I was idly wondering what subject I would expound upon tonight. Today’s WordPress prompt was: “What is good about having a pet?” Well, I talk about the benefits of that ad nauseam, so I was going to have to look at Pinterest for inspiration again. But then… well, you’ll see.

Today was my first day “off” since Halloween. I’m not counting yesterday since I had laundry to catch up on, plus the added task of furniture cleaning and what have you. So I’ve been here, basking in a day of no real responsibilities, apart from feeding myself. And I already had my meals for the day worked out: I planned to fix chili since it was going to be so gloomy.

I used to love rainy days. Now I dread them like a trip to the dentist.

I had thawed my sirloin tips and hamburger meat and after I got breakfast eaten and washed up, I decided to get on with it. I browned the meat with seasonings, opened my cans of tomatoes and beans, diced my onion, dumped it all in the crockpot and gave it a stir. I started to put it on high so I could eat it sooner, but decided there was no rush, and moved the dial to low. The time was straight up 12:00.

The sun was in and out much of the afternoon. I had windows open all over the house, so I wasn’t surprised the chili wasn’t smelling very strongly. I’ve read, and sorted the vast majority of the world’s problems over the phone with John Alan, played with Chester, and messaged Emily. A typical Sunday. I ate some grapes and cheese and crackers around 2:30, because I didn’t figure the beef tips would be tender enough after that short of time. I sat there, right there, at the counter and ate. Right there, mere inches from my crockpot.

Today was a long day. Sundays always have been for me. I didn’t realize they were for others, as well. Stacy said her and her friend always called them “Blue Sundays” because people aren’t around to do stuff with; they’re spending the day with their families. Today was absolutely a Blue Sunday, between the weather and the solitude. And my overall lack of something productive to do.

Oh, I could have found something, but I wasn’t that desperate. Better to sit on the porch and watch chickens peck and try to get through this book. It’s kinda awful.

I shut the windows because the breeze picked up. I opened another bottle of wine. Not as in second one today, but second one of the weekend. It wasn’t as smooth as Friday’s, so it will become sangria soon. (Today’s Dictionary.com word of the day is vinaceous, btw. It means the color of red wine. That’s something we all now know). I lit all my fall candles. I felt very ladyIike, here with my witchy romance, amid my flickering candles, sipping my glass of Pinot.

At four o’clock I messaged Emily that it looked like seven. While it’s obviously pitch black at 7:00 now, you know what I mean. She agreed, and said she had just let the dogs out for last call, and then was shocked when she saw the time. 🤣

At 5:30, I could stand it no more. And if I ate this early, then I could bake chocolate chip cookies this evening. See how that worked out?
I went to dip me out a bowl.
And found that it wasn’t looking very…liquid-y.
I stuck the ladle in and stirred it around, bringing up an uncooked onion.
You have GOT to be kidding me. Crockpots last forever! I have two of my Grandmother’s that are still going strong. I felt the side. Yup, cold. Dial on low and…..
*expletive* not. Flippin’. Plugged. In.

I have been here all day. All. Day. Long. Evidently my mind merely tricked me into thinking I smelled chili. That would explain why it didn’t seem very strong. But I’m also aware of nose blindness, and thought I was suffering from that.
So now I wait. I figure it’ll be good to go by 8:30. No time for cookies, then. But I didn’t need cookies, anyway. And this will no doubt lead to heartburn: eating chili, of all things, this late, but that just means I can partake in a Snickers ice cream.

Silver linings, and what have you.

Update: I left a small piece of onion on top when I stirred and since the lid is clear glass, I will be able to gauge doneness by merely peering in at said onion. Even though this was blind luck, I felt like it was absolutely pure genius for me to recognize. I will be implementing this step in the future. As well as having some sort of method of making sure all systems are go. When I’ve used my flat iron, curling iron, or stove, I say out loud, “unplugged” or “off”. It helps, I promise you. This does not mean I haven’t left my front door standing wide open when I went to bed (another perk of having a dog, I don’t really worry about it), or leaving my keys hanging in the door and go off to work, or a number of other things. You might be surprised to know this is not my first misfortune of this nature with the crockpot. Oh no. I did it at least twice when I was working for Jackie. But I just can’t believe I didn’t notice it ALL THE LIVELONG DAY SINCE I WAS HERE.

I need a vacation.

While I wait, let me tell you a crazy story. My cousin, who hates talking on the phone as much as me, called and invited me to supper (oh, how I wish I had gone! But I declined because you know, I had chili on. And I didn’t want to put on real clothes and wrangle my hair). But she said, “well, lemme tell you my story anyway.”
So Chelsey was married before, to the father of her child. His best friend was married to a girl named Kristen. They were all really close and went out together regularly. Then their friends divorced, and the husband stopped coming around, but Chelsey remained friends with Kristen. Chelsey and her husband divorced, and they have both remarried. Kristen remarried a couple of years ago, as well. Chelsey has not seen or heard from Kristen’s ex in five or six years.
Today, Chelsey drove to Morristown to meet Kristen’s one-week-old baby. She stops by Sam’s on the way home, and ends up walking down the wrong aisle hunting her car when leaving. She sees this guy and she’s like, “OMG, that’s Kristen’s ex” and breaks into a sweat hoping he doesn’t notice her. Well of COURSE he did, and hollers at her and is chitchatting like no time has passed at all and introduces her to his kids.
She’s like, “how crazy is that? In all these years I’ve never ran into him, never talked to him, and then the same day I meet Kristen’s first child, I meet all of his, too, because I walked down the wrong aisle at Sam’s Club. And I was there getting new glasses!!!” ☠️☠️☠️

8:30 pm. Onion appears to be in nearly same condition as when I started. Risked taking the lid off to check doneness. Still needs about another hour. I am hangry and frustrated with myself, as there is nobody else I can blame, or I most certainly would.

This is a non-problem, to be clear. There are plenty of things in this house to eat. I just have my heart set on chili. (And Tums, at this point). Angela text me asking for prayers for her friend in California. Her daddy had started feeling low on energy and couldn’t eat but just a few bites at a time. Had some tests ran and they were getting the results tomorrow. Yesterday he started feeling really bad. So she took him to emergency room. They said he has a perforated colon and were taking him into surgery. About an hour later she text Angela back saying no surgery because he was most likely septic and eat up with cancer. They put him on morphine for the pain. He passed a few hours later. She didn’t even get to say goodbye. They couldn’t back off the morphine because the pain was too intense.

I don’t have problems.

Another friend, her friend’s daughter had twins about two months ago. She wasn’t wild on the idea of kids, but her husband of thirteen years talked her into it. And then twins, can you even imagine?? But three weeks in, he says it isn’t what he had bargained for, and was out. She discovered he’d been having an affair for eight years.
Think on that. Brand new twins. Eight years of an affair.

Life just kicks ya right in the teeth sometimes. You don’t have to look far to find someone with bigger problems than you. I hope she can see the blessing of having children to keep her busy, and a strong relationship with her mother to lean on for child rearing but also for emotional support.

My uncooked chili is no big deal. Not at all. And neither are my stale crackers.

10:00 and I have finally consumed two bowls. It was everything I dreamed it would be. All day long.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

WordPress also gives me a daily writing prompt; I almost forgot. Today’s is: “What was your favorite subject in school?” Well, I’ll tell you what it wasn’t. Math. No surprise there. The people who are skilled with the words aren’t usually blessed with a head for numbers. I’m not sure which is more useful, although I try not to judge people too harshly for spelling and grammar, since my math skills aren’t on display. I remember all my math teachers would say, “you aren’t going to be able to go around with a calculator in your pocket your whole life!”

Ha. Showed you.

Funny, one of my closest and dearest friends is the daughter-in-law of my most hated teacher, one Mrs. Gwen Hardin. She was a pill and a hag. Everybody hated her. Angela even found hate mail from parents when she was cleaning out the house. That, and a lifetime supply of aluminum foil, among other things. This summer they cleaned out one of the sheds and there was like, an entire warehouse of medical supplies: wheelchairs, crutches, potty stools, you name it. Although I can’t talk, I never threw out my crutches. And good thing, since I had to use them this summer.

Anyway. I liked English very well by the time I got to high school. Don’t tell anybody, but I loved essay questions and I didn’t mind the research papers. I most especially loved all the assigned reading. Well, maybe not all of it. I didn’t especially care for Lord of the Flies, The Scarlet Letter or Christy. But among my most cherished are The Great Gatsby, and as I mentioned yesterday, Peter Pan and all the Mark Twain. I also liked diagramming sentences. I don’t know why, thinking back, it looks like long division. Eww. Fractions were terrible, too.

I’ll tell ya what else I love. Having a clean house. I worked my tail off today. When I bought this living room furniture, my salesman told me I needed to clean and condition it twice a year, and he did his at Daylight Savings Time so it was easy to remember. This has proven to be good advice. I also flip my mattress, that way it’s all done and I don’t have to think about it. My couches sure don’t look as nice as they did before Chester came into my life and home, but I’d rather have his company than perfect furniture. Anyway, I don’t know how this place got so dirty. I’ve barely been home this week! Of course, last week I cleaned on Thursday, in preparation for a working weekend, so I guess those two days made a difference. But I’m all caught up now and feeling cozy with my Scentsy warmers burning and meatballs in the crockpot and my big galloot of a dog snoring next to me ♥️

Now to finish this book. One I’ve been wanting to read just became available so I gotta get this one knocked out.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Writing prompt for today is pin cushion. Two words, like that. I always thought it was one.

I guess if you’ve ever seen an allergist, you’ve felt like a pin cushion. Don’t they jab and scrape you with little needles? I don’t know; I’ve never been. I’ve often felt like I needed to. I tell you, though, my doctor sure don’t care to draw blood. And I don’t give it up easily; they always have trouble hitting a vein. So they make a pincushion out of me. They feel bad about it, though, so that helps. And I make them nervous because I tend to pass out if they talk about how my veins roll or hide or any number of circus tricks. I swear I drink all the water for twelve hours before, and no alcohol. I’m just a crappy veins person. But once they hit it, I’m a free bleeder. One of my doctors told me once that was because of my Irish heritage.

I’m sitting on my porch, feeling every inch my age, with my glass of red and my Nora Roberts book. Oh well. I am who I am. I rarely read Nora Roberts…this is Dark Witch; I checked it out for Halloween. It’s set in Ireland so it appealed to me.

It feels so late! But it would still only be 8:00 on “old” time. I had been cleaning on Friday afternoons, but I find it difficult to clean when it’s dark outside. So I guess I’ll leave that for tomorrow, after coffee.

It’s a nice night. I’ve had to get my quilt, though. If it wasn’t for spiders and slitheries, I might sleep in my hammock. I wonder if I could without falling out. Doubtful.

Three day weekend, three bottles of wine. No coincidence, but poor planning, since I already started and it’s merely Friday. Oh well. I’ll prolly go see JA at some point, and he’ll keep me in beer.

I will tell you, it’s hitting a little different on this “new” time. Oh well. I’ve got nowhere to be, no responsibilities for a change. I could go tear down Pigeon Forge’s displays tomorrow, but I already know I won’t. It ain’t worth the drive and aggravation. But it’s like I told Kay, it’s nice to know I’ve got a job. ♥️ it’s been a long week. I deserve this.

What do y’all wanna hear about? Don’t email it; I have no idea how to check this account. Well, that’s a bit of a fib. I have it written down, somewhere, but no desire to look it up or do it. Just text me.

So I posed the question to Angela tonight, what books would she take on a desert island? Mine are, of course, Gone With the Wind, Ocean at the End of the Lane, and Lonesome Dove. I’m sorry to say the Bible would come in fourth. She said she grew up staying active and wasn’t much of a reader, so she missed out. I will never miss an opportunity to recommend Peter Pan, any Mark Twain, and Catcher in the Rye, although my ex-husband hated it. He was wrong about a lot of things. She said her first series was Mitford, and it was comforting. I get that, but I hate she was ahead of Babysitter’s Club and Saddle Club. Those saw me through some long summers.

I have come to the end of the bottle, and it is now an acceptable bedtime. What a relief! Goodnight.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

So much for getting home on time. As they say, what goes up, must come down.
It was the tearing down of what I put up Saturday and Sunday. And it was even hotter today than it was then. It’s ridiculous to be sweating that much at 6:00 on November 7th. But here we are.

I’ve been scrolling writing prompts, because I am bored to tears with journaling. It ain’t like I’ve got some big exciting life to write about. It’s more about staying in the habit, and since I spend the majority of my time alone, I’m all I’ve got to write about, hahahaha. Or my disgusting coworker and I don’t want to relive a moment of being in his midst.
So in my searching for something new, I discovered it’s National Novel Writing Month (or as they call it online NaNoWriMo. I thought I had stumbled on some Japanese). If only I were the type of person that could write with a plot in mind, and come up with some twists and conflicts. I am not that sort of writer. It’s also Aviation Month, so I guess I could tell about my various flights (not all of fancy), or the time I tried to take Lightning Bug to the Wright Brothers Museum in Outer Banks. Or about where I’d fly to if I had my own helicopter.
But the most typical prompt I’m finding is being thankful and grateful. It makes sense, being that it’s November. Emily and I send each other three thankfuls every morning, so I’m already doing that.
But upon consulting my Pinterest, I’ve found more. One is simply, “aloe vera”. The self reflection ones included “in the mirror”, and “5 words I’d use to describe myself because…”
I may get somewhere with these.

I’m only at a two minute read time, so why not do them ALL????
Not the novel one, though.

So lets see. Flying….
My first flight was to Lincoln Nebraska for a Co-op trip. It was no great shakes. I was game for Vegas, Texas, St. Louis, I don’t know where all we went. There was one memorable landing, I believe it was San Antonio, where the wind proved a bit of an issue and we had a rough go touching down, but not enough to make me sweat. Although I much prefer takeoffs, where you can tell you’re just going faster than the speed of light and all I want to do is go even faster.
Another notable flight was coming back from Seattle, where I held a $200 glass octopus in my lap the entire time. He was too valuable to pack. Chester broke him with his tail two or three years ago. The original artist is still alive and well, but not interested in repairing him, sadly.
My first helicopter ride was fortunately, not Lifestar, but in one of the tourist helicopters. Lisa took me on my birthday in 2022. It was a great time. We flew over the lake. I intend to take another one sometime over the mountain to look at the fall foliage. I missed my window of opportunity last year and this year both.
Outer Banks was disappointing all the way around. I was looking forward to touring the Graveyard of the Atlantic museum, but it was closed for Covid, as was the lighthouse. What a bummer. Many places are dog friendly, so when I pulled into Wright Brothers and was turned away because of my toothy passenger, it was just another nail in the coffin. LB wasn’t able to walk very far by that time, anyway, but still.
If I had my own chopper, I’d definitely fly to JA’s instead of driving across the mountain at his every whim. He seems to forget I’m not 10 minutes down the road. But I’ve cut back to about once a month, so it ain’t too bad. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like to see him and the fine reverend and Jessie Jackson more often, just that I’m not willing to make that trek. I’d also fly it to Kevin’s, but I guess it’d have to be a pretty good size helicopter to make that nonstop flight. I don’t know. I don’t know much about fuselages and helicopter mileage. I guess that’d be something I’d need to study up on before embarking.

Aloe vera has kept me from being mighty uncomfortable on more than one occasion. I take me a leaf (stem? leg?) or two in a Ziploc bag when I go to the beach. To buy it in the grocery stores is an expensive endeavor when I have pots and pots of it at home. I give tons away, too, because I can’t seem to kill it like everybody else does. Emily asked me my secret this spring, and I told her, like I tell everybody, “Forget about it. Set it outside, don’t water it unless we have no rain and it’s 100 degrees for a month. Pretend it doesn’t exist.” And guess what?
It flourished.
I guess that’s why aloe and I get along so swimmingly. I don’t like to be bothered, either. I’m kinda prickly.
I went back to find her exact words: “I’m thankful that I somehow got lucky enough to befriend the aloe growing master of Seymour and thanks to her sharing her complex method of leaving it outside on it’s own, my aloe is prospering. I know I mentioned it yesterday but its brought me so much joy it deserves a thankful post” That girl cracks me up.

Now, onto the thoughtful ones:
So when I look in the mirror, I see:
A woman who is courageous because I’ve never ran.
A woman who often needs help with her hair, because even after I spend time on it, it still doesn’t look as shiny and sleek as Christy gets it. I use the same product, it stands to reason it should behave for me, too!
A woman who loves without apology, whether it be my dog, my friends, my books, my food, or someone I can only love from afar. I love, and I won’t be ashamed.
A woman who could lose a little weight because my legs sure are jiggly.
A woman who isn’t scared because there’s nothing to be scared of. Life goes on. You can get ahead, get out of the way, or get left. It’s going forward. Might as well grab hold and steer the best you can.
It’s tiresome, to be sure. But it’s worse to be scared.

Love from Appalachia,
~Amy

Sure is good to be seein’ red again. I felt a weight that I didn’t know I had been carrying fall off me this morning as I read of the good news. It’s so funny, the headlines on major news sources. They sure don’t waste much time pointing out that he’s a convicted felon, or any other number of half truths. It makes me sick, and why I don’t read or watch the news. You never know what you can believe.
Facebook is zero fun today, as well. Both sides are showing their ugly faces and I just had to disconnect.
Everybody knows my pick, anyway: Little Debbie Christmas Tree Cakes.
And my dog.

So I’d been in high spirits all morning, then I got a Facebook notification as a reminder to check my memories. I did so, and there it was, my favorite person in the world has been gone for three years. I knew it, I’ve been preparing for this day for a couple of weeks now, but with the excitement from the election, it escaped my foremost thoughts. So I had to sit here and cry a minute, as I remembered.
But all hope is not lost. I had him for a long time. I soaked up his wise words, and his sometimes hurtful ones as well. He just tried to make me tough. And I guess it worked. I cry over less now than ever. It seems it’s just not worth the energy, and plus, it makes my eyes puffy and my mind foggy. And no amount of tears will bring him back. I wouldn’t want to, anyway. Not to this world, not to this pain.
Is it a coincidence we’ve beat Alabama twice since he’s been in Heaven, and that Trump has been reelected?
…..
I’ll leave that for y’all to decide.

I was sitting here reflecting that today is the only day I’ve not had something going on, besides work, in a week. I was looking forward to going home and snuggling my dog.
And then Christy text, wanting to know if I had supper plans.
Le sigh.
I haven’t been able to hang out with the Finchums in over a month for one reason or another. And she asks so nice. Of course I have plans, I have plans to eat.
“No, but I didn’t eat lunch till 2:30, so I’m not sure I’ll even eat supper,” I replied, giving myself an out in case she wanted Mexican.
She says they’re not eating for a couple more hours and Lindsey wanted to share something with me about a job opportunity. Well, of course I must hear the good’ns news. I promised to come visit, even if I didn’t eat.

I walked through the threshold at ten till six and barely got in the door when greeted by Christy, hugging my neck off. “I have missed you so much!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright and a big smile stretched across her face.
And you know what? I believed her. I felt the love radiating from her.
And so I settled into my customary corner of the couch, and prepared to be inundated with all the news.
And good news it was, on the whole. As expected.
They’d already eaten supper, shocker, but offered me a tater. I opted instead for one of the Reese’s cups I saw scattered on the table as I came in. ONE.
Lindsey showed me her new Christmas tree, and all the settings of lights it boasted. I’m needing a new tree, and I liked this one a lot. I need something to suit my mood and this would fit the bill. The branches were made of a more durable rubbery substance instead of that typical thin-as-paper pine plastic needle crap that sheds like a Siberian Huskey.

Once home, I braved Facebook again, for the final time. A mistake, to be sure. Why do people think they need to express their opinion? I believe the world was a better place when we kept our religious and political beliefs to ourselves. I don’t NEED to know who my neighbor or customers vote for. We’re not changing anybody’s stance, all we’re doing is continuing to hurt people we actually CARE about by the name calling and saying they must believe in this or that, because that’s the candidate they supported.
Nobody is saying we agree with everything their candidate of choice says. NOBODY. We’re just picking our poison. You decide which issues are most important to you, and then you base your decision with the candidate whose views most align with your own. This is not a difficult concept to grasp. Just because your best friend thinks ketchup goes on steak doesn’t mean you have to go along with that and eat ketchup on your steak. You can’t agree on everything with everybody. Just do the best you can. It’s called the high road, keeping your mouth shut when you have the option to say something. Just don’t. The great Mark Twain once said, “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.”

First Tuesday of the month and that has meant one thing for over ten years now: library board.

This month was hosted by the Friends of Kodak Library. They served us a delicious holiday meal, the first one of the season for me. My favorite was the turkey, so moist and tender, and the pumpkin pie. I did not get a biscuit, mainly due to the fact my plate needed sideboards already.
We had two ladies hastening to join our ranks, and good thing, because it’s gettin’ to be slim pickin’s for a quorum each month. We have two members who have moved, and one who has evidently forgot she is even on the board, since she’s been to precisely one meeting all year. I hate it when people shirk their duties. It falls on everybody else to pick up the slack. And since she is a person I know outside of board, the other members and directors look to me to provide explanation.
I never was one for making excuses for myself, let alone anybody else.

The Kodak Library is a cozy space. Old, yes. In dire need or some renovations? Surely. But they’ll have a brand new building in a new location by this time next year. I guess it just reminds me of the old Seymour Library, when they were on the bottom floor of that building next to where the Dollar General Market is now.
Listen to me. “Used to be”. I’m 80 years old, I swanny.

Another thing I enjoy about board is simply talking books with the other members. Not much more than, have you read this or that, and I loved this one so much, and this book still lives inside me, and I devour everything by this author, and I discovered this book just last year, et cetera. We were talking about what people classify as pornography (in one case it was a coffee table book about Lady Gaga) and Sharon made the comment, “Fifty Shades of Gray was awful! It was horribly written, with no plot!”
“Oh, the third one’s the only one that’s any count,” I said, and everybody giggled. It occurred to me then that I had just admitted, out loud, in board, that I read pure trash. And I didn’t even have the decency to blush. Oh well. I agree it’s poorly written garbage.

I love sitting there, watching patrons come in, moms holding the hand of their little ones, dragging her to where “their” books are.
The library faces new challenges every day. They have trouble getting funded, this is a nationwide problem. Luckily we have some talented grant writers within our ranks, so that helps. But you have to know where to look to apply. Censorship is at the forefront of issues, as well. Since funding is low, it’s hard to find staff who’ll work tirelessly to put materials in the hands of patrons. It’s not just books, y’all, our libraries offer all kinds of services and items for lending. Instapots, hiking backpacks, WiFi hotspots, DVDs, even carpet cleaners! And you can make a commercial, make something on the 3-D printer, talk to a lawyer, fill out unemployment forms, and sometimes they have clothing swaps. There are author signings, crafty Thursdays, movie nights, cookbook clubs and chess clubs and beekeeping meetings. There is almost ALWAYS something going on. And who doesn’t love story time? It’s a place to be around like minded people, you’re sure to find common ground with someone there. It is a place where all are accepted and safe. You can be with a group, or tucked up in a corner, nose buried in a tome of your choosing. Or a comic book, the choice is yours. Or maybe just using the free internet. The library has been a source of many things, for many people, for many, many years.

It’s unusual how much I enjoy my solitude, or so I’m told.

I don’t think it’s unusual at all, for someone who is an only child, who was raised on a little farm in a small town, with no immediate neighbors.
I don’t think it’s unusual at all for someone to enjoy working alone when, for thirteen years, they worked in a store that was a hub of the community, with a constantly ringing phone and never ending flow of customers and sales reps. Or for two years at a job trapped in a small room with three other people, handling emergencies only.
I don’t think it’s unusual when I never had any children or roommates, apart from a husband for several years, who was largely independent himself.
I don’t think it’s unusual when your preferred and primary pass time is reading.
I don’t think it’s unusual when you’re someone who finds most people opinionated, brash, loud, obnoxious, rude, and nosy.
I don’t think it’s unusual when someone finds solace in the outdoors and wildlife or a companion animal.
I don’t think it’s unusual for someone who gets anxious in crowds, like concerts or sporting events.

I may not have the typical characteristics (I call them trappings) of a traditional life for a 45 year old lady, but I have a full life, filled with friends I call family, family I call friends, an exuberant dog, some volunteer work, and a library crammed with books.

Sean Dietrich wrote about canned music the other day. I am discovering new ways every day that illustrate my age. For instance, grocery store music. I really like it! It’s the music of my generation. I reckon everybody eats, so why are they playing “my” music? I’m not complaining; don’t misunderstand me.

He wrote, in part, “Still, it was the 15-year-old girl beside me who delivered a remark which stuck with me: ‘There’s noise everywhere you go today. We as a society don’t know how to embrace silence because we’re trying to drown out how lonely we are. We’re lonely because we’re separated. Technology separates us, politics separates us, social media separates us. Noise is one way to hide from each other.’”

It is exceedingly rare to see a group of people together without their cell phones in their hand. A few months ago I was out with some friends. We were eating at the Cheesecake Factory, where the booths are too close for comfort. It is impossible to have a private conversation, not that we were trying. I did take note of the young couple seated at the table beside ours. They were engaged with each other, smiling shyly at each other’s remarks. They didn’t look to have that much in common, going by dress. He was in Wranglers and work boots, she in a flowy dress, sandals, and a sweater that slipped off her bare shoulder. But they leaned toward each other and maintained eye contact.
She didn’t finish her entree, and got a to-go box, but they split a piece of cheesecake.
No evidence of a phone on either one, or on the table, until she excused herself to the restroom and he made a quick call to let someone know they were headed their way.
When they picked up their belongings to leave, I couldn’t help myself, and leaned over to them.
“Pardon me,” said I. They turned to me with uplifted eyebrows and equally open expressions. “Forgive me for interrupting your delightful dinner, but I just had to compliment you two.”
They both broke into small smiles.
“It is so rare to see a couple of any age sit together and share a meal without either being on their phones. It’s all ages, but especially those of your generation. Look around,” I gestured. “You’d be hard pressed to find a table that doesn’t have them laid out.”
“We just enjoy each others’ company,” the lovely girl said.
“And it shows. Please make every effort to continue to do so,” I petitioned them. “People are lost without their phones anymore.” Literally and figuratively, I thought.
They graciously accepted my compliment and made their way out into the summer evening.

I could dwell on my losses, or I could embrace all the love I’ve had. I’m choosing love. I try to always choose love, even when I don’t choose forgiveness. I’ve found myself singing again the last few days. I’ve found my laugh is coming easier, and the tension in my shoulders lessening. I’ve looked for, and found, that happiness has always been patiently sitting, waiting to be chosen over my anger, over my hurt. Through the years, when faced with one trauma or another, I find my best healing is done on a solo excursion. I didn’t have that indulgence this go round, but I found my peace on my porch, where I sat for hours on end, watching the trees bud, then flourish with leaves, then turn, and now they have blown away.
I may be alone, but it is rare for me to be lonely. And that makes all the difference.

I just got home. I feel like the middle of the night.
It’s 8:19.

I tell ya, though, South Knoxville is no place for two white girls past dark. It probably ain’t no place for us in the daylight, either. Crackheads on every corner. People on bicycles trying to cross Chapman, and not at a redlight or anything, just all willy-nilly.
What was I doing in South Knox on a random Monday? My cousin text and asked if I wanted to go eat. She’s too bougie for lowly Seymour fare, she was opting for The Kennedy or Kerns. I told her as long as she was driving, I was game (but fingers crossed we weren’t going to The Kennedy or I’d have to eat watercress soup like Phoebe). Luckily, she chose Kerns where we’d have more options. Now, funny thing, I was wanting anything but Mexican (I’ve learned to specify because all my friends know I willingly eat it, so everybody wears me out on it). I was leaning towards pizza, which I rarely want. And this food mall had pizza. But Chelsey steered me away. She said it wasn’t very good. However, she’s way pickier than me. I didn’t discount them yet. The burgers were tempting; I’ve been wanting a good burger. I’m always wanting a good burger, truth be told, but I can get that any old time. There was Cuban, and sushi, and Mexican. There was Korean and coffee and macarons. But I landed on African. The gentleman cooking was the most engaging fellow there, and it smelled the best.
I studied the menu at length. It seemed pretty standard, apart from knowing what jollaf rice and a few other things were. They offered chicken, beef, and lamb. I could only pray it wouldn’t be too spicy. I decided I’d handle this like I did B-51 Chicken when it opened. I stepped up to the girl behind the register who had, thus far, avoided eye contact. I smiled. She kept her face pleasant, but neutral.
“Hello. I have no idea what to order,” I told her honestly.
“The most popular is the chicken and jollaf rice,” she stated without preamble.
I shrugged. Safe enough, it sounded like. “Sounds good to me.” She gave me a choice of breast or thigh and leg.
“What sauce on the side?”
“Uhhhh….what are my options?” I asked, searching the sign.
“What sauce on the side?” She repeated.
I’m clearly at a loss.
“It’s on the side,” she said.
“Okay, whichever you think.”
“No, hot sauce,” she finally spoke loud enough to be heard over the thumping music.
“Ohhhh!” I laughed at myself.
She was unamused and asked for my name.
I repeated it twice, then spelled it, because it sounded like she was saying “Ermine.”
“My accent’s pretty thick,” I explained, unapologetically.
And of course, when you go to pay, it asks for gratuity. What exactly am I tipping? You are punching my order into the computer. I am standing here waiting on my food. I carry it to my table. I throw away my garbage.
The drink was a canned coke. I should’ve gone to the bar for a fountain coke….if they even offer them. One can of coke is not sufficient for African food when you’re liberal with the hot sauce that started on the side. I did not think washing it down with craft beer was a good decision, either.

My cousin opted for Cuban, and was disappointed. No surprise there, she’s almost always disappointed when we go eat. That’s why I refuse to pick a dining establishment when it’s she and I. I will not take responsibility for her finicky taste buds.

She mentions she plans to vote tomorrow, but doesn’t know anything beyond the presidential candidate.
“Oh, you didn’t vote in the Primary?” That’s the tricky one where you gotta do your homework.
She didn’t, and reminded me she had text me about her card’s address being wrong, but it was correct on the website, and her license was right. I had told her all I had shown in recent years was my license, so she hadn’t bothered updating it, but was prepared with an electric bill. So I told her not to anticipate an issue, plus this was the “easy” ballot, just pick the ones with (R) beside their names, that way the House and Senate would align and bills could get pushed through faster with less debate.
She’s looking at me with a funny little smile and I thought, “Oh dear God, no….”
So that turned into a discussion that I could have done without. And her entire argument was, “I just hate him so much.”
“That doesn’t make her qualified,” I said plainly.
“Well, I don’t know that much about her policies, but I know that he wants to outlaw abortion, no matter what.”
“That is patently untrue. He doesn’t want federal involvement, he wants it decided at state level. And furthermore, he’s against late term, not all, not for medical justification.”
I can see Chelsey wavering, knowing she’s on unstable ground and has not verified anything for herself. She’s voting on emotion, as so many people are. I brought up the issue of taxes, since she is self employed, and asked her to think back five or six years. She said her business wasn’t as lucrative then, and she didn’t know what tax breaks she got. She stated she wants less government involvement, and then in the same breath went to talking about dyes and GMO products, and how in Great Britain they have the same products without all the “harmful additives that make products cheaper”.
And here is where I shine. “Ok, and those are available here. So you want that to be the standard? You want less sugar, but you want it to be a controlled substance. You don’t want people to have a choice. You want everybody to have what you want, only. Isn’t that just more government influence?”
She looked stricken for just a second, and said that she “felt” that the government were the ones responsible for allowing all the unnecessary chemicals to be included now. I shrugged and told her if that was the case, she could ship it in, or grow it herself. Her eyes dimmed as she said that wasn’t affordable. Coming from a girl wearing Prada, that has a housekeeper, that has everything delivered from coffee to groceries, and that just bought her husband a Breitling watch. I didn’t even know what the watch was, but figured it was expensive since he made a Facebook post about it. Not that I’m not happy for her and all the things she can afford, but don’t tell me a necessity is too expensive when you flash all the charms of your “successful” lifestyle around.
Which brought us to “free” healthcare, like the “truly great” countries overseas. Again, with the government involvement. Nothing is free. Most countries have a cap, and many limitations on providers. Also, once you reach a certain age, the benefits only go so far to keep you alive.
She wouldn’t quit, and brought up illegals and Harris’ stance on the borders. I nearly choked as I told her to look at the Google image of the “Mexican Freeway”, the “path” across the border that is so well traveled and worn it is visible from space. “And this is why healthcare is so expensive here, and car insurance. You go out here, an illegal hits you– even though I don’t think they call them illegals now, they’re all ‘documented’– but they don’t carry automotive insurance. So they hit you, but they don’t have insurance, so your insurance has to pick it up. That’s why it’s always on the rise, to cover uninsured drivers. And they’re driving nicer cars than you and I. Because they can afford to, because they don’t pay insurance and so many of them are paid cash for their work. And that’s so when they get hurt on the job the owner doesn’t have to claim them, he just says, ‘I didn’t even know that guy was here, I’ve never seen him before, you know they all look alike,’ and presto, no workers comp claim, it saves him from liability. But the taxpayers pay- they pay for his healthcare. When someone comes across our borders, they automatically receive $2000 and free education and healthcare. They’re treated better than our veterans. The people who pay for insurance will always be paying for those who don’t. The more that come in here, the more we have to pay. There’s your democratic economics.” I then went on to explain how the parties flipped in the late 60’s and 70’s. This seemed to be an eye opening lesson. Her rebuttal was some comedian who made fun of Puerto Ricans under the Republican name.
I sat back and rubbed my face. “They’re all morally corrupt. It’s all a game. What concerns me is not appearing intimidating to other countries, like Russia and Iran. I’m seriously surprised they haven’t bombed us already under Sleepy Joe.”
It went on for a few minutes and I know I didn’t sway her, but I hope that I influenced her to hopefully think about the future of America and what life could be like if we had four more years of a puppet. It’s scary, and I don’t want to dwell on it, myself.
I got an ice cream and came back to hear her telling Rob that I would have left her sitting there if I had driven myself.
I wouldn’t have. I’ve never been much of a runner. But I sure wish we had found other subjects to talk about. I respect her too much to let politics wholly divide us, but it’s hard. I so wished my Uncle Dale was around to talk to her. I don’t stay abreast of legislature like I should, like I did when he fed me the most pertinent information. There’s just too much garbage to wade through, especially without being able to trust news sites.

But onto an immediate issue. Chelsey informs me, that for future visits it was important to know that this venue doesn’t have free parking. I was perplexed, as we had simply driven into the lot, there was no kiosk or arm barrier. She tells me there are cameras that take a picture of your license plate when entering and exiting, and they send you a bill in the mail. “And you have to install their app to pay it.”
“Oh bullshit,” I replied, instantly incensed.
“Well, you get two hours free if you eat here,” she added.
“And how would they know that?”
“The restaurant gives you a QR Code to scan.”
“Neither of mine did.”
“You might have to ask for it. The bartender gave it to me last time.”
I’m positively livid. I saw NO signs anywhere, inside the building or out, about the parking charge. Lots in Gatlinburg, Knoxville, New Orleans, basically anywhere you pay to park are heavily placarded, many times at the front of each space. And that’s with the barrier arm to get in and out of the lot.
So we go outside and I’m avidly searching for signs. I saw THREE, about 8×10, with gray and white lettering. Not what you’d call hi-visibility. Can you imagine getting this ticket in the mail???
I did dig my receipts out, and they both do have the code printed at the bottom. However, the ice cream girl asked me if I even wanted my receipt. If I’m paying cash, I let it slide. If I’m using my card, you better believe I want it. It’s proof of service or product rendered. What if they debited more than what the cost was? I need proof of what I got. But if I were normal, I would only retain it long enough to match it up with my bank, so a day or two. Then I would get this ticket in the mail and no way to prove I ate there. Oh, calamity.
So don’t say I didn’t warn you. If I were you, I’d just stay away. It ain’t worth the rigmarole. Plus, the clientele is….well, let’s just say I didn’t appear to have much in common with the people wandering around.

We had fun singing 90’s rock on the way back; we do a pretty good rendition of The Cranberries “Zombie”. And what’s a mini road trip without Alanis Morrisette? She was appalled as I was that my coworkers are unfamiliar with her.
It was good to see my cousin but there’s a reason it’s bad form to talk politics, religion, and money. I won’t let tonight leave a bad taste in my mouth but I will be more careful from here on out. We’re all just picking our poison. No candidate is perfect. God bless the USA.

Love from Appalachia,
~Amy

Up and at ’em extra early! I did finally rest good, thankfully. It’s a relief that DST falls on the weekend I do manual labor! I wasn’t as sore as I was last night, but these old bones and muscles were reluctant to do their job without protesting this morning. But I’m good now, fortified after two cups of delicious creme brulee coffee. You may want to try it, it’s Walmart brand. I just put sugar in it, no creamer. It doesn’t need it. I don’t use a lot of creamer anyway. I got my sheets washed and dried but didn’t have time to get them on the bed AND eat breakfast, so of course breakfast took priority. And I was still 15 minutes late getting on location. I was inwardly dreading what I might find. Would the grout hold??

Wonder of wonders, the grout and pebble tile and fireplace were all one solid piece this fine morning! Everybody had their projects so I went back to mine.
The millions of mums.

It’s a never ending task. But the bumblebee? Well, she flew off (all honeybee workers are female, so it stands to reason bumblebees are, too. I just momentarily forgot) about the time I got settled. So I guess it was just her bedtime last night. Bless it. How long before they hibernate, anyway? It seems awfully late in the year to go around hunting flowers.
I clipped and I pruned and I sneezed and I sighed, and before long I had another big trash bag full. The shabby mums were in a sorrowful state indeed, but they looked better than they did last night and really that’s all we could hope for.
And then Kay came over and culled, culled, culled. I was hurt. I had done my best. I agreed, a few were beyond saving, but the majority could be salvaged. We’d just have to squish them up.
I was vetoed.
And so, like so many other mass market consumables, we trashed them and more would have to be bought. Starting over, instead of just making the best of what we had. And what we had wasn’t half bad. But this is the corporate world, and they wouldn’t settle. My argument was, they wouldn’t even KNOW.
But I’m just the labor, not the decorator. She doesn’t pay me for my opinion (although she would argue that she does, since she often asks for it, but when I disagree with something, she doesn’t listen, so we’re back to my original statement).

I finished algae bear inside. Here he is.

It was a constant tat! Tat! Tat! of the staple gun as Vern and John took turns attaching the shakes to three sides of the fireplace. It really looks great.
Kay directed placement of more pumpkins and got the centerpiece laid out on the table. Somehow she wound up with peace sign placemats instead of American Flags, but there were no more hiccups that I got wind of in Mum World, apart from no tiny pumpkins, like I told her yesterday but she insisted. All we lacked was mulching, the cornucopia, dressing the bears, and procuring the hot dog sticks and we’d be done with outside. We decided it was time for lunch (30 minutes after she mentioned she was starving, but this is typical). Lunch at Zaxby’s. Brentley couldn’t have been more thrilled. We were talking about other popular chicken establishments and he declared, “It ain’t as good as this heaven,” and I about fell out. That kid, I swear.

“Lookit them pigeons,” I pointed out as we sat on the bridge waiting for the light to turn. They reflected a purple iridescence from their feathers. Quite pretty, for a pigeon.
“Those are pigeons?” This, from Kay, peering around me.
“Yes, that’s why I said, ‘lookit them pigeons.’ If they were crows, I woulda said, ‘lookit them crows,’ or like yesterday, when we saw that hawk, and I said, ‘lookit that hawk’.”
She giggled, despite herself, and tried to cover it. “Well, I thought they might be doves.”
“They’re pigeons,” Amanda assured her.
“Why do you try to argue with me? Anybody else in this truck will let things go. You know I won’t.”
“You’re the only other redhead.”
Like that explained it.
We drove past three grocery stores and I don’t know how many gas stations to go get water from Dollar General on Chapman Highway. Why am I complaining? It pays the same. And, as a bonus, there was an entire display of Little Debbie Christmas Trees in the main thoroughfare. Kay has never had a LDCT, and today was initiation into the addiction of the working class. We bought two boxes, six gallons of water, and three cases of bottled water. $36 and a backache later, she and I had it loaded in the bed of the trusty blue Chevy and back to the convention center.
Where she promptly disappeared to put a fire out with her company who were attempting to set up a booth.
Vern blew the straw mess into a pile that we swept into garbage bags to use for filler.
I ate a Christmas tree cake.
John packed up his tools.
Amanda and I argued about the best way to do the mulch.
Brentley loaded it on the cart.
Kay didn’t show.
John and I came to agreement on how to spread the mulch.
We all spread the mulch and it worked out great, with a bag to spare.
John wanted to use it to fill in some thin spots.
I objected, we needed to save it for the cornucopia and the edges of the canoe.
Time stretched on with no Kay.
Vern and John chomped at the bit wanting to get at the letters to see if they had survived a year in storage.
I said we needed to free the crated bears.
The guys wanted to GOOOO.
I wouldn’t let them leave with all the pumpkins, because we still needed to build the cornucopia. So I selected the ones I thought would work best and sent Vern and Amanda on.
John and I went to the back to gather the bears. We saw Kay but didn’t disturb her, she had a clipboard and business face on, pointing. Danger.

We dropped the bears at different points we thought were close enough and went back for the big boy.

That was fun. John just wallowed him up on the cart while I stood there, useless. Just call me Jake Right Now.

That accomplished, we loaded the cart in the U-haul and waited.
And waited.
An hour and twenty minutes had passed since Kay abandoned us. He said this wasn’t nothing, one time it was ten of them and it was six hours in the holding pattern.
“She knows we’re out here. Just wait,” was his advice.
So we did.

Then here she blew, made no mention of the mulch, and thought we were waiting on her to load up and go to Pigeon Forge. Not hardly. She almost freaked out when I told her the pumpkins had left, until I showed her what I had kept. I reminded her of the cornucopia, and she reminded me of the display where the balloons were going. Dang.
But we had just enough.

The bears she deemed “perfect” (I winked at John) and we took pictures, tweaking here and there, and loaded up what was left. “Do we not need these pansies?” I asked her.
“No, there’s more at Pigeon Forge. Six flats.”
Okie dokie, sounds good to me.
The last things remaining were dressing the bears (pray the totes are at PF), spraying the straw with flame retardant, and the dang hot dog sticks.
But press on.
We took the new road, Jake Thomas, over to Teaster. It had been a long time comin’, and was hitherto untraveled by me. It was pretty exciting.
“So what’d this used to be?” Kay asked.
“Knobs,” I answered, at the same time Abby said, “Nothin’.”
It was good to have a straight road. Cattle hadn’t roamed here since the 80’s, to the best of my knowledge. I remember when my mother worked at Belz mall you could go out the back doors behind the food court and see some cows, sometimes. Of course I would have preferred horses.

There were no pansies at Pigeon Forge, apart from me, when I saw all the watering that needed to be done pronto tonto. Our consensus last night had been we wouldn’t worry about them, since goal was to be up there by 12, one at the latest.
Well, it was past four and a feels like 90 degree temperature in the sun. Everybody was looking a little droopy, including us.
I went to dumping water while everybody else went to see about the dreaded letters. Thanks guys, I got it. My best little soldier Brentley stuck by my side. I think he was crushing. I shall use this to my advantage, like any good Southern Lady. In other helpful news, the security guard inside the front door was much nicer and accommodating than the jerk manning the ones at Sevierville.
And the view is much better, too, as the Greenway runs right below the convention center and there were lots of people out, taking in the sunshine and walking dogs. Or, in one case, pushing a dog stroller with a Doodle mix panting happily. And people say Chester is spoiled. HA! The leaves were still pretty, and you know I’m happy to be near water of any kind.

After showering all the plants with six gallons of water, I went inside to see what fresh hell awaited us here. The Pigeon Forge Convention Center is a monstrosity. Like, almost Vegas caliber. You have to walk awhile, think you’re almost there, check your compass, and then walk some more. I finally located my crew just where I hoped they’d be, the same place our crap was piled up last year, miracle of miracles. They had just then managed to procure some staff with a pallet jack to move the letters to their temporary station. There didn’t seem to be any unwarranted excitement, so I returned to my rat killin’. Unfortunately there were no spigots here, either, and the sinks were too shallow to fill the gallon jugs. So we had to bust into the water bottles.
It wasn’t long before I was summoned. Kay wanted my opinion on the flowers in the letters. Well, she said she did, but she doesn’t, not really. Because I was for taking them out of their pots, giving them a substantial trim, and cramming them in there. Together with the ones she deemed unusable from Sevierville, I thought we’d have enough.
She put me in her stead, playing Twister with mums so she could decide what we needed, be it shims or new flowers or just a miracle from above. Probably all three, by the time it’s said and done. She counted and counted again and then Amanda counted behind her, getting a different number each time on the estimated amount of mums we’d need to complete the letters.
Hand on hip, she emitted a big sigh. I looked at Vern, who was contorted in a similar fashion opposite me. “Are you as uncomfortable as I am?”
“Yes,” came his immediate reply.
I stood, grasping my mum, grabbed his, and placed them on the cart. And went back for the rest of them while Kay puffed and blew and John adjusted his toolbelt. I had had my fill.
As I walked away, I could hear her say, “I think what we need to do is I need to take Amy to the Home Depot and we need to get about 60…but I can’t get that many in the truck…John, what about…”
And so it goes. I went back to my solitary task of deadheading. I envisioned a day I would not have to look at another mum. Which would be tomorrow, praise be.

I didn’t get much peace before here came Kay to collect me for our jaunt to Home Depot. It was approaching six. “Are they even open?” I wheedled, trying to get out of it.
“Till eight,” she supplied, sounding sure.
I checked the Google. Sure enough. I was stuck.
But then came the question of how to get Amanda and her minis back to her car, and then Kay decided to go to South Knoxville first and get what they had, and then picking up whatever she couldn’t haul tomorrow from Sevierville. I could already smell my freedom. I was gonna make it.
Amanda couldn’t look at me for cracking up. I don’t have much of a poker face.
We loaded up and just hit Dolly Parton when a dinging commenced.
“Oops, I need gas,” Kay said, like this was totally unexpected.
“Anytime you drive this thing, you need gas. And you never drive it, so do you have goblins?” I asked her, thinking of the night after the fair where I sat alone at Bluff’s for twenty minutes, wondering how I had managed to lose her in two miles at 10 o’clock at night.
We whip into Food City and guess who’s there, but good ol’ Vern and a half a load of pumpkins.
Kay manages to get the gas, even though she said it wasn’t happy she didn’t want to scan her Valucard, and we’re back on our way. I told them if my office had a shower, they could just drop me off there and I’d worry about my car tomorrow.
A few little accessories added to the bears in the canoe and we called it a night. I can’t say I am upset about going to my desk job tomorrow.

I am sure y’all have found this account of my weekend positively enthralling and made for the movies, but hey, we can’t all be jetsetters, sipping wine in the south of France. Some of us have to work to afford our dog and beer habits. Plus, I sit on my porch enough. I don’t mind helping a friend. It’s just a bonus she pays me. I’d help her anyway. She can’t help she’s crazy. Like I told Brentley, all the best ones are ♥️

Love from Appalachia, with all my 2000 aching parts,

~Amy

Someday soon I hope to sleep through the night. Is that asking too much? Nothing extravagant, just like, 10:30- 6. Or even 9:30-5:30. Oh well. Other people have bigger problems.

It was pumpkin moving day and we were fresh out of lesbians. Like Kay said, “if you gotta move pumpkins, you’re gonna want a lesbian.” 🤣🤣 We had two help last year and they were the best! Oh well, we’d just have to get by the best we could.

So I get to the convention center at the appointed time and of course Kay’s nowhere in evidence, no surprise there. I was just pulling on gloves and second guessing if something had changed and I was at the wrong place when here came the convoy: U-haul (the one with the blue horseshoe crab logo, one of my favorites), Vern and flatbed trailer with one zillion pumpkins, and Amanda.
I thought the hard labor was over, since the roof was on the pavilion and I thought we were using Styrofoam bricks for the fireplace, but I thought wrong. I should have known. You can’t make a plan for that place, some catastrophe will occur and you have to improvise.
And of course, that’s what happened. More on that in a bit.

First, we had to go dig eight rocking chairs out of the containers at the back. And Amy promptly whacked her shins. I knew it was coming, but it was unavoidable. The way they were stacked, jammed upside down on top of one another, and I was bent over anyway, because those containers are only about 4′ tall…well, that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. After we got the chairs placed, then it was time to wheel all the carts out. That sounds easy enough, right? Carts have wheels. Sure they do.
Our carts have been used for two decades now. And they’re decorative, not really made to be rolled. Or not made to be rolled very far, I should specify. Certainly not across 100,000 square feet of carpet and tile.
But that’s what we do. Or, to be amusing, I should say, “that’s how we roll.” Hahaaha.
I had barely gotten the wagon out of the container when Amanda shrieked, “Amy! Your wheel!”
And sure enough, it goes rolling away, independent of the wagon.
Well, I couldn’t let go of my wagon, so her and her son go chase it down.
“Pilgrim, you got a wheel off in the ditch,” I immediately thought, and voiced.
Amanda never knew my uncle, but it was still funny as all get out and we had to take a moment to get our breath from laughing at the absurdity of it all.
So back to my wonky wagon.
It was missing a nut that held it onto the axle so we sent the kid in the crate with a flashlight to find it. It wasn’t there. We didn’t have any superglue or super powers. However, we have a backup wagon, which quickly rose to backup plan, so we got it pulled out, checked to make sure all nuts were in position (including the one pulling it), and began the Oregon Trail to the front. It was a long, arduous journey, but at least I didn’t get dysentery. And the oxen didn’t get marred in the mud and provisions lost. (It helped there was no mud or provisions…or oxen). That task complete, back for the little carts. And honestly, I’d rather pull a wagon! Those little carts, there’s all kinds of stuff wrong with them. Amanda was like, “Amy! Your spoke is broke on this one!”
Well, of course it is. And the metal wheels are no longer round. It’s like walking and having one leg shorter than the other. Insanity. But all you can do is laugh and press on. So that’s what we did.
And when we made it back to the front, there was Kay, knee deep in a problem. There was a lot of pointing going on and I tried to make myself unobtrusive with my rickety cart that was under strain from the signs we’d loaded onto it. I swear they are not made for load bearing. And we always make them bear a load.

So the deal with the fireplace was, the Styrofoam brick sections were the wrong size, about 6″ too short, and there wasn’t enough to even cut and stagger to make it work. So then we started discussing options. John was for shakes, Amanda was for stick-on tiles, and Amy didn’t care; I just wanted a doughnut.
John had conveniently journeyed to Krispy Kreme for his coffee fix and was kind enough to bring back an assorted dozen. The assortment was exactly how I order: 8 fresh glazed, 2 lemon filled, and 2 chocolate with custard. There was only one glazed left, but I was happy with the others, so I ate a lemon and Amanda and I split the last glazed. Dang, I could eat an entire dozen of the glazed, I know I could, no problem. (Welllll…it’d be a problem. Later, at the doctor, when I went in for bloodwork). Brentley sat across from me, sipping his coffee whilst critiquing it.
“You’re twelve,” I said, equally impressed and aghast that he knew enough about coffee to enjoy its merits. “I didn’t drink coffee will I was 35.”
He raised his eyes in surprise. I thought it was because I’d missed out on coffee that long. “How old are you now?”
“45.”
And his eyebrows shot off his head.
“How old did you think I was, 21?” I grinned and elbowed his momma, seated next to me.
“Yeah,” he said.
“You’re officially my favorite person today.”
He beamed.

After much heated discussion over a fake fireplace that would be torn down in five days, it was decided that John would ride with Kay to Lowes and decide on something. We all were relieved it was him and not us. We started moving straw and the big pumpkins.
They returned with boxes of pebble tile. Super heavy. This was moderately distressing, because it was two older men, three ladies, and one half pint kid. And no equipment allowed on the concrete. The fireplace was on it’s back, like a flipped turtle.
Like I told y’all yesterday, no way to go but through it.

Kay was ready for lunch and I wasn’t opposed to that plan. We headed to Arby’s, because it was close. Even though they’d had that yesterday. And even though Kay couldn’t remember how to get there. I kept having to point (and at one intersection voice) a left turn. “Oh, is this is already?” She asked, truly shocked.
“I thought you were just here yesterday?” I could have sworn that’s what they said. Surely she didn’t drive to Pigeon Forge when this one was right here.
“I was, I just forgot. I thought it was on down.”
I shook my head. Yesterday was an adventure, too, Amanda filled me in. They’d sat there inside ad got their food, then needed to bring back something for Vern and John. So instead of going up and getting in line, they’d went out to the truck and joined the line that was wrapping around the building. Are you kidding me. Sharon and Kay should never, ever, meet. Her defense was the line inside was just as long and moving just as slow as the drive through line, and wouldn’t you rather be sitting down with the air blowing on you, instead of standing in line with a bunch of sweaty strangers? I do admit, she has a point, but I still wouldn’t have burned the gas for it, especially if I was already inside.
To further demonstrate my point of what a good kid Brentley was: he never made a peep in line, he didn’t get food everywhere, he was happy with his chicken and fries. He had pitched in to help every step of the way, all day. I was pretty impressed.
“You just like him because he said you look young,” Amanda said as I sang his merits.
“That’s true,” I conceded.
“She does!” Brentley piped up.
“Lord, kid, you’re already my favorite, you don’t have to butter my biscuit!”

We get back. The men had been gluing the tiles on, or whatever it is you do to it, then the grout. I wasn’t paying much attention, we were building the displays just inside the front doors and polishing pumpkins. I was more concerned about the lack of mini pumpkins that Kay insisted were in the bottom of one of the big boxes.
They were not.
Oh well, that’ll be tomorrow’s problem, mark my words. Nobody was concerned today.
I felt superfluous once Kay got to strategically placing pumpkins and plants, so I set my eye on this poor bear who looked like he was tangled in a sea of algae. It was supposed to look like he was holding an evergreen.
After 20+ years in a crate stored in some non climate controlled warehouse, the tree had seen it’s glory days. But here I am to save the daaaaay!!!
They finish the display and I gave the bear my best shot but he’d still need some work when I got time. It was time to go outside to build the straw/ pumpkin/ mum displays. I’m helping determine perimeters and notice John looks a bit stressed.
John never looks stressed.
He’s frantically rubbing the grout, explaining it dried quicker (much quicker) than expected and asks me to lend a hand. But he only had one sponge.
Pumpkin moving towels! Pumpkin polishing towels to the rescue! Yes!
But you couldn’t get it too wet, or the grout got liquified again. A delicate balance, tile work.
Pretty soon, Kay noticed the three of us having a simultaneous meltdown and her and Amanda come over to help. We’re all five clustered around this fake fireplace, giving it all we’ve got. It’s working, but the water needed changed, as it was now cloudy from all the grout we’d removed.
Did I mention there’s no access to a spigot outside? We have to buy bottled water for the flowers. It’s completely ridiculous. So while everybody is rushing around, figuring out where to drain grout water (at the storm drain, duh) and where to fill up the buckets and rinse the rags, I had an epiphany.
Just across from us, in the center of the complex, is a huge, gorgeous fountain.
I took off.
Kay was screaming, “It’s green, it’ll ruin it!”
No, what’s gonna ruin it is ten extra pounds of grout on those pretty little pebbles.
So I sloshed my grout-y rags around in the pondwater, effectively rinsing them, and go back to the group who have now emptied 36 water bottles into a galvanized tub. Mmmm-hmmm.
We wiped and wiped and wiped. Vern and John worked with chisels. Even Kay was reduced to silence as we concentrated on getting the majority of gray grout from the shiny pebbles. It was working, but it was slow going.
After awhile, and several more trips to the fountain, she got to looking at it and decided it looked more natural, more like what you would see in a National Park, and declared us done. I went to rinse out the washtubs before they set up with cement. Everybody was now on board with my green pondwater idea. Probably because they were out of bottled water, but whatever.
“Sure feels good to be a rebel!!” I hollered, swinging my tub from two fingers as I came back across the road.
They’re all clustered around the mock fireplace, looking constipated. Kay had her gloved hands on her hips. This looked….ominous.
“We gotta lift this,” John informed me.
I looked around for firemen, policemen, Navy Seals.
I saw two retired men, three well fed women, and a kid. “We??” I squeaked.
He grinned. “Grab hold.”
“Where???”
Him and Vern hefted the mammoth thing off the ground and the rest of us hurriedly grabbed hold of the edges and lifted. Once it got higher than my head I ducked under and walked up, supporting. If anybody slipped, I was squished flatter than a flitter, like the coyote under the Acme lead weight. Oh well. It’d make a good story, and that’s all I’m after.

Miracle of miracles, our barn raising- I mean, fireplace raising- was a success, it fit in the notch of the pavilion just like it was made to do. We high fived, then John and Vern set in to applying grout on the bottom third and figuring out how to attach the mantel. I got to work trimming the moldy parts from the underside of mums and deadheading. Last year they got frostbite, this year they got too hot in the truck and molded. It’s always something, like I said. I’m not talking a dozen $7.99 mums. I’m talking 200 $30 mums. Good thing I find deadheading therapeutic. I pulled up a patch of sidewalk and got busy. In no time, I had a 30 gallon trash bag full of dead plant. I also had an almost dead bumblebee. I hoped it wasn’t dying but merely sleeping. I guess I’d know in the morning. I tried not to disturb it as I trimmed and whittled. Poor guy. Pollinators are so important. I hoped it hadn’t got into the moldy blooms. It had been warm all day but now that the sun was setting on the last day of “old time” it was getting cool. I wished him the best, and hoped to see him the next day.

I drove home, the back way through the hollers, and reflected on how good it felt to have done manual labor. It’s been awhile. It’s fun working with people for a change, too. John kept the radio cranked up on WIMZ, and that’s a plus for me (not anybody else) because I know the majority of the words to most of the songs. I felt alive, if tired. I felt needed and appreciated. I felt like if I didn’t get a hot shower I was going to set up like that fireplace grout and they’d have to bring their chisels to get me unattached from my couch in the morning.

I’ll probably sleep just fine tonight. Or die like the bumblebee, one.

Love from Appalachia,
Amy

It’s amazing what you can endure. You may think you can’t make it one more minute in the situation you’re in, but then it’s ten minutes later and you haven’t gone round the bend. Whether it be waiting to hear about health results or sitting in gridlocked traffic or working with a person who drives you batty. The only way past it is through it. You can’t usually go around, and you sure can’t bow up and stop and wait for the obstacle to remove itself. You gotta plunge headfirst and go like you’re cutting vines in the jungle with a machete.

And besides, what choice do you really have? I’ve said more than once I’d love the luxury of a breakdown! The bills keep coming, whether you’re in the nuthouse or not, so it’s in my favor to just keep that crazy tucked in and keep working.

And I’m better for it.

So Friyay. But not really, since I’d be working all weekend setting up the IGES trade show with my friend, Kay. That’s a big reason why I took yesterday off to spend with my dog, being his birthday and all. Plus I needed to knock out some housework since I had planned to go to JA’s for steaks and beer and visit with an out of town friend. But as the day wore on, rainy and dreary, my desire to drive across the mountain waned substantially. And let’s face it: I’m not my usual animated self these days. I didn’t feel like faking it in our small crowd, and I certainly didn’t want to act like I felt and have everybody asking what’s wrong. I did NOT want to field questions in that category at all. So I made my apologies and enjoyed the thought of going home and piling up with my dog and finishing my book. Midnight is the Darkest Hour, if I haven’t said in a previous post. It is most excellent. A mix of Where the Crawdads Sing and Twilight. I wasn’t able to stomach even the entirety of the first Twilight book; I was too old for it when it came out. But anyhoo, this is a good one. I need to get my review written for it, too.

But then, about 4:00, Kay called. She’d been setting up the show and was ready for a drink. And she knows you can count on me. So, even though it felt wrong after shooting JA down, I said yes. The difference was, Kay knows my woes and I wouldn’t have to put on an act for her. And if I broke down or was short tempered, that was ok, too. And perhaps best of all, I didn’t have to drive 45 minutes both ways. We decided to go support Huffy in his new location and check out the new Bluff’s. It was opening night!

It turns out I like it better, due primarily to proximity to work. I think I’m turning into a curmudgeon. I like things to be efficient and handy. I have wonderful memories at their old location, but I never knew which side to sit on the rare occasions I went of the evening. The right hand side was the original side, and I always felt like an imposter when I sat on the left. But the left generally had better service and more bodies of the evening. Lunch was always exclusively a right hand side seating. But the new place is one big open room. And I was definitely feeling my age. I wondered how many other people there remembered it as the original Krogers? And then it was a few different Chinese restaurants. I only ate at one, once.

Even though I don’t play pool (except that one time in the Old City 🤣🤣🤣🤣 ka-POW!) I was mesmerized by the beautiful blue felt. The bar was so new it still smelled like varnish. It reminded me of the old bar at Outback. Again, showing my age…even though really, that wasn’t THAT long ago…and wasn’t it also a Chinese restaurant in that location back in the day??? But it was fun people watching. One guy I sat next to at lunch several weeks ago had a head of garlic perched on his phone. Of course I asked. He said he really likes garlic, and one of the cooks sent it out as a joke. He said he was taking it home. I didn’t blame him. Save 99 cents! But lots and lots (probably all) of the same clientele as the original, and nobody seemed fazed. It was just like we’d all agreed to act like nothing was different. I told Huffy the sole recommendation I had, once he got time and all the fires were out, was to install purse hooks. He assured me there were some floating around there somewhere. I hope they get a better selection of beers on tap, eventually, too, but I can always find something to drink.

So Kay and I sat, decompressing, and drank a few over a couple of hours and then ordered some pickles and other assorted bar food. Wings for me, naturally. It tasted the same as always, and all was well. A good night, as far as I was concerned. It’s good to have a neighborhood bar. It’s even better to have a good friend to drink with. ♥️ No selfie tonight, I didn’t have the first swipe of makeup on and she’d been working outside in the rain.

Love from Appalachia and my favorite local bar,

~Amy