Our weekend:
Our water line has had a gradually worsening leak for several years & Wednesday it finally showed up in the middle of the driveway. So we’ve been turning our water on & off at the road since then. Johnny rented a ditch witch & dug almost 200′ this weekend. He is bruised & sore from wrestling that thing through rocks & hard end-of-summer ground. I helped fill the ditch back in after we laid the line & that was plenty hard enough for my tender constitution. I woke up with my arms aching this morning. If you have an old water line, I STRONGLY encourage you to replace it. Like, now. Completely disgusting what we were washing our clothes & bodies in…and cooking with *full body shudder*
Paid $6.79 for a gallon of milk at White Star. I don’t know if it’s been that high for some time, but I hadn’t noticed it. I guess because when it’s with the rest of my groceries I just don’t pay attention.
I started a 900+ page novel set in New Orleans. (The Witching Hour by Anne Rice, if you’re curious, & yes, it’s wonderful)
I cooked a pork roast, corn pudding, green beans, mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, rolls, & sweet tea for the laborers (Johnny & his two friends, including Scott the Plumber) for helping get us back in the land of People With Running Water.
Released the squirrels we rehabilitated. They fell out of a tree on the other side of the fence almost two months ago & Johnny has raised them up. I couldn’t tell him no, but I did tell him to get them off the dining room table pretty quick.
I only ordered one new pair of leggings.
Watched Tennessee get the snot beat out of them. Cried a little.
Was going to fix homemade biscuits this morning (because we’re out of the frozen type) to go with sausage & eggs, but turns out, we’re out of sausage, too.
And bacon.
So we had egg sandwiches & oatmeal…which is a combination I don’t recommend.
Uncle Dale is still recovering in the hospital, but is doing great. The ballgame didn’t set him back, & I think they’re talking about sending him home tomorrow.
I’m currently doing laundry that has piled up all week. What a blessing to be able to do it!
It took a lot of beers & a lot of cussin’ to get through this weekend. I’m exhausted.
Furthermore, I do not trust your book reviews when the one, two, & three star ones have been mysteriously removed, even though you can see they used to exist. This was the case of three different books I looked at this weekend. Just a little bonus Wheel of Random for you.
I think that’s all. I sure hope so.
Why I take Boyds Creek/Gists Creek/ Indian Gap for my commute instead of the treacherous Chapman Highway:
#1) Because if I’m gonna do 45 mph, it’s gonna be on a road with people who are used to it & most don’t have a death wish
#2) Because it’s only a quarter of a mile longer
#3) Because you never know what you might see. Tuesday I had to brake for turkey vultures dining on a coyote, Wednesday it was a chicken crossing the road, Thursday an unsure border collie, & today a multitude of squirrels.
#4) Because that route is still populated by people who wave when they pass you
#5) Because it feels like home twenty years ago…a slower pace…less Yankees…more trees
I encourage you to try a different route yourself once in awhile. You may break from a mundane commute.
#6) it gives me a chance to unwind & enjoy the scenery after work, especially beautiful this time of year. I see something different every day.
***disclaimer***
This particular trek is not for the faint of heart in the best of conditions, due to narrow, winding roads. It is not to be attempted in sleet or snow.
Here’s something else I’ve noticed. The road names on Boyds Creek: Golden Harvest…Boyds Creek Meadows…Rippling Waters. Those are features long gone with the addition of these subdivisions. I guess it’s good they used it for the namesake. Maybe someday people will wonder what it looked like before the yuppies took over.
While there have been stretches I have missed the Co-op ACUTELY, Saturdays are not one of those times.
Especially this particular Saturday, the second one of October.
Because today, just like the second Saturdays of Octobers for decades past, is Open House.
It is madness, pure & simple. Unaltered mayhem & chaos & all of the things I seek to avoid in my quiet existence.
There are running kids and raffle ticket bickerers, bargain shoppers and lounging sales reps, dogs (of both hot and furry varieties) and drunks, locals & tourists, friends & competition. There are retired Co-op employees chatting over beef & grain prices, rain or lack thereof with the farmers who tenaciously hang on. The wives eating popcorn while surreptitiously looking at clothes her husband will tell her to buy but hope she doesn’t, their children chasing each other around the racks & down the aisles, a drippy ice cream in one hand & a hot dog smothered in ketchup in the other.
I would be there, amongst them, taking pictures, directing them to the bathroom, shouting a price or item number across the store before heading outside to the microphone to award some lucky people a door prize. And hopefully I would be wearing a smile for you.
Some of my former co-workers were sweet enough to formally invite me, so I wouldn’t miss the sales & general overall merriment. While I appreciated the gesture, I simultaneously shuddered & laughed.
I hope my Co-op family is making the most of it, chatting up familiar faces & totalling some good sales…but I wouldn’t be you for all the apple butter in Dixie. I’m home, decorating the house in autumn attire, preparing to scream my guts out for the boys in orange. Go Vols!!!
While there have been stretches I have missed the Co-op ACUTELY, Saturdays are not one of those times.
Especially this particular Saturday, the second one of October.
Because today, just like the second Saturdays of Octobers for decades past, is Customer Appreciation, also known as Open House. I don’t know why we call it anything other than Chaos and Free Crap, because that’s what it is. We’re open to anybody that has money or credit, it’s not like this is a sneak peek into everything you’re missing by not being a member. And as far as the “Customer Appreciation” title goes, well….they paid me to say “I appreciate everybody every day!”
Ha.
It is madness, pure & simple. Unaltered mayhem & chaos & all of the things I seek to avoid in my quiet existence.
There are running kids and raffle ticket bickerers, bargain shoppers and lounging sales reps, dogs (of both hot and furry varieties) and drunks, locals & tourists, friends & competition. There are retired Co-op employees chatting over beef & grain prices, rain & lack thereof with the farmers who tenaciously hang on. The wives eating popcorn while surreptitiously looking at clothes her husband will tell her to buy but hopes she doesn’t, their children chasing each other around the racks & down the aisles, a drippy ice cream in one hand & a hot dog smothered in ketchup in the other.
I would be there, amongst them, taking pictures, directing them to the bathroom, shouting a price or item number across the store before heading outside to the microphone to award some lucky people a door prize.
Some of my former co-workers were sweet enough to formally invite me, so I wouldn’t miss the sales & general overall merriment. While I appreciated the gesture, I simultaneously shuddered & laughed.
I hope my Co-op family is making the most of it, chatting up familiar faces & totalling some good sales…but I wouldn’t be you for all the apple butter in Dixie. I’m home, decorating the house in autumn attire, preparing to scream my guts out for the boys in orange. Go Vols!!!
Have you ever seen one of those super cute, trendy boutiques in a fashionable part of town & you were too intimidated to go in? It just oozed “too rich for your blood” or maybe gave the impression it would be filled with snooty falooty types.
I once knew of such an establishment, but I still couldn’t resist the urge to go peruse it, out of my budget or not.
The boutique I speak of was housed in an old farmhouse on the Parkway in the middle of downtown Sevierville. The front porch had gigantic hanging ferns & two welcoming rocking chairs creaking in the breeze. I never seemed to have time to zip in, & plus, I was a little hesitant about the parking situation.
But the week before my wedding, I was at wits end for two of my bridesmaid gifts. I was going to the post office & I had a minute. I maneuvered Patsy around to the gravel lot behind & cautiously stepped in the back door.
“Welcome,” came a confident voice behind the counter.
I smiled at the redhead who spoke.
I’m sure she offered to help me, & before long we were chatting amicably about what brought me in. She helped me pick some pieces of silver jewelry out for my momma, & some earrings for one bridesmaid. But there was this cow picture on the wall that kept calling my name. It seemed strange to find such an object in a store like this, but I’ve come to learn that you will find many unexpected treasures in this little shop…one of them being a lifetime friendship in the proprietor, Lorie Lea Yount.
She sold me the cow picture that day for my old college friend with the instructions to promptly return it if she didn’t love it (She loved it). She carefully packaged my gifts so I wouldn’t have to wrap them, & sent me on my way feeling peaceful & appreciated.
I have gone back countless times in the last five years, to all her locations, & making more friends along the way. Diva night is always a blast, & while you might think the store might be filled with perfect looking catty females looking down their nose at a girl with horse sh!t on her boots, nothing could be further from the truth. Lorie is a hoot & a holler, & a SUPER TERRIBLE INFLUENCE when it comes to the Lularoe leggings craze. I love her, & if you ever meet her, you will too. “Come as a customer, leave as a friend” is the truest statement in her retail advertising.
Today is her birthday, & I should be treating her to some fattening Mexican while we wear our fabulous leggings (or maybe our matching green tutus?) but hopefully she’ll let me take her out one day this coming week. Happy Birthday sweet friend! I hope you’ve had a great day!
Have you ever seen one of those super cute, trendy boutiques in a fashionable part of town & you were too intimidated to go in? It just oozed “too rich for your blood” or maybe gave the impression it would be filled with snooty falooty types.
I once knew of such an establishment, but I still couldn’t resist the urge to go peruse it, out of my budget or not.
The boutique I speak of was housed in an old farmhouse on the Parkway in the middle of downtown Sevierville. The front porch had gigantic hanging ferns & two welcoming rocking chairs creaking in the breeze. I never seemed to have time to zip in, & plus, I was a little hesitant about the parking situation.
But the week before my wedding, I was at wits end for two of my bridesmaid gifts. I was going to the post office & I had a minute. I maneuvered Patsy around to the gravel lot behind & cautiously stepped in the back door.
“Welcome,” came a confident voice behind the counter.
I smiled at the redhead who spoke.
I’m sure she offered to help me, & before long we were chatting amicably about what brought me in. She helped me pick some pieces of silver jewelry out for my momma, & some earrings for one bridesmaid. But there was this cow picture on the wall that kept calling my name. It seemed strange to find such an object in a store like this, but I’ve come to learn that you will find many unexpected treasures in this little shop…one of them being a lifetime friendship in the proprietor, Lorie.
She sold me the cow picture that day for my old college friend with the instructions to promptly return it if she didn’t love it. She carefully packaged my gifts so I wouldn’t have to wrap them, & sent me on my way feeling peaceful & appreciated.
I have gone back countless times in the last five years, to all her locations, & making more friends along the way. Diva night is always a blast, & while you might think the store might be filled with perfect looking catty females looking down their nose at a girl with horse sh!t on her boots, nothing could be further from the truth. Lorie is a hoot & a holler, & a SUPER TERRIBLE INFLUENCE when it comes to the Lularoe leggings craze. I love her, & if you ever meet her, you will too. “Come as a customer, leave as a friend” is the truest statement in her retail advertising.
Today is her birthday, & I should be treating her to some fattening Mexican while we wear our fabulous leggings (or maybe our matching green tutus?) but hopefully she’ll let me take her out one day this coming week. Happy Birthday sweet friend! I hope you’ve had a great day!
A breeze from the river lifts a corner of my napkin where my sweating glass of sweet tea sits. The air is humid, carrying the scent of mud & pine trees. I look past the house to the geese squawking at each other on the pond.
Richard Montgomery spears a meatball with a toothpick & plops it on his plate. “Can you believe how hot it still is? Did you get you some of these meatballs? Here, try ’em!” He proffers the blue casserole dish my way. My plate is already full from everything else Ann, his wife of 42 years, has persuaded me to eat. Their hospitality is overwhelming.
Richard is, in the truest sense of the word, a good ole boy. He’s the current Chairman of Tennessee’s Board of Parole. He served as Sevier County’s House Representative from 2008-2012, & for eighteen years prior to that, proudly chaired Sevier County’s Board of Education. Richard is an institution in this part of the world, & chances are you’ve been in his presence at some point or another, if you ever attend any local fundraisers or social events. He’s an important voice for the local people & always has an ear for anyone who stops him. And boy, do people stop him. Bob’s Mountaineer Restaurant, that once anchored Seymour on its north side, was more a political gathering place than it ever was a family buffet.
But he wasn’t born into a well-to-do background. You’ve heard the expression dirt poor? That would adequately describe Richard’s upbringing. The youngest of eight siblings, his mother died when he was just a baby, & his oldest sister Connie raised him. If times weren’t hard enough, living in a literal dirt-floor cabin, he was born with a cleft palate that was surgically repaired through the goodwill of a local doctor after he started school.
Richard overcame many things growing up, the least of them ridicule from classmates. He was a part of the first graduating class of Seymour High School, 1967. Richard attended the University of Tennessee through scholarships & perseverance, & graduated with an engineering degree in 1971. He was then hired by Oak Ridge National Labratories. “I still can’t talk too much about that,” Richard says, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck. He retired from ORNL in 1999, ready to improve his golf game and travel with his devoted wife, who was also recently retired from BellSouth. Their only daughter, Megan, was grown & advancing in the professional world of banking, so they could be almost carefree and enjoy their cabin in Big South Fork without worrying about rushing home for some disaster. Ann found herself cuddling babies at St. Mary’s on days she didn’t fill in at the job she’d retired from after 35 years. “South Central Bell- I can’t help still calling it that- was the only life I knew,” she says, running her hand down an antique phone booth, now stored in their garage. “But I love rocking babies, & when I caught a news story about the {drug}dependent newborns, I knew I could help. It about broke my heart, but I did love it.”
The Montgomerys got a few years off before Richard was approached by the then-mayor of Knoxville to run for the office of State Representative to serve his home county in Nashville. He shakes his head when I brought up several of his accomplishments, including some road improvements that still haven’t come to fruition, six years after the bills were passed. “It was harder than I thought. Two steps forward & ten steps back, seemed like,” he admits. “You want to see change as soon as it’s voted in, but there are so many people & plans to put in place, sometimes it takes twenty years, & by then, it’s antiquated & you just have to start again.”
But even though he’s seen Sevier County grow by leaps & bounds so that it’s hardly recognizable from when he was thirty years old, an up-and-coming politician, it’s still home. “I won’t leave. I couldn’t if I wanted to. And why would I want to?”
Richard can be found most Saturday mornings at Sevierville Golf Club, & at Golden Corral every weekday at high noon. His grandbabies need held every Sunday afternoon, though, & he’s keeping that day sacred for all the right reasons.
I realize the picture is a wee bit weird, but I admire the symmetry.
Here’s the thing about the ocean:
It’s weird. There’s slime, and seaweed, and sticks, and fish that nibble at your toes. Not to mention all manner of man-made trash that washes up. The difference is, in the Gulf you can actually SEE what’s touching you, rubbing against your leg. Whereas in the Atlantic, you just visualise the worst & hope that if it is death coming for you, he’ll make it snappy.
I had seaweed & God-knows-what-else tangled in my hair every day this week, but I just pretended I was a mermaid & went on. The waves knocked me down, flipped me upside down, drove me to my knees and skidded my elbows across the gritty sand. I got back up for more, pushing my seaweed infested hair out of my eyes, snorting and snotting from the salt in my eyes and up my nose, making them water and burn.
It was a constant struggle against the current, fighting the waves crashing into me. They fizzle out but there’s more behind it. Sure, you can stay in the shallows where the danger is minimal, but why would you want to? Where’s the fun & adventure in that? It’s a battle I will never win, me against the pull of the moon.
Something drives us Tennesseans here…we’re everywhere! It’s a VOL nation. We trade our mosquitoes for dragonflies, and our maple trees for palms. We exclaim over the hordes of lizards on bushes & boardwalks and pretend we’re not petrified of getting lost in a new city. We vacation in safe places, beaches that aren’t overcrowded and you feel safe leaving your umbrella, towels, books, and ipod on the beach when you go in for lunch. What a nice place.
And so I sit here on our balcony, with my sunburned feet, listening to Old Crow and Bob Dylan, admiring my new freckles, eating cantaloupe, and watching the waves roll in incessantly, waiting on the storm…waiting.
I could be safe at home, or even inside on the couch, away from the brutal elements but my time here is limited and I will choose to spend it with the ocean.
I will always choose the ocean.
