, for one. Study hall, for another (I had two study halls my senior year, and one was 1st period, so who could blame me?). Anyway, rumor has it I even snored, although Tracy assured me it was more of a gentle purr 😊 😽
I only woke up because I was cold, I’m pretty sure. That’s probably why they keep theaters so cold, or everybody would be asleep. And who could blame you? Those leather stadium seats are all cushy and cozy and the reclining option…almost like home! I had a sweater in Patsy, but didn’t take it in, and it’s probably a good thing, because look:
Well. It says Parse Error on my picture. It’s just a picture of the tag. I would have been Minnie Pearl, and the source of ridicule for a few weeks. They’ll just have to come up with something else! (Rest assured, it shan’t take long. Tracy is coming for Easter, which is an endless well of Embarrassing Amy stories).
Alrighty. After the snoozefest, we made our way over to Texas Roadhouse. I had eaten a meatball sub beforehand, so I was just down for margaritas and fried pickles. Yes, an odd combination. But I’m known for those. I have been known to eat only chocolate cake with beer at Chop House, and lemon cake and Moscato at Olive Garden. While we’re on the subject, have you had their lemon cake?!!?! It is out of this world.
I took back roads all the way home, windows down, hair blowing madly. It was wonderful. I have fixed tacos for supper. We already had fish this week, in the form of shrimp scampi. It doesn’t take a crystal ball to see I’m gonna have some serious heartburn tonight. Better go ahead and hunt up the generic peppermint Zantac and sit on the porch awhile.
So that was my best Good Friday ever. While some people were practicing restraint and being spiritual, I couldn’t be more content. At least I did fast something. And in my past life, Good Friday wasn’t gobs and scads of fun at the Co-op, it’s the equivalent of Black Friday, essentially. Gotta get them taters and onions in the ground. And the moon was full night before last, so according to the signs, you best git with it. I think. I can’t really remember. But I do know the crappie are biting right now. So if you didn’t spend the day in the garden, maybe you spent it on the boat. Or maybe you spent it in a bitterly cold movie theater, snuggled in among friends, snoring away.
Happy Easter, my friends.
Luke 23:27-28 And a great multitude of the people followed Him, and women who also mourned and lamented Him. But Jesus, turning to them, said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for Me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.”
Luke 23: 44-46 Now it was about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour. Then the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was torn in two. And when Jesus had cried out with a loud voice, He said, “Father, ‘into Your hands I commit My spirit.’” Having said this, He breathed His last.
Luke 24: 1-9 Now on the first day of the week, very early in the morning, they, and certain other women with them, came to the tomb bringing the spices which they had prepared. But they found the stone rolled away from the tomb. Then they went in and did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. And it happened, as they were greatly perplexed about this, that behold, two men stood by them in shining garments. Then, as they were afraid and bowed their faces to the earth, they said to them, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen! Remember how He spoke to you when He was still in Galilee, saying, ‘The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day rise again.’”
And they remembered His words. Then they returned from the tomb and told all these things to the eleven and to all the rest.
I’ve heard people say, “be careful of your words, and of your actions, for you may be the only Bible some people read.” I should be more careful. Heaven help you if I’m the only Bible you read. I’m a poor example of a Christian. I do strive to be truthful. Once, one of my favorite customers (and people in general), Ray Ball, told a new customer of mine: “All I know is, if Amy tells you it’s Easter, you better start huntin’ eggs.” Now Ray-there’s a perfect example of a good Christian. I am blessed to know him. I encourage you to open your heart to Jesus, and I promise you it will change your life. You’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
Today, I sat on the porch.
Now, if I were being proper country, I would say I “set” on the porch. But my Grammar Nazi can’t take it. So I sat.
And I didn’t do much of nothin’ for one solid hour.
I watched the dogs, and I enjoyed the breeze, noting how it lifted the flags and gave motion to the flagpole. I listened to the windchimes and took note of the boldest birds (blackbirds and turtle doves, followed closely by robins and mockingbirds). I watched the cars rush by, and I reflected on how nice it is to have a yard, and a porch, and a home. I admired my flower beds (wildly out of control), and smiled at my redbud trees. I’m proud of them all-two I planted, one I tried to kill because I thought it was a weed. I’m pleased to report it persevered. I didn’t have a book, or take my phone to scroll Instagram (still on Lent, no Facebook). So there are no pictures to commemorate the occasion. But I can tell you, Lightning Bug is restless and pees a lot, and Sugar is the most laid back, easygoing, patient canine on the planet. Bug plops her in the ear and face with his tail, she just scwinches her eyes shut and pays no mind. He walks across her front legs, she barely looks his way. He takes her stick, eh, she’ll eventually be gifted with another.
But come out with a handful of Fritos and her demeanor changes.
Anyway. I had a couple of glasses of wine and it made me nostalgic. But you know these 75° days are rare. So I didn’t think about the pollen invading my respiratory system, or how busy I was at work today, or how much laundry I need to do Friday…I just sat on the porch.
And I sipped my wine.
I hope that one day soon you have the opportunity to do the same. You might learn something new. Like how to relax.
There’s two things I can’t ever seem to get enough of: books and margaritas and…
Well, nevermind. There’s lots of things I’m a greedy little hog about. But two of my great loves are tattoos and oysters. And I was past due for both.
I’ve been eyeing pretty heavily some tattoo designs on Pinterest. I want to be sure, you know? Like, really sure. It’s so permanent and all. I haven’t regretted any of my other selections, but that’s because I agonized over them for months, or years, even. I am prime real estate, & He ain’t makin’ no more.
I’ve been hung up on swallows ever since Hannibal Lector was schooling Clarice on them. (However, my recent Google search showed that it was roller pigeons, not swallows. Dammit. But swallows are the same concept:they dive for their meals. For the sake of my story, we’re going to continue on like it was always swallows, because that’s what I’ve been envisioning all these years). And I was researching the meaning of swallow tattoos, and the birds in general, and found that I liked everything I was reading about them. They symbolize coming home, true love, the arrival of spring, and a host of other wonderful homey things. The blue ones signify optimism. They eat sixty mosquitoes an hour. Hello, my little feathered heroes! I found several simple designs I thought would work for me and the wrist placement I had in mind. You know, small and dainty so I could cover it with my watch or a wide bracelet.
Johnny made me an appointment with his friend Big Dave, who has inked their whole tribe many times over. He warned me he has a heavy hand, but I wasn’t worried. I have three already, after all. I’m a trooper. I anticipated it all week, practically giddy by Thursday afternoon. As I haven’t had a new tattoo in several years, this was a big deal.
So Friday at 5:15 I found myself climbing into a cracked, ripped, creme colored tattoo chair in a red painted room while some heavy metal band called Dead Fetus, I believe it was, screamed from the speakers.
You get what you get in these places. I imagine it’s much like operating rooms, only for tattoos you’re awake to see and hear it.
I had showed him some pictures of what I had in mind beforehand, of course, but we had to find a clearer image in order to print it off and get the dimensions. I kinda thought he would just free hand it, but whatevs. I didn’t like the cartoon style swallows, and I didn’t like the super detailed ones either, because I knew as small as I wanted it they would never convert over. Here are a few of the type I liked:
Simple lines and basic colors like navy blue. I definitely wanted it swooping and I definitely wanted the forked tail to be prominent. So when he brought me this, I knew I’d have to get involved in the hunting of images.
Sure, it’s beautiful, but to me, it’s just a songbird. I’m no ornithologist (save your dictionary app-that means a person who specializes in birds).
We finally settled on one…and on a much bigger scale than what I’d originally intended. Go big or go home. And I’d had such a heckuva time parking I wasn’t about to go home. Just imagine, the story I’ll be telling the rest of my days: “Well, I got frustrated hunting the perfect Google image, and this is what I got because I just wanted to get it over with. He told me the little ones would just look blobby. Why wouldn’t I trust him?”
He got the forked tail outline started before I started sweating. He and Johnny were chatting away like nothing was amiss, like this was a happy time in a land of unicorns and rainbows and unlimited cupcakes. I snuck a look to see if he was almost done.
Ha.
Luckily, Big Dave lives up to his name and had my wrist pinned under his meaty hand and I couldn’t go anywhere if I tried. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t cry. Or pass out. Or throw up.
No wonder people always ask if it hurts. Because it does. I guess I forgot. I barely felt my little shamrock when I got it done…but come to think of it, I might have been drinking that night. No matter. And my heart and horseshoe I was all excited to finally be getting them I was riding a rush of adrenaline. Whoooo-eee. I closed my eyes and pretended I was Miranda Lambert. When that didn’t work, I tried to put it in perspective. This wasn’t as bad as a visit to the lady doctor. Wait. Yes it was. It was worse because it was lasting a lot longer. And I really like my doctor! Ok, the dentist. Yes, this was definitely worse than the dentist.
Well, no. The dentist is worse. There’s the grinding. And the smell of bone being pulverized. Ok, yes. Definitely the dentist is worse. And kidney stones. Kidney stones make you want to die. First, you’re scared you’re gonna die, then you hope you will, because the pain is so intense. Ok. So good. Two things worse than being tattooed. Good thing I really wanted this damn bird because it was taking a lot of willpower to get it.
Could I get some ice chips?
Every time he swapped inkwells, I got a brief respite from the buzzing needle for a minute, just long enough for me to relish the lack of pain before he started back in with a vengeance.
Johnny took some pictures to preserve the moment, at my request, in case these were among my last moments on Earth.
You thought I was exaggerating about the Big Dave part, didn’t you? 🙂
He eventually stopped jabbing, squirted some restorative water on me, swabbed me down, wrapped me up, and sent me on my way.
I am proud to report I didn’t even cry in the truck. I wanted to, though. Shug’s like, “You good for awhile, then?” (Obviously not, as I’ve been looking at watercolor sleeves all weekend). We stopped for barbeque on the way home, since I was hungry before we started but was afraid to eat in fear it would all come back up. I was bleeding under my saran wrap and people kept eyeing me, so perhaps it wasn’t the best idea.
Amyway, here’s the finished product.
I don’t know why that loaded sideways. It’s upside down, anyway, because it’s for me, not anybody else, and I want to look at it right side up. Hence it being upside down to everybody else.
So that was Friday.
Saturday we had plans to go to my good friend Whit’s house for an oyster shucking party. I’ve never shucked an oyster in my life, but clearly, there’s no time like the present. So I packed our two dozen towels and hot sauce and key lime pie and away we went.
In case you’ve never seen 100 oysters, this is what they look like:
Pretty gross, according to the men in our lives. I wasn’t allowed to talk about the worms I found hanging onto the mollusks, nor the teeny tiny crabs I kept running up on (and consuming). But after a few games of beer pong, nobody cared. And we (me & Whit) are the champions…but who’s the real winner, the true winners, or the people who get more beer?
I guess it’s however you wanna look at it.
So that was my adventurous weekend. I’m kinda proud of myself. Livin’ on the edge with arm tattoos and raw oysters. Yeehaw.
Buy Me on Amazon (But if I were you I’d rent it from the library….I am a horrible salesman)
One thing’s for sure…I would have been a crappy secretary in 1952. I mean, let’s face it, I’m not the greatest in 2017. My typing “skills”, be that as they may, is my left hand does almost all the work, and I peck with my right index finger occasionally. And I have to look, unless I’m typing STRAW or “Thank you for your interest. Please see the attached quote Brian prepared for you. Don’t hesitate to contact us with any questions.” because I have typed those words thousands of times. My hair is constantly a mess, no matter if it’s tied up in a knot or down. The only time I wear gloves is if it’s in the single digits. My back is rarely ramrod straight, and it would never occur to me to cross my ankles. Demure is not in my vocabulary. The only thing I would excel at is my telephone etiquette, as I’ve never had trouble with volume 🙂 The deafest customer never had a problem hearing me at Co-op.
All that aside, this book had great premise, but came off reading like a sixth grade romance novel. Neither story was plausible, as she strove to hard for parallelism between Darby in 1952 and Rose in 2016. How many Rose’s do you know, in this day and age, anyway? I desperately wanted to love it, as The Barbizon is a gold mine, I’m sure. But I couldn’t get past the juvenile writing and conversation. Such a waste of a potentially absorbing story.
There’s this wonderful place you can visit. It doesn’t cost a dime. And once there, the places you can go are literally limitless.
This magical destination is the library. I know, I know, I’m the biggest nerd. But seriously.
So tonight was the board meeting. And it was typical in all aspects, other than our chairman was absent so the meeting was conducted by my lovely friend (and recent partner in crime), Tracy. Things were clicking along, we were approving budgets for consideration of the county, approving fundraisers, discussing projects that are coming up. I reached for my regional report and found it stuck to the glass topped table. No worries. I’m sure it’s just barely tacked on there. I didn’t even have anything sticky on my plate. What is going on? I finally ripped it free, leaving several bits of paper essentially glued to the conference table. The director had to dribble water on it and scrub. I don’t know how I constantly find myself in these clean up positions. I’m like a three year old. Someday I’ll tell y’all about the gallon of Red Cell I dropped at the Co-op. Or the case of Hearty Hoof that I dribbled from one end to the other.
Now, see, I am obviously not a prototypical board member. Especially one you would picture on the local library board. I’m too young, I’m too bouncy, I’m too everything. On top of all that, I’m a woman. *commence pearl clutching* So I frequently have these…issues. I’m notoriously last minute-I blow in, get my purse tangled in my chair, root around for an ink pen (that will leak and bleed without fail all over everything), I’ll spill my tea/ drop my fork/ get food on my shirt. One time I had a mishap with my lace vest getting hung in a drawer. I don’t know why these things happen to me, they just always have. Being a public servant hasn’t changed a thing. I am a mess, and unsuitable for most presentations.
But they always put me in charge of the alcohol.
🙂
Oh, yes, the library has alcohol. Well, MY library does, because we’re awesome. We have a fundraising event put on by The Friends (not like “The Family”, we are not the mob) once a year after hours, aptly called “Night At the Library” and it’s gobs of fun.
Anyway, tonight, for the director’s report, she shared with us how many books each of the 279 children affected by the wildfire will receive. The primary school age will get upwards of 25!!! We had several organizations donate books (Nora Roberts Foundation, the Dolly Parton Reading Rainbow people, and this great church over in North Carolina, to name a few. And somebody gave $5,000 towards the purchase of new books–that amounted to over 800!!!) So our wonderful director was telling us all about how the project came to fruition and how they’re bundling them this week for the school board to distribute, and how it’s so impossible to think about 279 children fleeing for their lives, coming off that mountain while it’s blazing and…whew.
But they made this YouTube video and it’s quite simply wonderful. Please watch it. You will not find a more accurate portrayal of a mountain woman than our Theresa. Her story is common, but it is also her own.
She voices what many of us have pondered: “I have always wondered what I would take in an emergency situation. I wound up with four things: my mother, our medicine, my pocketbook, and my Bible. When I looked around, those were the only things that were important to me.”
I don’t have to tell you that to be reduced to such a decision is astounding. She’s lived in the same house for 65 years, and that’s what she took, not knowing if she would have anything to return to ever again. I won’t ruin the whole video for you, but please watch. As Sharon says, “Books are as important to me as food and shelter.”
Now you see why I cry in board meetings. They’re real tear jerkers since November.
Join your library. Make something on the 3D printer. Rent a movie. Or heck, check out a book. But support your local library. Because they support your community.
You like twisty plots? Warped characters? Page turning suspense?
Then this is what you need to pick up. Right freaking now. You can’t figure it out, I promise you that. What an insane read. Unbelievable.
This is the best book I’ve read in forever. And it’s drawn out and it makes you want to scream at Louise for not handling things differently; a kind of “Don’t go in the basement with the guy wearing the hockey mask” type of helpful advice, but you won’t be able to put it down, I assure you that. And you wonder…as far fetched as it sounds…could it happen? Don’t the best books make you wonder that? Make you second guess all the things you think you know? I mean, if it rocked Stephen King’s world, isn’t it good enough for you?
And look, the author is wonderfully private:
Everybody’s talking about the ending. Don’t you want to know??
When I was in seventh grade, I had a teacher who could be described as a feminist…or as close as you could be to one in the hills of Tennessee in the early 90’s. She made us watch “Not Without My Daughter” starring Sally Fields. Long story short, Sally is married to a Persian man who wants to take his family to his homeland for a few weeks for a vacation. Sally has her reservations, but eventually caves. Once they get there-Surprise!- he reveals he isn’t leaving, which was his plan all along, of course. She has to wear the head scarves and submit to his every will or risk beatings and all the worst things imaginable. She tries to leave and finds it impossible to take her daughter. High drama.
So this book is set in the same type of environment: strong women trying to escape brutal, illiterate, powerful men. And they will do ANYTHING for a few moments’ reprieve…including, but not limited to, dressing like a man. And who can blame them? These girls are frequently sold-that’s right-SOLD to the highest bidder (often their first cousin) for a sum of a few thousand dollars or some desolate dusty desert land by the time they are fourteen. Earlier, if they achieve puberty. And many of them try to hide that little nugget from their family in fear of what comes next: you are treated as a brood mare. Worse, actually, as most brood mares get plenty of rest and all they want to eat. And if you don’t magically produce a son in the first few offspring, your husband takes a second wife and you get to live with her and whatever passel of young’ns she brings into the picture. You aren’t allowed to go outside, except in the company of your husband, or gain weight, or drive, or make eye contact. You can’t show your wrists or ankles or heaven forbid anything else in fear of being labeled a whore. So who wouldn’t want to grow up as a boy instead? You can wear pants and climb trees and yell as loud as you want and get served first at the table. You can go to school and have a job and not answer to anyone. To them, this is freedom.
And all of these things I have taken for granted. “Too much education can potentially make a girl less attractive to a spouse, as she may develop plans to work or simply become too opinionated.” HEAVENS TO BETSY!! That is a definite problem. You can’t dance, either. “Dancing falls into the same category as poetry for a woman-it equals dreaming, which may inspire thoughts about such banned topics as love and desire. Any woman reading, writing, or citing poetry is a woman who may harbor strange ideas about love and romance in her head, and thus is a potential whore.” Boy, would I be in trouble. And we know why they don’t want you having romantic thoughts–so their sorry men don’t have to be nice, there are no standards to live up to. They teach their women that in Western civilizations we walk around naked in the streets and have sex with a thousand men. They justify their shroudlike covering thusly: “A woman is a very beautiful thing. In order to protect something beautiful, you should cover it. Like a diamond. You cannot just put it on the street, because everyone would just come and take it.”
“Do you understand that it is the wish of every Afghan woman to have been born a man? To be free?” One of the women followed in the book, Nader, has a team of protégées that she is training in Tai Kwon Do, and she tells them if they are lucky, no one will want to marry them. This could not be more true. Marriage to the wrong man is the kiss of death. And there are so very many wrong men. Women playing sports is strongly discouraged, so they must play and train in secret. “Too much physical exercise could be dangerous for women. Men who watch them could get too excited by catching glimpses of female bodies in motion. And the (more important) male athletes may become too distracted to engage in competitive sports at all if women were on the field. And what might the point of winning or even playing honorably, if women are not cooing on the sidelines?”
*Deep breath*
Number one, I find it humorous in a disgusted way that they even use the word honorably to describe anything about their culture.
Number two, I’ve never cooed in my life. Pigeons coo. Phoebe coos. Amy does NOT coo.
And neither do many of these women. “Those around her used to argue that biology would overtake her one day, when she married and had children. She would agree, just to make them stop talking, knowing it would not happen.”…”When one gender is so unwanted, so despised, and so suppressed in a place where daughters are expressly unwanted, perhaps both the body and the mind of a growing human can be expected to revolt against becoming a women. And thus, perhaps, alter someone for good.”
Our endearing author wants to try it. “‘Okay, so make me into a man, then,’ I say. “If you think a person can switch. Teach me.’…She has watched me several times, she explains. Although I have been styled and persistently trained in discreet, womanly behavior, people still stare at me as I stride by, taking big steps in my all-black coverage. They watch me not only because I am a Westerner, they look at me because I walk around as though I am ‘the owner of everything’. I arrive everywhere without a husband or father. And when we speak, I look her in the eyes, seeming neither shy nor emotional. I do not giggle-my laugh is more of a hoarse kind. And like a child, my face has no makeup and my wrists and hands carry no jewelry. She looks at me again, quickly, before she turns back, striking an apologetic tone. She asks that her next words not be translated, as they may be too insulting. But Setareh has already burst out in low laughter, gently passing the message along: “She says you are a man already. There is nothing she can teach you.'” I guess we do come off as a little unladylike to these shadows of humans. I, for one, would rather be a man than a shadow. They don’t understand why someone who has the opportunity to travel anywhere in the world-or DO ANYTHING in the world- would want to come to Afghanistan (I share in this troublesome enigma). They also find it strange her father would allow it, as all decisions made up until marriage are made by their fathers. They want to know what her purpose of life is, if it’s not to get married and have children. “You might as well have been born a man. What is there now to make you a woman?” This is spoken by one of the sisters to one of the girls raised as a boy. You can see that sometimes the women can be harsh and judgmental.
Which brings us to the subject of divorce. Of course Afghan women aren’t allowed to divorce…at least not easily. It’s explained that “women have less brainpower and may haphazardly ask for a divorce for no good valid reason.” Indeed! You wouldn’t want to divorce a perfectly good man who only beats you severely twice a week and whose mother keeps the food under lock and key. “An Afghan women who wants to leave her husband will be obliged to also leave her children behind. Making divorce nearly impossible for most women is exactly the point- otherwise, the thinking goes, women could just divorce men left and right, taking the children with them. Women are too emotional, rash, and impulsive-particularly when they are menstruating. They cannot be trusted to make rational decisions. So, for their own well-being, the logic goes , children should always remain with the father to avoid being carted off to a series of new husbands whom their whorish mothers may decide to marry at a whim.”
Oh, dear. Now, while some of this does bring to mind some women I know, the same cannot be said of these poor prisoners of Arab husbands. Our protagonist, Azita, her parents have been married 37 years. By all accounts, her father is a forward thinking (read: former communist) man, who had the foresight to send Azita to get an education, therefore paving a way into the Parliament. When the author asks her mother the secret to such a long marriage, the answer is immediate. “She looks at me like I am clueless. ‘It’s very hard to get divorced here,’ she says, throwing her hands up in a gesture of ‘What else did you imagine?'”
“By law, women are allowed to drive in Afghanistan. Just as they are formally allowed to inherit property and divorce their husbands. They just don’t, most of the time.
Nader wore a head scarf while driving once, just to please her brothers and to humor what they insist God requires from her. It nearly got several people killed, herself included.”
This book is a worthwhile, entertaining read, and I recommend it to anyone who needs a little perspective, a little broadening of the mind, perhaps a little compassion or reasoning of why we press on in these wars against terrorism. Although much of the crimes against women are blamed on society and tradition, the only way to stop them is education. It is the key.
And if that won’t work, a good tooth-rattling sock to the jaw from a marine never seems like a bad idea, either.
This should be required reading for all high school students. We can all use a reminder that we are truly in the land of milk and honey.
