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. š
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.
āI’ve learned a few truths in my 38 years on this spinning blue-green rock.
When you’re little, you spend your money on toys and candy.
In your teens, you spend it to impress the object of your desires, on clothes and other frivolities.
In your twenties, you’re driven by alcohol, teetering stilettos, and fast cars. You’ll live in a hovel to have a nice vehicle and clubbing necessities.
(Obviously, some of us have a hard time letting the fruity fun drinks go…)
The thirties, I’ve found, are for upkeep: home repairs, wrinkle creams, and inspecting what else needs fixing. Massages, hair coloring, and pedicures are vital upkeep to your aging body.
In your youth, you are driven by the need for attention. If someone repeatedly rejects you, you learn to survive without them and if they make an appearance later in your life, you resent their presence. You’ve learned to be independent and comfortable in your own skin and need no approval. Be confident. Be assertive. Don’t be scared, be smart. Try to pick a partner who compliments you for more than your beauty, because beauty will fade, guaranteed.
If you want the tattoo, go for it.
If you’re tired, take a nap.
Don’t vacation in the same spot every year. It may feel comfortable, but you’re not learning anything.
Spend time by yourself.
Know that it’s impossible to support only businesses you agree with politically.
Don’t regret growing older. It’s a privilege denied to many. (~unknown)
We are all going to die. No matter what-whether you eat kale everyday or lie in a tanning bed. Whether you speed or work out for thirty minutes daily. No matter if you never miss work or if you eat a cheeseburger every day. We’re all going to go eventually. Don’t take everybody’s advice to heart. Do what YOU want to. Be selfish. Vote for your candidate, date the wrong guys (you’ll learn your lessons on your own time instead of wondering “what if?” for the rest of your life). Eleanor Roosevelt tried to impart this wisdom years ago. She added, “for you’ll be criticised anyway.”
Just make sure you love. Make sure your relationship is right with the Lord. We may not get another shot. This might be it. So be thankful for what you’ve got and work for what you’ve not.
This post is not going to win me any popularity contests but, eh, my mouth never has.
Is it just me or has this graduation business gotten totally out of control? Sure, Kindergarten graduation is kinda cute, their little mini-everythings, I get it. But 5th grade graduation? And 8th grade graduation? Give me a break. You have no choice but to go on. You haven’t really done anything. You’re proving you’re getting older…that you did, indeed, learn your multiplication tables. I am not convinced that the majority learns the difference between to, two, & too. Or they’re, their, and there. Or then and than. Or through and though.
But I think these are just personal peeves and it doesn’t bother anyone else nearly as much as it gripes me.
Am I just jealous? I only graduated twice-high school and college. And they were treated with the proper amount of importance and pomp. But I just can’t get on board with this crap. I think it’s a money racket, just like Valentine’s Day. A complete and utter waste. Totally over the top.
Enough with the graduating.
Celebrate something else. Like Nobel Prize winners. Or Watermelon Seed Longevity Spitters. Or Most Moon Pies Consumed During A Full Moon. Or Best Behaved Sibling. I mean, something with sustenance.
Go on. Slay me.
Get it here. You’re gonna want to, trust me.
Of course I’ve known of Rebecca for years. I’ve had it on my TBR (that’sĀ “to be read” for those of you not down with fanatical reader lingo) list forĀ over a year. I was going for it last year when I changed my mind to Jane Eyre for whatever reason. They’re similar, in that they’re both that of the Gothic Fiction variety, but that’s where the similarities end. This book gets right down to it, and there’s less of the fawning over the dashing Maxim de Winter, thanks be to God. Not that there’s less love, there’s just much more compelling drama andĀ livelier characters. Mrs. Danvers took shape in my mind immediately as a former coworker of mine, Judy. I won’t go into that here.
I don’t want to say too much, you should read it and wonder as I did. I had no trouble at all envisioning Manderley, the author is quite talented (obviously) at spinning a vivid portrait of the glorious estate. I wanted to sit under the chestnut tree, and walk along the shingle beach, and eat a scone in front of the library fireplace while rubbing Jasper’s silken ears. Yes, I would like to send for a new frock from London. And freshen those flowers while you’re here, won’t you? I wouldn’t have a bit of trouble being the lady of the house.
So, thanks to my book club for forcing me to read another one I would have probably put off for another year or more. And let me tell you this, crazy bitches could take some notes from this one.
In the South, everyone has at least one snake story. I guess they probably do up north, too, but I don’t make a habit of drawing Yankees into conversation if I can help it (Jeannie, you are excluded). And it’s that time of year, snake season, where everybody and their brother is telling about having one in their yard, house, or car. Anyway, here is mine:
I had bought my new bedroom furniture and it was delivered and set up while I wasn’t home. I didn’t know that the frame legs and hardwood floors didn’t go together until a few months later. So I had to call the store up and tell them about their faulty installation and make plans for my uncle to accompany them into my home since I couldn’t be there–I had to work to pay for said furniture. The day they scheduled I also had a riding lesson, so I didn’t get home till dusk-thirty.
The first thing I noticed amiss was my grill brush lying on the far side of the porch. Normally it’s on the grill stand. My old dog, Crockett, wasn’t acting like he was the culprit, so I just continued on my way up the sidewalk.
That’s when I saw it. On the backside of the concrete step was a long, slender, black tail dangling from a crack in the cinderblock. I began to move much more carefully. My heart rate increased a hundredfold. I went around the side of the porch as quietly as possible to stage my attack. There were no garden instruments nearby, I would have to go through the house and down to the basement where they were stored. As soon as I was in the house I kicked it into high gear, praying that Crockett wouldn’t spook it. I raced downstairs, snatched up my favorite snake execution tool-the hoe-and about broke my neck getting back around to the front.
The snake was still there. I had time to plot my next move, which was risky business indeed. It looked to me like he was chasing his meal-probably a very cute mouse-and the mouse made it through the crack, hopefully avoiding the jaws of death. Otherwise, the snake was happily enjoying his furry dinner, so much so, had not taken the time to properly attain a suitable dining spot.
I shuddered and set to task.
I eased forward inch by inch, Crockett eyeing me like I had a new screw loose. I thought it best to take a solid whack, then hope it didn’t turn on me. I would have to squish it down and maneuver the hoe back to whacking position super swift-like. Swift doesn’t come naturally to me, and neither does graceful, so I was hoping that the initial whack would suffice.
I drew back, picturing myself as Babe Ruth at the bat with a hoe.
I whacked.
Nothing happened.
I paused, praying my heart wouldn’t explode. The snake never moved. I creeped forward marginally. I was within two feet now. Striking distance for Mr. Serpent.
I poked him bravely with my hoe. He didn’t even flinch.
I began looking around, sure I would find my uncle peering at me and snickering from behind the lilac bush.
All was quiet, except for Crockett’s panting. I looked at him. “Where did this come from?” I asked him. After years spent living alone, it’s not if you’ll talk to your pets, it’s how frequently. In my case, all the time. He cocked an eyebrow.
“I know it’s fake,” I told him. “Uncle Dale thinks he’s funny, doesn’t he? Let’s call him.”
So I rang him up as I stood outside sweating and having heart palpitations over a rubber snake.
“Hello, Pilgrim,” he greeted me as always.
“I suppose you think you’re comical,” I shot back, straight to the point.
“What?”
“This rubber snake you left me out here in the porch I’ve been trying to kill for ten minutes. I figured you were hid in the yard, waiting on me to come home.”
“IT AIN’T FAKE!” He hollered, and I stepped back two feet for good measure.
“Well, it ain’t doin’ nothin’ when I hit it with the hoe,” I retorted. “It ain’t even bleedin’.”
“I guess I was able to kill it, then,” he remarked thoughtfully, with a small hint of pride.
“You better tell me how I’ve come to have a dead snake hangin’ out of my porch.”
“Well, I went out there to save the furniture crew from Crockett, and I saw it laying in the flowerbed. I knew you’d freak out if you saw it again, so I was looking for something to kill it with and all there was was your grill brush.”
My stomach did a flip.
And I noticed something I hadn’t seen before in my panicked state of inspection-he had some lacerations that had oozed blood slightly. I gulped.
I had a dead snake. In my porch.
And the murder weapon was an implement I would have used in the future to clean a cooking surface.
I eyed it distastefully.
“So he made for that crack, and I hit him a lick, and it slowed him down, and I guess he kinda got mad and swelled up…I couldn’t get him out. So I left him for you.”
I looked at Crockett for help. He looked behind him.
“So what am I gonna dooooo????”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can pull him out now, maybe the swelling went down some.”
“But that means I’ll have to touch him!” I wailed.
“Well, aintcha got no gloves?”
Hardly the point.
I went to searching for some plastic gloves. I didn’t have any, so I settled for plastic bags. I pulled on my thickest leather haying gloves and then the plastic bags over them. And then I took a deep breath.
I would like to say then I pulled, but I didn’t. I felt faint, so I sat down a ways away, eyeing the long black snake. I was pretty sure I was going to be sick. It was getting dark, I was going to have to get this over with soon. A pep talk was in order. First I talked to my dog, then I talked to myself because he lost interest. “I can do this. I can do this,” I repeated.
I grabbed hold. Now that is an icky feeling, let me tell you. Even through layers of plastic and leather. So I grabbed hold, and I pulled.
Once again, nothing happened. He was stuck fast. I pulled harder. He gave a little, like a waterhose does, but sprang back to his original shape when released. A fine mess I had myself in.
I don’t live in the country, exactly, but there are plenty of possums and coons and the like around, so I figured I could just leave it and something would come along in the night and find a handy meal. So that’s what I did.
At this time, Shug and I were not married, we were dating, and when he called I enlightened him of the whole spectacle. He thought I was making it up.
“I know it’s unbelievable, but I swear, there is a snake stuck in my porch.”
So I go to sleep, praying the wife of Mr. Snake wouldn’t be lying in wait for me the next day, and that a scavenger was enjoying the bounty.
The next morning, imagine my surprise when I found the same scene. I didn’t have time for this, I had to be at work.
So all day long, as the temperature rose, so did my worries. I extracted advice from coworkers. I had worked myself into a fine frenzy. “He’s gonna be more swelled, since it’s so hot, and he’s gonna stink, and what am I gonna dooooo???”
The suggestions weren’t so helpful. I bought a bag of powdered lime, thinking it would dry him up with less smell. Maybe I would get lucky and a daytime creature had snacked on him.
Of course, as y’all know, I’m not really of the lucky sort, and I came home to much the same setting as before. What I could see of the snake appeared even more dejected and limp, if that were possible. I sighed, and donned gloves and new plastic bags. And pulled. A little of the skin moved, and I had this awful premonition of the entire snake popping in two with a horrible snapping noise and splattering me in the face with snake goop. That just wouldn’t do.
Johnny was coming over, so I’d receive suggestions from him.
Turns out, he was as disgusted as me, but also considered it entertaining since he didn’t live here.
“Who does this happen to?” He asked, trying to disguise his mirth.
In the end, on the third day, I ended up taking tree pruners and lopping off as much as I could manage, which wasn’t much, because I couldn’t get the handles between the porch and step. I was left with about six inches of snake to rot away slowly in the coming summer weeks.
We still have not patched the crack. I don’t like thinking about it.
So that’s my snake story. Top that.
Well, it took me a month but I did it. I listened to all the people who said I would love it, and indeed I did, once I got past the initial hump. These big books…they gotta hook you and drag you under. I channeled my reserves, like when I committed to The Goldfinch and The Witching Hour.
This book literally has it all. While I would still probably classify it as chick lit, there’s something for everyone, if you keep an open mind. Time travel, sci-fi, fantasy, suspense, war and adventure, romance, and religion. It’s a lot to put yourself through. I read the majority in three days’ time, and I’m feeling the exertion. But I’m glad it’s behind me and i can gush with the rest of the population, “It’s so good!!” Because it is. And Jamie Fraser is most definitely worth sacrificing hot baths and penicillin for.
It didn’t start off as anything spectacular. Most of those larger than life days are ones you’ve been planning- you know, your wedding, your baptism, your birthday. Today was just another day, technically.
It started with this gigantic crow. I was driving to work this morning, noting the shape and texture of the mountains, and reflecting on why everyone loves this area. I mean, think about it. We get hordes of tourists that eventually retire here, artists who just want to paint the scene in all weather and seasons, and then the local people who can’t fathom moving away.
So there was this crow. I noticed him because he was swooping and looked like a vulture for a fleeting second. Then I noticed he was being chased by a mockingbird. An extremely irate mockingbird.
If you’re not familiar with our state bird, allow me to introduce you. They are roughly the size of a blue jay and not nearly as vibrant but every bit as loud. They were made famous by Harper Lee’s novel, To Kill A Mockingbird. “Mockingbirds donāt do one thing except make music for us to enjoy. They donāt eat up peopleās gardens, donāt nest in corn cribs, they donāt do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. Thatās why itās a sin to kill a mockingbird.ā And that’s true. Have you ever heard one? They’re clear and it seems like they don’t take a breath. They switch it up from song to song and are expert mimickers. So I feel that this crow had probably intruded on the poor singer’s nest. And was paying a dear price, from what I observed. That crow had picked the wrong songbird. Bluebirds are pretty wicked, too.
The rest of the morning passed uneventfully. Or as uneventful as mornings at the fencing outfit ever are. I decided on Burger King for lunch, and when I rolled up at the drive-thru, I was positively bowled OVER by the beauty and abundance of their rosebushes. I don’t even like rosebushes! I like hothouse roses in a vase. The bushes have aphids, and scrawny petals, and straggly leaves. They’re pretty when they’re growing at a distance, like up a castle wall in Ireland. So I’m all mesmerized by the beauty of their roses, and tried to tell the visor-wearing employee as she handed over my char-grilled perfection, but she was busy and I don’t think she took notice. So then I’m questioning my existence, and wondering if the rest of the world goes around noticing these types of things, and then I begin to wonder if my ticket is about to be punched. Am I about to die and God is trying to help me see the beauty of the earth before I make my departure??? I mean, I’m cool with it, but there are still plenty of things I’d like to do. And I worry about Shug. Who’s going to cook for him?
I made it back to work without incident, and ate my Whopper without choking, then promptly forgot about my impending death. Even as this random lady walked in and we got right down to talking about Arabian horses and the afterlife (horse people know those two go hand in hand). I changed into a dress for my board meeting (I was wearing non-matching Lularoe, even for the most adventurous mix-and-matchers) and skeddadled off to the library.
My dress is of the wrap variety, which most people agree are flattering on my full figured frame, and the wind was blowing…you get the picture. It is a deep v-cut in the front, so I was having a bit of trouble keeping everything covered and tucked. Sometimes I feel like it’s so hard to be a woman. I strode towards the library doors, trying to appear confident and look like I’m in control, but straightening my dress and praying another big gust of wind doesn’t blow my hair in my face which would cause me to let go of my dress to push the hair out of my face so I don’t trip on the curb, effectively losing my grip on my pocketbook and I would be tail over teakettle.
There was a teenage boy who let the door slam behind him without even making eye contact or offer to hold the door a tenth of a second so it wouldn’t hit my boo–arm. Who raises these ungrateful snots? I passed through the lobby over to Circ to get the public comments in the lock box.
Empty. Sweet.
I head to the elevator and there’s the director, chatting with the branch manager like she hadn’t a care in the world.
Ok, I’ve explained how I’m always late, sliding in by the skin of my teeth, dead last? Rhonda is never late. Never ever. “Are you comin’?” I asked, sliding around her.
She gives me a bewildered look.
“Where we goin’?”
Now, Rhonda’s not one to play cute, and that’s when I begin to think that something has went terribly wrong. I flipped my mental calendar. Yessss….it’s the first Tuesday of the month. I’m not crazy. But I AM worried for Rhonda. She is never unprepared.
“The board meeting???” I say, with a small side of “duhhh” implied.
“No, Caroline’s spring concert is tonight and I couldn’t miss it. We moved it to next week.”
I blink and look around slowly. “How did I not know this?” I survey the lobby. “Am I the only one who showed up?” (Let the record show that I am one of the youngest members of the board. This is not a good sign. Not a good sign at all.)
She giggles inadvertently. “So far.”
Shit.
“I sent an email,” Rhonda states her case.
Of course she did. I don’t read emails. I used to have a sales rep who would call me, or stop by with doughnuts, when he’d sent a pertinent one and needed an order. He knew how I operated. Honestly, unless it’s titled “AMY READ THIS” in bright red letters, I’m probably not going to read it. I figure 90% don’t pertain to me, and of the 10% that do, I’ll be reminded in a future meeting. And it’s always best for the sender to follow up with a text. Because, lets face it, I make a really irresponsible adult when I’m not at work.
So here I’d got all dressed up in this uncomfortable attire, done my makeup, shaved my legs, and showed up, all for nil. I’ll be dogged. This is exactly the second time in my whole life something like this has happened. Another time was church a few years ago. It had snowed on like, Friday, but my road was clear by Saturday evening, so I got up and dressed up, and headed to my normal Sunday Service.
And the parking lot was empty.
Had I checked my emails, I would have known.
I was attending the same church as my boss at Co-op at that time, and he said he never would have dreamed I would attempt to navigate the icy roads or he would have texted me. Seeeee???? He knew me.
But this is in no way Rhonda’s fault. After conferring with a co-board member, my friend Tracy–excuse me, the lovely Tracy, she said she edited her calendar when it was announced last month at the meeting.
What? Last month??? I was there! I remember nothing.
So, once again, I’m struck by the thought that maybe this is my Last Day again, and I was being detained to be at my certain place at my certain time. At least my dress was pretty, even if it was a pain. I thought back to sitting in traffic at the high school and watching Lifestar lift off from the airport. So if something happens to me, they probably wouldn’t be available. Should I hang out at the library? Nah…that would be expected.
I forced myself back out into the sunshine and put myself behind the wheel again. I heaved a big sigh. I called Shug and tried to ignore the lump in my throat that this could be our last conversation. At least he answered.
I ignored my texts all the way home. Why push my luck?
My last meal? A zalad from Zaxby’s because advertising works. And I’m sitting in their drive-thru admiring how glossy their shrubs were. What is with all the plant life today? Is it the perfect combination of sun and rain? Are landscapers becoming better at their jobs? Or am I really fixing to die???
I get home and barely got my purse sat down before I violently sneezed. Five. Times. In. A. Row.
So I don’t know if this is it. If this is my last blog post, I’m sorry it wasn’t more enlightening. But I’m fixing to head to the shower, and I plan to be really careful.
If I don’t see ya till the other side, it’s been a heckuva ride. And I guess I’ll have to depend on y’all to get me published. I’ll die obscure, like Emily Dickenson. š There are worse fates. Remember to notice the little things. Because it’s really gorgeous out there.
And please forgive any grammatical errors. I have not proofread. I ain’t got time for that tonight!
I was starving. That was my first mistake.
My second mistake was reaching for my phone when I should have been reaching for the Cheerios. I wanted to eat my avocados before I forget about them, like I have the last two or so dozen that I’ve purchased. I even went so far as to lay one on the counter last night to speed ripening and remember that’s what I needed to consume. Johnny had gone camping, so I needn’t worry about him saying how gross they were (mind you, he chows down on guacamole).
I logged onto to that curse of so many women, Pinterest.
And of course I see these “Avocado Nests” that look delectable and easily prepared. If those teenyboppers over at Buzzfeed can do it, so can I.
Perhaps I should have let my avocados ripen a bit more, but no matter. I freed the nut and dutifully scraped a larger hole out. I pondered the possibility of only a pair filling me up.
Best make two.
Then I cracked the first egg and encountered my first big problem. Evidently everyone else uses ginormous avocados with micro eggs. Because my egg went everywhere. I frantically scooped it up and tried to make an extra large egg fit into an average avocado.
Repeat times four.
I’m not at my brightest at seven in the morning. Luckily, I only busted one yolk.
Then the toppings. Salt and pepper for everybody, a little cheese on you, some tomatoes for you (quit sliding off!!!), a sprinkle of bacon bits with mozzarella here. Off to the front porch to pick a sprig of my basil. At least they looked pretty. Popped in the oven at 400Ā° (I just had to Google how to make that symbol….what did we do before Google?) and impatiently waited for 15 minutes. I got my breakfast entertainment ready: Designing Women, the one where the group is wooed by the ultra rich couple and end up having to emergency evacuate from the “Gun Room” where the couple fires insults at each other and bullets at the taxidermy.
At last, my avocado nests were ready. I eagerly took the pan from the oven and surveyed the mess. Of course, where the eggs had run everywhere, they had cooked to the pan. Which was kind of alright, because I was able to scrape it off….for the most part. (Ten hours later, there I was with an SOS pad and a foul temper). I transferred the four “nests” to my plate and headed back to my nest on the couch.
And stared at the mess. It quickly occurred to me the helpful preparation video had not shared how to go about eating the blasted things. The fork was not going to do it. I needed a spoon. After retrieving the spoon, I found that I still needed an instructional video for consumption. I had to take hold of each one with my left hand while scooping with my right.
Egg yolk EVERYWHERE. What a mess. Thank God I didn’t have an audience. The horror! What if I were served these at a Bed & Breakfast? That’s it, I’m never staying at a B&B. It took five minutes to wash the sticky yolk off my fingers. This would never happen to Julia Sugarbaker.
So, in conclusion, I have yet to learn my lesson about cooking from Pinterest and expecting the same effortless results. I should have just stuck to biscuits and bacon.
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 purchasedĀ it).Ā 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.
