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