Here’s the requisite amazon link
I love it when I finish a book in a day. I could have read it in a few hours, had I been fully committed and devoted, but Easter. Not that my family is unaccustomed to me having my nose stuck in a book the majority of the time, I do try to pretend to be in the mix of things on holidays.
I always read the one star reviews on Amazon. Always. I find they are more honest than the gushing five stars. Also, you can tell by the grammar and spelling whether their opinions are valid. Additionally, a surprising number of people don’t seem to understand the star system, or perhaps they get too excited and hit one when they mean to choose five. Whatever.
The disparaging reviews came from two types of people: Gossip mongers who read primarily tabloids who found the research about hermits through the years tedious, and people who thought the book was an invasion of privacy. ………the question begs to be asked: Sooooooo why did you buy it? Obviously Mr. Finkel planned to capitalize on the story. He may have donated some funds to Christopher’s family, but from what I read, they would have instantaneously rejected it.
I found the book fascinating, as I knew I would after coming upon an article about him on Facebook last year. From that moment I had hoped a book would come out detailing his life. I didn’t realize I was so entranced with hermits, until I was reading the end of the book for suggested reading. I have read, or have on my shelves to read, a number of the books mentioned. I fell in love with Walden way back when in high school when a few passages were required reading I’ve remarked many times in my life that I would love to do it myself. Maybe not forever, but maybe start at a year and see where it takes me. But I’m lazy, which is part of why I want to do it, and also why I’ll never be able to. I’m of the hermit variety that needs running water and indoor plumbing. And someone to split firewood and bring me game.
Really, I just want to read undisturbed and uninterrupted for long stretches.
Alright, I gotta get on with this book review before I lose you.
“Those with less become content, those with more become confused.” ~The Tao Te Ching
“One becomes free not by fulfilling all desires, but by eliminating desire.: ~Socrates.
“Hell is other people.” ~Sartre
“I have no friends of any sort and I don’t want any.” ~Michelangelo
“What did Knight do for a living? He lived for a living.”
His situation was not ideal. He had to steal for the whole quarter century he was out there. He never built a fire to heat himself or cook his meat on (he used stolen camp stoves hooked to stolen propane tanks), and he couldn’t-or wouldn’t- fish or hunt. He didn’t have some lofty idea of what he was trying to accomplish or some fantastic ideals to incorporate into society. He wasn’t on a religious pilgrimage (although he does admit to praying when it was 20 below and he was cocooned in his sleeping bags. Like he said, there’s no atheists in the foxhole. Ha!). He just wanted to leave, and be left alone. He didn’t fit in anywhere besides by himself. “His commitment to isolation was absolute.” Once he was arrested, people offered him all sorts of help, from offers of land to use to be a permanent hermit, bail money, TV interviews (seriously?? Know your subject), and marriage (again…). But he accepted nothing.
In the first encounter with the author, Chris comes across abrasive and snarky. He said the letters they had exchanged had gone through a series of rough drafts to remove unnecessary insults. “only necessary ones remained.” However, sarcasm doesn’t seem to be something he understands and I was frequently reminded of the Sheldon character on Big Bang Theory. “I’m not going to miss you at all,” he tells the author on one visit. And on the last, ” I deny you my magnificent presence.”
He hates all his labels, especially the term crazy. “‘I understand I’ve made an unusual lifestyle choice. But the label ‘crazy’ bothers me. Annoys me. Because it prevents response.’ When someone asks if you’re crazy, Knight lamented, you can either say yes, which makes you crazy, or you can say no, which makes you sound defensive, as if you fear you really are crazy. There’s no good answer.” Crazy hermit has a point 😉 “Knight said he cannot accurately describe what it felt like to spend such an immense period of time alone. Silence does not translate into words.”
There are several hauntingly beautiful insights to the hermit’s habitat, among them: “At last came the call of the loons, the theme song of the North Woods, pealing like a laugh or a cry, depending on your mood.” Sometimes I read lines like that and wonder how close they were to being cut. What resonates with me and paints a picture may not strike the same chord in others. But I can see those ducks, with their necks stretched up in the moonlight, their red eyes glinting. And I see the shadow of Chris dart behind a tree.
One of his most endearing qualities, I thought, was his burning desire and craving for certain books and the difficulty of procuring them. “He stole every book on military history he saw. He pilfered a copy of Ulysses, but it was possibly the one book he did not finish. ‘What’s the point of it? I suspect it was a bit of a joke to Joyce. He just kept his mouth shut as people read into it more than there was. Pseudo-intellectuals love to drop the name Ulysses as their favorite book. I refused to be intellectually bullied into finishing it.” I could not agree more. Chris wasn’t totally out of touch-he had stolen a tiny black & white TV but after listening to all the news on September 11th, 2001, he never watched it again. I felt the same way. Imagine being totally isolated and hearing all that. You would believe nothing would ever be the same again…and in a way, it wasn’t. He lost track of the years and charted time by the moon, by seasons, and later, in jail, by chin hair. “His closest companion may have been a mushroom…this particular one, a shelf mushroom, jutted at knee height from the trunk of the largest hemlock in Knight’s camp. He began observing the mushroom when its cap was no bigger than a watch face. It grew unhurriedly, and eventually, after decades, expanded to the size of a dinner plate….The mushroom meant something to him; one of the few concerns Knight had after his arrest was that the police officers who’s tromped through his camp had knocked it down. When he learned that the mushroom was still there, he was pleased.” I think I get it. I used to get so mad to see children taking their aggression out on tree limbs, stripping them of their leaves and kicking them relentlessly. A tree doesn’t have feelings, but I do. That was my biggest complaint with the desert: There are simply not enough trees.
There is a section on noise, which I find endlessly interesting. I didn’t have cable TV until just last November, and I rarely had it on at all. When I got married, things changed. My husband feels the need to constantly have the TV on, all the TVs, as a matter of fact. Even if he’s outside mowing the yard. This drives me absolutely bonkers. And even that isn’t enough. He’ll be surfing on his phone, too. I absolutely cannot stand it and usually retreat to another room. It’s all too much. My brain feels like it’s vibrating in my head and is trying to combust, which obviously interferes with my concentration. A quote by Nicholas Carr from his book about the correlation between brain science and screen time: “The internet steadily chips away at one’s capacity for concentration and contemplation.” I know that’s a fact. I can no longer read for more than half an hour before I feel compelled to check my phone. Notifications are addicting. “According to more than a dozen studies conducted around the world, Knight’s camp–an oasis of natural quiet–may have been the ideal setting to encourage maximum brain function. These studies, examining the difference between living in a calm place and existing amid commotion, all arrived at the same conclusion: noise and distraction are toxic. The chief problem with environmental noise one can’t control is that it’s impossible to ignore. The human body is designed to react to it. Sound waves vibrate a tiny chain of bones–the hammer, anvil, and stirrup, the old-time hardware store of the middle ear–and these physical vibrations are converted to electrical signals that are fired directly into the auditory cortex of the brain. The body responds immediately, even during sleep. {I KNEW sleeping with the TV on was terrible for you!!!} People who live in cities experience chronically elevated levels of stress hormones. These hormones, especially cortisol, increase one’s blood pressure, contributing to heart disease and cellular damage. Noise harms your body and boils your brain. The word ‘noise’ is derived from the Latin word nausea. You don’t need that much quiet to change things, or even have to be alone. But you do have to seek out a soothing environment, and do it often. Japanese researchers found that a 15 minute walk in the woods caused significant decreases in cortisol, along with a modest drop in blood pressure and heart rate….a Duke biologist working with mice found that two hours of complete silence prompted cell development in the hippocampus, the brain region related to the formation of memory. Studies of humans in the US, Great Britain, Holland, and Canada have shown that passing time in quiet, rural settings, subjects were calmer and more perceptive, less depressed and anxious, with improved cognition and a stronger memory. Time amid the silence of nature, in other words, makes you smarter.” Right?! I’m not one to blindly accept everything I read, but I absolutely, 100%, steadfastly believe every bit of that.
I found the history intriguing and pertinent. Perhaps some of the information about became a little repetitive, but I’m sure that was from lack of material due to Chris’s reluctance to talk. We learn about the estimated million protester hermits living in Japan RIGHT NOW. They have “rejected their country’s competitive, conformist, pressure-cooker culture. They have retreated into their childhood bedrooms and almost never emerge, in many cases for more than a decade. They pass the day reading or surfing the web. Their parents deliver meals to their doors, and psychologists offer them counseling online. The media has called them ‘the lost generation’ and ‘the missing million’.” Some Hindu followers (about four million) “file their own death certificates as their lives are considered terminated and they are legally dead to the nation of India.” One of the stranger passages refers to the “ornamental hermits” in eighteenth-century England. “The job paid well, and hundreds of hermits were hired, typically on seven-year contracts, with one meal a day included. Some would emerge at dinner parties and greet guests. English aristocracy of this period believed hermits radiated kindness and thoughtfulness, and for a couple of decades it was deemed worthy to keep one around.” Tell me that isn’t the weirdest thing you’ve read today.
There was a woman named Diane Perry (who changed her name to Tenzin Palmo, I think because she became a Buddhist nun-the 2nd in the world!) who, in 1976, at the age of 33, moved into a cave in the remote Himalayas. She spent 12 years there. “Her solitude, she said, was ‘the easiest thing in the world’. Not for a moment did she want to be anywhere else. She overcame the fear of death, she insisted and felt liberated. ‘The more you realize, the more you realize there is nothing to realize. The idea that there’s somewhere we have got to get to, and something we have to attain, is our basic delusion.'”
“Everyone dreams of dropping out of the world once in a while. Then you get in the car and drive back home.
Knight stayed. He followed a very strange calling and held true to himself more fully than most of us will ever dare to. He clearly had no desire to be a part of our world.”
Now that I’ve ruined all the best parts for you, please read it.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t they all good? 😉
I know that typically it’s a day of fasting and penance, to commemorate the crucifixion of Jesus, that he gave up his life for our sins, and I feel somewhat guilty that I really had a wonderful day. But that’s human nature, I suppose.
This one was especially good because it was the first time in my entire working life I was not working!!! My place of employment was CLOSED. Heck to the yes. So I took full advantage. I acted like a normal human with a holiday: I cleaned house, watched a few episodes of Designing Women, then I met some friends at the movies. I drew a blank while purchasing my ticket, which did not amuse the ticketseller. Sigh. After saying, “It’s got animals…it’s set in World War II…” I was able to spit out triumphantly, “The Zookeeper’s Wife!”
I thought we were going to be the only people in the theater, but then a couple came in, followed shortly by some guy going on about “sitting right behind them & kicking their chairs.” Turns out, we knew him and his wife, and they recognized us before we saw them. They did indeed sit behind us, but there was no kicking.
The movie was paralyzingly depressing, and it was no time (I think) before I was asleep. I can count on one hand all the times I’ve fallen asleep in a public place. Spanish class, for one. Study hall, for another (I had two study halls my senior year, and one was 1st period, so who could blame me?). Anyway, rumor has it I even snored, although Tracy assured me it was more of a gentle purr 😊 😽
I only woke up because I was cold, I’m pretty sure. That’s probably why they keep theaters so cold, or everybody would be asleep. And who could blame you? Those leather stadium seats are all cushy and cozy and the reclining option…almost like home! I had a sweater in Patsy, but didn’t take it in, and it’s probably a good thing, because look:
Well. It says Parse Error on my picture. It’s just a picture of the tag. I would have been Minnie Pearl, and the source of ridicule for a few weeks. They’ll just have to come up with something else! (Rest assured, it shan’t take long. Tracy is coming for Easter, which is an endless well of Embarrassing Amy stories).
Alrighty. After the snoozefest, we made our way over to Texas Roadhouse. I had eaten a meatball sub beforehand, so I was just down for margaritas and fried pickles. Yes, an odd combination. But I’m known for those. I have been known to eat only chocolate cake with beer at Chop House, and lemon cake and Moscato at Olive Garden. While we’re on the subject, have you had their lemon cake?!!?! It is out of this world.
I took back roads all the way home, windows down, hair blowing madly. It was wonderful. I have fixed tacos for supper. We already had fish this week, in the form of shrimp scampi. It doesn’t take a crystal ball to see I’m gonna have some serious heartburn tonight. Better go ahead and hunt up the generic peppermint Zantac and sit on the porch awhile.
So that was my best Good Friday ever. While some people were practicing restraint and being spiritual, I couldn’t be more content. At least I did fast something. And in my past life, Good Friday wasn’t gobs and scads of fun at the Co-op, it’s the equivalent of Black Friday, essentially. Gotta get them taters and onions in the ground. And the moon was full night before last, so according to the signs, you best git with it. I think. I can’t really remember. But I do know the crappie are biting right now. So if you didn’t spend the day in the garden, maybe you spent it on the boat. Or maybe you spent it in a bitterly cold movie theater, snuggled in among friends, snoring away.
Happy Easter, my friends.
Luke 23:27-28 And a great multitude of the people followed Him, and women who also mourned and lamented Him. But Jesus, turning to them, said, “Daughters of Jerusalem, do not weep for Me, but weep for yourselves and for your children.”
Luke 23: 44-46 Now it was about the sixth hour, and there was darkness over all the earth until the ninth hour. Then the sun was darkened, and the veil of the temple was torn in two. And when Jesus had cried out with a loud voice, He said, “Father, ‘into Your hands I commit My spirit.’” Having said this, He breathed His last.
Luke 24: 1-9 Now on the first day of the week, very early in the morning, they, and certain other women with them, came to the tomb bringing the spices which they had prepared. But they found the stone rolled away from the tomb. Then they went in and did not find the body of the Lord Jesus. And it happened, as they were greatly perplexed about this, that behold, two men stood by them in shining garments. Then, as they were afraid and bowed their faces to the earth, they said to them, “Why do you seek the living among the dead? He is not here, but is risen! Remember how He spoke to you when He was still in Galilee, saying, ‘The Son of Man must be delivered into the hands of sinful men, and be crucified, and the third day rise again.’”
And they remembered His words. Then they returned from the tomb and told all these things to the eleven and to all the rest.
I’ve heard people say, “be careful of your words, and of your actions, for you may be the only Bible some people read.” I should be more careful. Heaven help you if I’m the only Bible you read. I’m a poor example of a Christian. I do strive to be truthful. Once, one of my favorite customers (and people in general), Ray Ball, told a new customer of mine: “All I know is, if Amy tells you it’s Easter, you better start huntin’ eggs.” Now Ray-there’s a perfect example of a good Christian. I am blessed to know him. I encourage you to open your heart to Jesus, and I promise you it will change your life. You’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
Today, I sat on the porch.
Now, if I were being proper country, I would say I “set” on the porch. But my Grammar Nazi can’t take it. So I sat.
And I didn’t do much of nothin’ for one solid hour.
I watched the dogs, and I enjoyed the breeze, noting how it lifted the flags and gave motion to the flagpole. I listened to the windchimes and took note of the boldest birds (blackbirds and turtle doves, followed closely by robins and mockingbirds). I watched the cars rush by, and I reflected on how nice it is to have a yard, and a porch, and a home. I admired my flower beds (wildly out of control), and smiled at my redbud trees. I’m proud of them all-two I planted, one I tried to kill because I thought it was a weed. I’m pleased to report it persevered. I didn’t have a book, or take my phone to scroll Instagram (still on Lent, no Facebook). So there are no pictures to commemorate the occasion. But I can tell you, Lightning Bug is restless and pees a lot, and Sugar is the most laid back, easygoing, patient canine on the planet. Bug plops her in the ear and face with his tail, she just scwinches her eyes shut and pays no mind. He walks across her front legs, she barely looks his way. He takes her stick, eh, she’ll eventually be gifted with another.
But come out with a handful of Fritos and her demeanor changes.
Anyway. I had a couple of glasses of wine and it made me nostalgic. But you know these 75° days are rare. So I didn’t think about the pollen invading my respiratory system, or how busy I was at work today, or how much laundry I need to do Friday…I just sat on the porch.
And I sipped my wine.
I hope that one day soon you have the opportunity to do the same. You might learn something new. Like how to relax.
There’s two things I can’t ever seem to get enough of: books and margaritas and…
Well, nevermind. There’s lots of things I’m a greedy little hog about. But two of my great loves are tattoos and oysters. And I was past due for both.
I’ve been eyeing pretty heavily some tattoo designs on Pinterest. I want to be sure, you know? Like, really sure. It’s so permanent and all. I haven’t regretted any of my other selections, but that’s because I agonized over them for months, or years, even. I am prime real estate, & He ain’t makin’ no more.
I’ve been hung up on swallows ever since Hannibal Lector was schooling Clarice on them. (However, my recent Google search showed that it was roller pigeons, not swallows. Dammit. But swallows are the same concept:they dive for their meals. For the sake of my story, we’re going to continue on like it was always swallows, because that’s what I’ve been envisioning all these years). And I was researching the meaning of swallow tattoos, and the birds in general, and found that I liked everything I was reading about them. They symbolize coming home, true love, the arrival of spring, and a host of other wonderful homey things. The blue ones signify optimism. They eat sixty mosquitoes an hour. Hello, my little feathered heroes! I found several simple designs I thought would work for me and the wrist placement I had in mind. You know, small and dainty so I could cover it with my watch or a wide bracelet.
Johnny made me an appointment with his friend Big Dave, who has inked their whole tribe many times over. He warned me he has a heavy hand, but I wasn’t worried. I have three already, after all. I’m a trooper. I anticipated it all week, practically giddy by Thursday afternoon. As I haven’t had a new tattoo in several years, this was a big deal.
So Friday at 5:15 I found myself climbing into a cracked, ripped, creme colored tattoo chair in a red painted room while some heavy metal band called Dead Fetus, I believe it was, screamed from the speakers.
You get what you get in these places. I imagine it’s much like operating rooms, only for tattoos you’re awake to see and hear it.
I had showed him some pictures of what I had in mind beforehand, of course, but we had to find a clearer image in order to print it off and get the dimensions. I kinda thought he would just free hand it, but whatevs. I didn’t like the cartoon style swallows, and I didn’t like the super detailed ones either, because I knew as small as I wanted it they would never convert over. Here are a few of the type I liked:
Simple lines and basic colors like navy blue. I definitely wanted it swooping and I definitely wanted the forked tail to be prominent. So when he brought me this, I knew I’d have to get involved in the hunting of images.
Sure, it’s beautiful, but to me, it’s just a songbird. I’m no ornithologist (save your dictionary app-that means a person who specializes in birds).
We finally settled on one…and on a much bigger scale than what I’d originally intended. Go big or go home. And I’d had such a heckuva time parking I wasn’t about to go home. Just imagine, the story I’ll be telling the rest of my days: “Well, I got frustrated hunting the perfect Google image, and this is what I got because I just wanted to get it over with. He told me the little ones would just look blobby. Why wouldn’t I trust him?”
He got the forked tail outline started before I started sweating. He and Johnny were chatting away like nothing was amiss, like this was a happy time in a land of unicorns and rainbows and unlimited cupcakes. I snuck a look to see if he was almost done.
Ha.
Luckily, Big Dave lives up to his name and had my wrist pinned under his meaty hand and I couldn’t go anywhere if I tried. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t cry. Or pass out. Or throw up.
No wonder people always ask if it hurts. Because it does. I guess I forgot. I barely felt my little shamrock when I got it done…but come to think of it, I might have been drinking that night. No matter. And my heart and horseshoe I was all excited to finally be getting them I was riding a rush of adrenaline. Whoooo-eee. I closed my eyes and pretended I was Miranda Lambert. When that didn’t work, I tried to put it in perspective. This wasn’t as bad as a visit to the lady doctor. Wait. Yes it was. It was worse because it was lasting a lot longer. And I really like my doctor! Ok, the dentist. Yes, this was definitely worse than the dentist.
Well, no. The dentist is worse. There’s the grinding. And the smell of bone being pulverized. Ok, yes. Definitely the dentist is worse. And kidney stones. Kidney stones make you want to die. First, you’re scared you’re gonna die, then you hope you will, because the pain is so intense. Ok. So good. Two things worse than being tattooed. Good thing I really wanted this damn bird because it was taking a lot of willpower to get it.
Could I get some ice chips?
Every time he swapped inkwells, I got a brief respite from the buzzing needle for a minute, just long enough for me to relish the lack of pain before he started back in with a vengeance.
Johnny took some pictures to preserve the moment, at my request, in case these were among my last moments on Earth.
You thought I was exaggerating about the Big Dave part, didn’t you? 🙂
He eventually stopped jabbing, squirted some restorative water on me, swabbed me down, wrapped me up, and sent me on my way.
I am proud to report I didn’t even cry in the truck. I wanted to, though. Shug’s like, “You good for awhile, then?” (Obviously not, as I’ve been looking at watercolor sleeves all weekend). We stopped for barbeque on the way home, since I was hungry before we started but was afraid to eat in fear it would all come back up. I was bleeding under my saran wrap and people kept eyeing me, so perhaps it wasn’t the best idea.
Amyway, here’s the finished product.
I don’t know why that loaded sideways. It’s upside down, anyway, because it’s for me, not anybody else, and I want to look at it right side up. Hence it being upside down to everybody else.
So that was Friday.
Saturday we had plans to go to my good friend Whit’s house for an oyster shucking party. I’ve never shucked an oyster in my life, but clearly, there’s no time like the present. So I packed our two dozen towels and hot sauce and key lime pie and away we went.
In case you’ve never seen 100 oysters, this is what they look like:
Pretty gross, according to the men in our lives. I wasn’t allowed to talk about the worms I found hanging onto the mollusks, nor the teeny tiny crabs I kept running up on (and consuming). But after a few games of beer pong, nobody cared. And we (me & Whit) are the champions…but who’s the real winner, the true winners, or the people who get more beer?
I guess it’s however you wanna look at it.
So that was my adventurous weekend. I’m kinda proud of myself. Livin’ on the edge with arm tattoos and raw oysters. Yeehaw.
Buy Me on Amazon (But if I were you I’d rent it from the library….I am a horrible salesman)
One thing’s for sure…I would have been a crappy secretary in 1952. I mean, let’s face it, I’m not the greatest in 2017. My typing “skills”, be that as they may, is my left hand does almost all the work, and I peck with my right index finger occasionally. And I have to look, unless I’m typing STRAW or “Thank you for your interest. Please see the attached quote Brian prepared for you. Don’t hesitate to contact us with any questions.” because I have typed those words thousands of times. My hair is constantly a mess, no matter if it’s tied up in a knot or down. The only time I wear gloves is if it’s in the single digits. My back is rarely ramrod straight, and it would never occur to me to cross my ankles. Demure is not in my vocabulary. The only thing I would excel at is my telephone etiquette, as I’ve never had trouble with volume 🙂 The deafest customer never had a problem hearing me at Co-op.
All that aside, this book had great premise, but came off reading like a sixth grade romance novel. Neither story was plausible, as she strove to hard for parallelism between Darby in 1952 and Rose in 2016. How many Rose’s do you know, in this day and age, anyway? I desperately wanted to love it, as The Barbizon is a gold mine, I’m sure. But I couldn’t get past the juvenile writing and conversation. Such a waste of a potentially absorbing story.
There’s this wonderful place you can visit. It doesn’t cost a dime. And once there, the places you can go are literally limitless.
This magical destination is the library. I know, I know, I’m the biggest nerd. But seriously.
So tonight was the board meeting. And it was typical in all aspects, other than our chairman was absent so the meeting was conducted by my lovely friend (and recent partner in crime), Tracy. Things were clicking along, we were approving budgets for consideration of the county, approving fundraisers, discussing projects that are coming up. I reached for my regional report and found it stuck to the glass topped table. No worries. I’m sure it’s just barely tacked on there. I didn’t even have anything sticky on my plate. What is going on? I finally ripped it free, leaving several bits of paper essentially glued to the conference table. The director had to dribble water on it and scrub. I don’t know how I constantly find myself in these clean up positions. I’m like a three year old. Someday I’ll tell y’all about the gallon of Red Cell I dropped at the Co-op. Or the case of Hearty Hoof that I dribbled from one end to the other.
Now, see, I am obviously not a prototypical board member. Especially one you would picture on the local library board. I’m too young, I’m too bouncy, I’m too everything. On top of all that, I’m a woman. *commence pearl clutching* So I frequently have these…issues. I’m notoriously last minute-I blow in, get my purse tangled in my chair, root around for an ink pen (that will leak and bleed without fail all over everything), I’ll spill my tea/ drop my fork/ get food on my shirt. One time I had a mishap with my lace vest getting hung in a drawer. I don’t know why these things happen to me, they just always have. Being a public servant hasn’t changed a thing. I am a mess, and unsuitable for most presentations.
But they always put me in charge of the alcohol.
🙂
Oh, yes, the library has alcohol. Well, MY library does, because we’re awesome. We have a fundraising event put on by The Friends (not like “The Family”, we are not the mob) once a year after hours, aptly called “Night At the Library” and it’s gobs of fun.
Anyway, tonight, for the director’s report, she shared with us how many books each of the 279 children affected by the wildfire will receive. The primary school age will get upwards of 25!!! We had several organizations donate books (Nora Roberts Foundation, the Dolly Parton Reading Rainbow people, and this great church over in North Carolina, to name a few. And somebody gave $5,000 towards the purchase of new books–that amounted to over 800!!!) So our wonderful director was telling us all about how the project came to fruition and how they’re bundling them this week for the school board to distribute, and how it’s so impossible to think about 279 children fleeing for their lives, coming off that mountain while it’s blazing and…whew.
But they made this YouTube video and it’s quite simply wonderful. Please watch it. You will not find a more accurate portrayal of a mountain woman than our Theresa. Her story is common, but it is also her own.
She voices what many of us have pondered: “I have always wondered what I would take in an emergency situation. I wound up with four things: my mother, our medicine, my pocketbook, and my Bible. When I looked around, those were the only things that were important to me.”
I don’t have to tell you that to be reduced to such a decision is astounding. She’s lived in the same house for 65 years, and that’s what she took, not knowing if she would have anything to return to ever again. I won’t ruin the whole video for you, but please watch. As Sharon says, “Books are as important to me as food and shelter.”
Now you see why I cry in board meetings. They’re real tear jerkers since November.
Join your library. Make something on the 3D printer. Rent a movie. Or heck, check out a book. But support your local library. Because they support your community.
You like twisty plots? Warped characters? Page turning suspense?
Then this is what you need to pick up. Right freaking now. You can’t figure it out, I promise you that. What an insane read. Unbelievable.
This is the best book I’ve read in forever. And it’s drawn out and it makes you want to scream at Louise for not handling things differently; a kind of “Don’t go in the basement with the guy wearing the hockey mask” type of helpful advice, but you won’t be able to put it down, I assure you that. And you wonder…as far fetched as it sounds…could it happen? Don’t the best books make you wonder that? Make you second guess all the things you think you know? I mean, if it rocked Stephen King’s world, isn’t it good enough for you?
And look, the author is wonderfully private:
Everybody’s talking about the ending. Don’t you want to know??
When I was in seventh grade, I had a teacher who could be described as a feminist…or as close as you could be to one in the hills of Tennessee in the early 90’s. She made us watch “Not Without My Daughter” starring Sally Fields. Long story short, Sally is married to a Persian man who wants to take his family to his homeland for a few weeks for a vacation. Sally has her reservations, but eventually caves. Once they get there-Surprise!- he reveals he isn’t leaving, which was his plan all along, of course. She has to wear the head scarves and submit to his every will or risk beatings and all the worst things imaginable. She tries to leave and finds it impossible to take her daughter. High drama.
So this book is set in the same type of environment: strong women trying to escape brutal, illiterate, powerful men. And they will do ANYTHING for a few moments’ reprieve…including, but not limited to, dressing like a man. And who can blame them? These girls are frequently sold-that’s right-SOLD to the highest bidder (often their first cousin) for a sum of a few thousand dollars or some desolate dusty desert land by the time they are fourteen. Earlier, if they achieve puberty. And many of them try to hide that little nugget from their family in fear of what comes next: you are treated as a brood mare. Worse, actually, as most brood mares get plenty of rest and all they want to eat. And if you don’t magically produce a son in the first few offspring, your husband takes a second wife and you get to live with her and whatever passel of young’ns she brings into the picture. You aren’t allowed to go outside, except in the company of your husband, or gain weight, or drive, or make eye contact. You can’t show your wrists or ankles or heaven forbid anything else in fear of being labeled a whore. So who wouldn’t want to grow up as a boy instead? You can wear pants and climb trees and yell as loud as you want and get served first at the table. You can go to school and have a job and not answer to anyone. To them, this is freedom.
And all of these things I have taken for granted. “Too much education can potentially make a girl less attractive to a spouse, as she may develop plans to work or simply become too opinionated.” HEAVENS TO BETSY!! That is a definite problem. You can’t dance, either. “Dancing falls into the same category as poetry for a woman-it equals dreaming, which may inspire thoughts about such banned topics as love and desire. Any woman reading, writing, or citing poetry is a woman who may harbor strange ideas about love and romance in her head, and thus is a potential whore.” Boy, would I be in trouble. And we know why they don’t want you having romantic thoughts–so their sorry men don’t have to be nice, there are no standards to live up to. They teach their women that in Western civilizations we walk around naked in the streets and have sex with a thousand men. They justify their shroudlike covering thusly: “A woman is a very beautiful thing. In order to protect something beautiful, you should cover it. Like a diamond. You cannot just put it on the street, because everyone would just come and take it.”
“Do you understand that it is the wish of every Afghan woman to have been born a man? To be free?” One of the women followed in the book, Nader, has a team of protégées that she is training in Tai Kwon Do, and she tells them if they are lucky, no one will want to marry them. This could not be more true. Marriage to the wrong man is the kiss of death. And there are so very many wrong men. Women playing sports is strongly discouraged, so they must play and train in secret. “Too much physical exercise could be dangerous for women. Men who watch them could get too excited by catching glimpses of female bodies in motion. And the (more important) male athletes may become too distracted to engage in competitive sports at all if women were on the field. And what might the point of winning or even playing honorably, if women are not cooing on the sidelines?”
*Deep breath*
Number one, I find it humorous in a disgusted way that they even use the word honorably to describe anything about their culture.
Number two, I’ve never cooed in my life. Pigeons coo. Phoebe coos. Amy does NOT coo.
And neither do many of these women. “Those around her used to argue that biology would overtake her one day, when she married and had children. She would agree, just to make them stop talking, knowing it would not happen.”…”When one gender is so unwanted, so despised, and so suppressed in a place where daughters are expressly unwanted, perhaps both the body and the mind of a growing human can be expected to revolt against becoming a women. And thus, perhaps, alter someone for good.”
Our endearing author wants to try it. “‘Okay, so make me into a man, then,’ I say. “If you think a person can switch. Teach me.’…She has watched me several times, she explains. Although I have been styled and persistently trained in discreet, womanly behavior, people still stare at me as I stride by, taking big steps in my all-black coverage. They watch me not only because I am a Westerner, they look at me because I walk around as though I am ‘the owner of everything’. I arrive everywhere without a husband or father. And when we speak, I look her in the eyes, seeming neither shy nor emotional. I do not giggle-my laugh is more of a hoarse kind. And like a child, my face has no makeup and my wrists and hands carry no jewelry. She looks at me again, quickly, before she turns back, striking an apologetic tone. She asks that her next words not be translated, as they may be too insulting. But Setareh has already burst out in low laughter, gently passing the message along: “She says you are a man already. There is nothing she can teach you.'” I guess we do come off as a little unladylike to these shadows of humans. I, for one, would rather be a man than a shadow. They don’t understand why someone who has the opportunity to travel anywhere in the world-or DO ANYTHING in the world- would want to come to Afghanistan (I share in this troublesome enigma). They also find it strange her father would allow it, as all decisions made up until marriage are made by their fathers. They want to know what her purpose of life is, if it’s not to get married and have children. “You might as well have been born a man. What is there now to make you a woman?” This is spoken by one of the sisters to one of the girls raised as a boy. You can see that sometimes the women can be harsh and judgmental.
Which brings us to the subject of divorce. Of course Afghan women aren’t allowed to divorce…at least not easily. It’s explained that “women have less brainpower and may haphazardly ask for a divorce for no good valid reason.” Indeed! You wouldn’t want to divorce a perfectly good man who only beats you severely twice a week and whose mother keeps the food under lock and key. “An Afghan women who wants to leave her husband will be obliged to also leave her children behind. Making divorce nearly impossible for most women is exactly the point- otherwise, the thinking goes, women could just divorce men left and right, taking the children with them. Women are too emotional, rash, and impulsive-particularly when they are menstruating. They cannot be trusted to make rational decisions. So, for their own well-being, the logic goes , children should always remain with the father to avoid being carted off to a series of new husbands whom their whorish mothers may decide to marry at a whim.”
Oh, dear. Now, while some of this does bring to mind some women I know, the same cannot be said of these poor prisoners of Arab husbands. Our protagonist, Azita, her parents have been married 37 years. By all accounts, her father is a forward thinking (read: former communist) man, who had the foresight to send Azita to get an education, therefore paving a way into the Parliament. When the author asks her mother the secret to such a long marriage, the answer is immediate. “She looks at me like I am clueless. ‘It’s very hard to get divorced here,’ she says, throwing her hands up in a gesture of ‘What else did you imagine?'”
“By law, women are allowed to drive in Afghanistan. Just as they are formally allowed to inherit property and divorce their husbands. They just don’t, most of the time.
Nader wore a head scarf while driving once, just to please her brothers and to humor what they insist God requires from her. It nearly got several people killed, herself included.”
This book is a worthwhile, entertaining read, and I recommend it to anyone who needs a little perspective, a little broadening of the mind, perhaps a little compassion or reasoning of why we press on in these wars against terrorism. Although much of the crimes against women are blamed on society and tradition, the only way to stop them is education. It is the key.
And if that won’t work, a good tooth-rattling sock to the jaw from a marine never seems like a bad idea, either.
This should be required reading for all high school students. We can all use a reminder that we are truly in the land of milk and honey.
This time last week, I was prone in the bed, down with the flu.
I don’t mean I was cool with it, I mean I was unable to be up and about. I was down. Typically in my life, when using that term, it’s been to describe the ailments of some sort of livestock. Indeed, I felt like a cow ready to be put out of misery.
You see, I’ve never had the flu. I am one of those disgustingly well people everyone loves to hate. I suffer from an occasional bout with allergies, which have abated since my unvaried use of antihistamines. Drugs are amazing. But I have mistakenly believed that the flu was when you were throwing up, congested, feverish, and in the bathroom with the other. While this is partly true, if you have the misfortune of having both the flu AND the stomach flu, mine was of the coughing and elevated temperature variety, which is plenty bad enough.
It started on Tuesday. I blamed my bad decision of leaving the window open the previous night during the thunderstorm. I had a little cough. Nothing serious, just a short *cough, cough* into my fist every now and then. By Wednesday, it was a little more frequent with a little more force. My attitude was disintegrating, as I evidently picked a fight with Shug over dinner. Thursday afternoon found me with my head on my desk, hoping I had the strength to get home and an ache in my back to accompany my fairly strenuous cough. And I felt a little warm. Luckily, I was off on Friday, so I could potentially recover and rest after I went to the grocery store and cleaned house.
Ha.
I had wild ambitions to make it to Sam’s to stock up on sandwich meat and pork chops, but I made it to my closet before I changed my mind. Food City it is. And I wasn’t putting makeup on, either. To complicate matters further, it was Midnight Madness, so I knew the blue hairs would be out in force. Nonetheless, I wasn’t to be deterred and steered my buggy into their midst.
I wandered into the pharmaceutical aisle and picked up some new antacids but shied away from the Sudafed and Dayquil selections. I’ve heard they only mask your symptoms and make it take that much longer to get well. I contemplated again going by the clinic, but that would be $50 plus prescriptions, plus who knew what I would contract sitting in the waiting room with sick people? If I wasn’t better in a few days, I’d go. But I wouldn’t be happy about it. I’ve heard the way they test you for the flu, and it does not sound pleasant. I got my shopping done as quick as possible and was back home in an hour, carried the majority of it to the porch, brought the cold stuff in, and lay on the couch to recover. It certainly was warm. I put on shorts, but began to chill, so I covered up with my alpaca blanket, a constant companion of mine throughout the frigid Tennessee winters for several years now. It wasn’t long till I felt sweaty behind my knees and the best thing I decided I could do would be to power through. Mind over matter and all that New Age cockammamie crap.
So I put up the remainder of the groceries, and swept, and cleaned the bathroom sinks, and put up the laundry I’d started the night before (four loads, if anybody I keeping up with my Superwoman capabilities). I thawed sausage to make stuffed peppers for supper, which was already seeming a bit daunting of a task. The worst part was my coughing was so severe, I would either pee or toot with every spasm. And my back and ribs were really starting to hurt.
Well, I managed to make supper, but I didn’t eat but part of one pepper (unheard of), and I didn’t wash dishes, which is a sure sign I was on Death’s Doorstep. I wouldn’t eat off my floors any day of the week, but you can bank on all my dishes being clean. I also passed on a glass of wine. It was so hot. I began to google my symptoms, which were all unanimously pointing to The Flu. Not a cold, due to my lack of sneezing and drippy nose. The elevated temperature accompanied with chills were incriminating evidence, indeed. But I didn’t feel like I’d been hit by a truck. If you get hit by a truck, you die. There’s only fleeting terror, then death. With the flu, you have times to ponder all the times you should have used hand sanitizer but didn’t so now you get to lay around and sweat for dayyyyyyssss. I felt wimpy, like I should just get up and keep after it, which the internet strongly advised against. But that’s my go-to treatment: Act like I’m fiiiiine.
Fine people don’t wake up in the middle of the night, moaning uncontrollably from the pain in their back from the strain of coughing so violently.
So Saturday, after coming to on wet (not merely damp) sheets, without an appetite, I tried again. Johnny washed dishes while I slept in (bless him) so I decided to flip my closets. I assure you there are few tasks I like less. I’m confronted by all the clothes I have outgrown but refuse to part with. And socks. Whyyyyy do I have so many socks? Nice Wigwam ones that I don’t have the opportunity to wear now that my hiking has drawn to a mere once a year trek, if we’re feeling froggy. But I obediently put them in the bag to determine their fate again in six months. I also have a lot of shoes for someone who declares not to be shoe crazy. And my spare closet space is rapidly shrinking, I have noted, and addressed it to my roommate, also known as my husband. “My spare closet space has gotten a lot smaller,” I said accusingly to him on a trip to the kitchen.
“That’s because it’s not a spare closet, it’s my closet,” he corrected me.
Oh.
Well.
I guess I need to compress things into the library closet.
I finally finished with what I aimed to and laid on the couch with a cold washcloth across my forehead. I wish I hadn’t used that vegetable medley mix that had been in the freezer for eons. Oh! Did I still have that little plastic bag of purple beads the wisdom teeth extraction people gave me? I burrowed around for a minute or two and emerged triumphant. It smelled a little funny, but it served its purpose. How wonderfully frozen it was. I laid on the couch in shorts and a tank top with the frozen beads on my neck. Johnny promised to bring me a thermometer back since we can’t find ours (a dinosaur with mercury, no less), and set off for Knifeworks.
A few hours later, I was trying to make sense of the directions. Evidently you press the button after placing it in your mouth, not before, and it probably takes longer than 30 seconds to get a reading, but you tell your kid it’s only 30 seconds so they won’t argue with you. I have no children, and I’m the argumentative one, and it seemed like an awful lot of trouble to just get a reading on how freaking hot it is inside your head.
Turns out, it was over a 100 in my head, once we finally got there. I shuffled back to the couch, wishing someone would bring me a lemonade slush, like the kind you get at the fair with the red plastic straws with a tiny shovel end that I always cut my tongue on. Always. A fresh glass with ice in it would also be nice, but honestly I was too weak to ask for it.
The fever came and went, with chills, and I started feeling well enough to eat. So I ate my leftovers from the night before, took an antacid, and went to bed.
I woke up at 9:30, which is the latest I’ve slept since probably my hangover days. Even though I had again sweated through my sheets, I felt well enough to fix breakfast. Well enough to fix it but not eat it, turned out. I wasn’t even going to pretend today. I went back to bed, and the next time I woke up, it was 1:30. I had to get the roast I’d thawed the day before in the crock pot before it ruined, so I forced myself out of bed to do so. Then I Googled how long the flu lasts (3-5 days) what to do (drink plenty of liquids and rest), when to go to the doctor (if you cough up blood or if you seem to get better only to get sick again), and went straight back to bed.
I rose again at 4:30. I made myself read some of the book club book so the weekend wasn’t a complete waste. Johnny made the comment (8 times) that his neck was hurting.
“You’ve really got problems, don’t you?” I finally growled at him from the confines of my couch.
He narrowed his eyes. Yes, I’m mean when I’m sick, but he had showed me exceedingly little sympathy in the way of my illness over the weekend, even after seeing the proof on the thermometer reading. “I remember being sick once,” he said. “It wasn’t pretty.”
I don’t remember any such thing. I remember him suffering from allergies a time or two, but not The Flu. He is a good match for me, in this aspect, because I am no nurse. It’s another reason I’m fortunate not to have children. They would die from lack of medication, my primary first aid being the words “Suck it up.”
So anyway, we went to bed around nine Sunday night (no, I didn’t eat any roast), and I woke up Monday feeling able to function. I went on to work, croaking my way through the day, sounding like a smoker of 40 years. The owner of the company had been down with it too, and had gone and got treated with Tamiflu on Sunday. Our estimator self medicated with Mountain Dew (of the variety not available at gas stations), old antibiotics, and something that starts with a D that supposedly helps the lingering cough.
By Tuesday afternoon I was nearly back to my old self. I’m still coughing a little, but I believe the worst was a week ago. Evidently the flu has been prominent in our community as of late, my friend who works for 911 dispatch was telling me they’ve been carrying people by ambulance that are suffering from it. And one passed out in the Walgreens drive through! Obviously, I didn’t have that serious of a strain, I’m glad I made an acquaintance with one of the milder types, because it was bad enough. I’m also pleased to report that my decision not to go to the doctor and get loaded up with a bunch of crap has seemed to get me better faster than anyone. 🙂 Making it through was kinda like coming out of a matinee and it’s not dark outside and you’re like, “Oh! Hey everybody!! You’re still here! And I am too.”
I have a skewed system of favorite holidays. Thanksgiving has been my favorite for a few years, because it’s low maintenance. Oh, I cook. I cook my ass off. I cook for Johnny & I only, after some drama with his momma a few years back. In the interest of remaining Switzerland for him, I don’t visit my family, either. For the first couple of years running here, then rushing off to there definitely dampened my spirit-especially since I had two days of retail hell to look forward to immediately afterward. But now I stay in comfortable clothes, and the wine is open by eleven, music -just a little this side of loud- throughout the dining room and kitchen, and I’ve got the turkey in the oven. We may eat at two or we may eat at six. Last year, we had some friends stop in to help devour what I’d prepared and I felt like a normal adult, doing the thing. It’s the one time a year we eat at the table.
My next favorite holiday is our anniversary (I get lilies delivered to work and dinner wherever I choose). Then my birthday (again, because I don’t have to cook), then…then… St. Patrick’s Day. Not Christmas. I love Christmas, I love the meaning and I love decorating for it but I don’t love how people tend to buy just to be buying and the general bustle and dread that surround all the festivities. I don’t enjoy it. Can’t we just decorate and eat and laugh and have a good time? Why must you feel you have to give? That’s hardly the point. Most of us don’t NEED a thing. I’d like to have the money wasted to pay my water bill or something. And don’t get me started on Valentines Day. Actually, yes, lets do, because I planned to expound on that a month ago and never made time.
I hate to be all hatin’ on Valentine’s Day…but the fact of the matter is…I loathe this particular holiday more than Ask a Stupid Question Day (September 28th, although after a life in retail I would have sworn this was every day), International Day of the Nacho (October 28th. I mean, I love nachos and all, but really???), and CAPS LOCK DAY on June 28th combined.
Just kill me now. So, anyhoot. I hate it because in school, all the girls would get carnations sent by their secret admirers or boyfriends while they were all safely wrapped up in the letter jackets. I had no boyfriend, I had no letter jacket that smelled of Abercrombie and Fitch, I had no dismal carnation. I did, however, get a dozen red roses delivered by my momma with balloons, thankyouverymuch. I let my classmates believe whatever they wanted to, there was no incriminating card.
I digress. So then I was in my twenties and all us girls would hit the trendy bars, the jazz clibs, the ultracool understated underground 4620. The appletinis were on point. And I remember looking around, couples behind their candlelight, sharing cheesecake and whispers and just want to vomit. These are the same couples who would probably be fighting and throwing hairdryers at each other two nights later, but tonight they were wearing rose colored glasses and holding one by its stem after being purchased from the Asian lady with her overflowing basket of assorted colors and weaving her way through all the tables and couches.
That’s really the root of the problem for me. These men get a holiday where they’re coached through media on what to do. Buy the flowers, buy the candy, buy the expensive dinner. As I told my husband from our first Valentine’s Day forward: “If you buy me flowers, make it a Monday. When you send me a bouquet, it better be on our anniversary. If you buy me an overpriced dozen on Valentines Day like every ordinary man on this continent, I will never forgive you.” And wonder of all wonders, he actually listened.
I never thought I’d be married. I was always awkward, always with sweaty palms and frizzy hair and clothes that were last season and jewelry that was not a precise match. My attitude was off putting and I hadn’t seen the movie, but I had read the book. I was that girl who rode horses and wore braces for a year too long. So Valentines Day is a money racket, with Christmas close on its heels.
But lo, Saint Patrick’s Day. I hear dentists like it, too. Of course, there’s a lot of money to be made on it for them, due to the drinking of the green beer. Supposedly the food dye is harmful to your enamel and who drinks all night and then brushes their teeth? So you pass out and the dye eats into your teeth and there you are. And if that doesn’t happen, the likelihood of getting into a fight and getting your teeth knocked out is a possibility. So the dentists capitalize. I don’t blame them. But it’s fun! I love green! I love drinking! St. Patrick, among other things, drove the snakes out of Ireland while he was fasting. I gua-ran-tee you if a snake bothers me (while I’m fasting Facebook or fasting not a thing) I would drive it away. Probably headless. It’s said that the early settlers from Ireland chose the hills of Tennessee reminded them of home. And from what I’ve seen of Ireland, this appears to be true. We’re green, maybe more wormy green than emerald, but still.
I plan my outfit days before and when I was at Co-op I was a sight to behold. I would post a picture here, of me sitting on a pallet of fertilizer in all my finery, but it’s not very flattering. And I’m currently feeling abnormally fat today, after my binge of thin mints. So all week I had been thinking of what I would wear. My green boots are a little snug, so I was thinking my new green shoes
Aren’t they beee-yoo-ti-ful?
With some leggings, of course!
And the rest:
Some of those were collected on previous March 17ths and some are from Mardi Gras. My leprechaun socks aren’t in the picture because they’re dirty.
Here’s my not-so-over-the-top accessories
But on Friday, March 17th, 2017, I got up, pulled on my honeybee leggings, a pink shirt, a black sweater, and slipped on some camel colored flats before heading out the door. I was on Chapman Highway before it struck me. I had neglected my green. Aaaaalllll my green.
This has never happened before. When I was six, I wore my green polo shirt with the green alligator and green pants and a green bow to accessorize. A tradition was born. And I had neglected it today. I tried not panic, attempted to formulate a plan as I hurtled toward work. No one would notice. No one else would be in green either. No one would know.
But I knew.
So, as usual, I told on myself once I got there, and, as predicted, it was no big deal. Nobody else remembered, either, though Brian claimed to be wearing green underwear. I wasn’t going to check. I presented my arm to be pinched, squinching my eyes closed against the betrayal of my heritage. My hair is red, but my eyes are blue.
I texted Shug, a written version of a wail. My whine had the desired effect.
And a cry to Whit, my partner in lots of crimes:
Then, at lunch, it dawned on me.
I will never be without green. Ever.
Head slap.
But Shug did indeed take me out, where I reveled in my green (not all of it, we didn’t go completely crazy) and drank a mai tai (green if you use your imagination), followed by a red wine sangria (not green by any stretch of the imagination but I didn’t care after the main tai).
And so concludes another day in Appalachia, not so far removed from Ireland.
