Hello friends and neighbors. I hope I didn’t alarm anyone by skipping yesterday. Apparently not, because not a single one of my devoted followers reached out to see if I was dead in a ditch. Although to be fair, my nearest and dearest knew what I was doing and where I was. Anyway, I’m fine, it just boils down to me being a procrastinator extraordinaire and didn’t bother getting anything put down before I began my journey halfway across the state. Then after dinner and maybe some two-for-one beers, I no longer felt the supreme drive to write. So, since I’m writing today, in my rules in Amy Land, I still say this counts and it’s not cheating. I’m just a day late. And I have addressed my problem head-on. But the “dead in a ditch” phrase reminds me of when I worked for the fencing outfit and I would call all the crew leaders at 2:00 on the nose (unless I was asshole deep in alligators, but typically things had mellowed by that point in the day). The purpose of the call was to make sure they were on schedule either to finish or they would be on overtime to finish or needed an extra day (that was very bad and I hated to hear those words). Also, just to make sure they hadn’t died from heat exhaustion, rattlesnake bite, bear attack, truck fire, angry neighbors….any number of things could befall them. I never knew fencing carried so many potential hazards. And yes, we faced all of those at one time or another during my two years there. Well, no one was ever actually attacked by a bear, but they saw plenty of them, including Annie at Anakeesta. And nobody was bitten by a rattlesnake, but they saw plenty up in Townsend on the guardrail job. That was the time that one guy who claimed to be hardcore and could keep up with anybody (he was a gym rat and used to a climate-controlled environment, not 100° in the shade) called an ambulance for himself at about 3 in the afternoon on his very first day. This is the type of thing that can be headed off by a check-in.
ANYWAY. I’m a little low on inspiration (well, of the family-friendly type, and also from my observations today I will be writing another blog with yet another prompt later). So here goes nothin’.
Writing Prompt #431 “The clown was drunk”
It was my five-year-old’s birthday. He had been obsessed with clowns for two years. It’s a little hard to find a clown in Witchita, Kansas. I was thinking back in the eighties when I grew up they were a dime a dozen. Like, you just flipped through the yellow pages under “clowns” and BAM, presto-chango, here was a three-column wide selection. Of course, now we don’t have Yellow Pages, we have Google, and all the listings looked a little suspicious like they were actually a front for running drugs. So I asked around to the playgroup moms if any of them knew an entertainer for children’s parties. It’s amazing to me the lengths people go to to ensure a good time for little Suzie and Billy these days. They’ll rent out entire venues instead of just a room. They get chauffeured limos to transport their offspring and guests around town to the movies, the ice cream joint, the zoo, or whatever activity they’re partaking in. When I was growing up, we just had a sprinkler in the birthday boy’s backyard and some of those crepe paper streamers slung up around the porch. Rich kids got helium balloons, the rest of us just had a few taped to the mailbox to alert attendees to the correct house. If you were a working-class family and wanted a clown, you went to the circus, unless you knew somebody with a clown costume that could be paid in beer and pizza.
But my kid wanted a clown, and clown he would have if I could just procure one.
Luckily, one of the moms did and could vouch for the excellence of service. She still had the number in her phone. They doubled up on business by offering bounce houses, as well. With water features. That sounded like an ER bill waiting to happen, to me. No bounce houses in our future.
So I hired the clown. I ordered the cake (circus-themed). I hung the streamers. I picked up the balloons and bought the ice cream and grilled the cheeseburgers and hot dogs. Kids arrived, presents in tow, Moms looked relieved to have an afternoon off. They weren’t bothered in the slightest to leave their little cherubs with a family they’d met a time or two in a public place.
3:00. Cue the clown.
3:15. Clown is late. Children are beginning to whine.
3:30. Call the company. Closed on Saturday. Of course. That makes perfect sense. The biggest party day when you’ll have the most product out and nobody in the office.
3:45. A beater Honda Civic pulls to the curb and a clown way past his prime tumbles out. I’m hoping it’s part of the act, but it quickly becomes apparent it most certainly is NOT. I had been anticipating a Bozo the Clown type, and this was more like one you’d see on Southpark. He cussed and kicked his door shut, adding one more dent to the chipped gold paint. What was one more? Certain memories of John Wayne Gacy surfaced, flashbacks of news coverage when the story broke. I was somewhat mollified to remember that everyone said he was a FLAWLESS clown. The tiny partygoers that had immediately flocked to our current clown began to shrink back. I approached him cautiously.
“Uh, hi?”
He appraised me and all I can say is I wish I had opted for a turtleneck sweater and ski pants. I find clowns marginally creepy at best and this guy was off the charts for Ick Factor.
“You’re a little late, but come this way and I’ll show you where to set up. You brought balloons to make the animals with, right?” I asked because I noticed his hands were empty.
He uttered yet another expletive. “I forgot them. But I can improvise. Got any condoms?”
A stupid question to ask, not only because he was at a KID’s birthday party, but because we’re at a KID’s birthday party. The inappropriateness was off the charts.
“Uh, ya know, I think we’re good here. We’re just fixing to have cake and ice cream and I believe it would be best if you just went back the way you came.”
He spread his hands. “Whoa whoa whoa. No reason to be hasty! We can still have a good time.” He flashed a grin made much more sinister by the hastily applied paint and produced two handfuls of airplane bottles. “Whaddya say?”
I all but pushed him back down the driveway. “I say you should probably call someone to pick you up. Please leave now.”
He collapsed in a pile of sighs. “I always wanted to be a clown. But Ringling Brothers went belly up and nobody else wanted me. Not even the rodeo. Do you have any idea how hard it is to come by work? I’m living in my car!! It’s a small car!!! I had to get rid of my dog, he was the star of my show. Only the true freaks call me, I thought you were one of them! I didn’t know it was a wholesome kid’s party, I swear! I have to get drunk to endure the stuff people ask of me! Can I sober up and come back tomorrow?”
I regarded him incredulously. “Are you kidding me??? The party is today! It’s RIGHT NOW. And not only are you late, you’re drunk and wanting to entertain children. This is the most ludicrous thing that’s ever happened to me, and that’s saying a lot. I’m calling your company Monday. My suggestion to you is to find a new dream. Maybe something in spirit sampling, because you appear to be very good at that.”
And I all but stuffed him back in his car, rainbow wig and all. A solitary tear rolled down his cheek.
And that is how you make a drunk clown cry.
Can’t you just see this happening??? I sure can.
Love and procrastination from Appalachia,
~Amy
I don’t wanna write, I wanna gripe.
Common courtesy is dead. But if I write about it, I’m gonna get all wound up here at bedtime and I need to get some rest tonight. So, I’ll save it for a day I’m already mad.
Writing prompt #911, courtesy of Barry the Chigger. Those of you on my Facebook know him as the guy who’s obsessed with the Kodak library. I know him as the guy who published my words about the helicopter crash and shit hittin’ the fan. I’ve unintentionally beguiled him with my Southern charm, but you never know when you might need a New York Yankee retired fireman to proofread an article on growing petunias. So here we are.
#911 You gain control over a magical door. All you have to do is write a location, any location, at the top of the door and when you open it, it brings you to where you’ve written.
Gained control? Makes it sound like I’m in a coveted spot, indeed. Like I had to sword fight for this right. Hmm. The “all you have to do” part seems a little suspect, too. And my handwriting is atrocious, so I better be very careful, indeed.
“Historic Downtown Savannah Georgia,” I scrawled. Best to pick a place I’m familiar with to get my bearings on how this was gonna work.
I opened the door, stepped through, and whoosh! It was like those air blowers above the automatic doors in pharmacies. I liked it a lot.
I wasn’t the least bit surprised to find myself deposited on the back side of River Street, below Factor’s Walk. If anything witchy was gonna happen, it would definitely be here. The smell of not-quite-cleanliness, burned sugar, and mustiness hit me just as quick as my eyes took in the stone stairs ahead of me and the ferns growing between each step. I looked back at my door. It was like the rest of them leading to the warehouse areas of the restaurants and store fronts. Old, dark wood, stained many times over with oil and who knows what else. Grimy to the touch, wrought iron hasps and hinges that looked like they’d fall off with the slightest pressure. I opened my door and it appeared to lead directly into a brick wall. Ok, then. Guess that’s how I would be getting back.
But first, Savannah.
The Hostess City did not disappoint. Of course it didn’t. The magic of the door continued, as I always had the exact amount of money in my pocket that was needed. Things sure seemed a lot cheaper than the last few times I visited, but maybe it was because I hadn’t had to work for my spending cash this time. It was just there.
I visited all my favorite spots and gradually made my way back to my door before I became too intoxicated. This was better than having a helicopter! Quicker, too. I wrote my address above the door and away I flew.
I stepped across my familiar threshold, and the headache that immediately took hold was debilitating. I stumbled toward bed, kicking my shoes off in the hallway.
What I believed was the next morning, I couldn’t wait to try it again. I decided to teleport to work first, because I may be adventurous, but I’m also practical. What good is a magic door if you can’t spare yourself a grisly commute and a few bucks worth of gas?
I get to work and imagine my surprise to find myself already there. So evidently I’m now a duplicate? And my alter ego runs early? Something is very suspicious.
So when I stepped through the door, I imagined I would scream, but neither of us did. Years ago, I read a book by Blake Crouch called Dark Matter. It was evidently prepping me for this moment. My original self explained to my teleporting self that every time I traveled this way, I left another version of myself. So, according to her research, there was still an Amy in Savannah, living it up. This could be problematic. No wonder the last guy had been so eager to relinquish the door. This could get messy, quick.
“Also, did you notice,” she continued, “that you’re not traveling to the current day?”
“It did seem like things were cheaper,” I admitted, a bit begrudgingly that I hadn’t paid stricter attention.
Current Amy blinked at me. She was really very obnoxious, to tell you the truth. “That’s all you noticed? According to the email, you went back to 2011. That was thirteen years ago.”
“Thanks for the math lesson,” I told myself witheringly. “You’re such a riot, I’m leaving. I would ask where you wanna go, but obviously you’re gonna need to stay here.”
“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she —I mean, I— told myself as I let myself out.
Leave it to me to get a malfunctioning door. Or maybe it was like a two for one, time travel and teleportation. So, of course I wanted to see Ireland and Scotland and those islands over there. But what if I was sent back to Medieval times and they were all in upheaval? I’d be like Claire in Outlander. I really should have paid closer attention on how to avoid attention. At least I didn’t have a scar from the smallpox vaccination. That would be very telling. I also wanted to flit through Paris, walking where Hemingway did in the city of light. I had to get Down Under before my term expired on the door. And Galapagos to see the giant turtles. And Alaska! So much to do, so much to see. And those places were also far away, there was no chance I’d run into myself again, right? But what about home? Was I now a twin? Would I have to kill me? Would she have to kill me? Would all the traveling mes vaporize once I lost possession of the door? Would it hurt? I needed to call myself. I reached for my phone and dialed my number. I just got the fast busy signal. This was infuriating! I certainly didn’t want to go back to work and make myself a triplet. Being a twin sign Gemini was bad enough.
I sighed. Ah, to heck with it. You only get one life. Unless you get a magic door.
Love from Appalachia (and Savannah. And Galapagos. And Alaska. And Ireland. And Paris)
~Amy
Writing Prompt #466 “The fog rolled in, this was our first warning sign.”
It wasn’t a dark and stormy night. It was a beautiful, clear day. And lemme tell you, the trout were bitin’. I adjusted my G.R.I.T.S. (Girls Raised In The South) cap and pushed up my polarized prescription sunglasses. I twitched my rod.
“Woooo!” Came my uncle’s war cry from the back of the boat. “I wouldn’t be you for apple butter!”
This was a common enough phrase heard every Thursday when the weather was fair, TVA was runnin’ “big water”, and a bearded man and his redheaded niece could be found in the middle of the Clinch River in an aluminum boat. I kept my mouth shut and twitched my rod again. We slowly propelled across the river. Back and forth, back and forth. Only pausing to unhook. Which, to be honest, was happening a lot more from the stern than the bow. But as a wise person once said, “a bad day fishin’ is still better ‘an a good day at work.”
The Clinch River is something to behold. It’s wide and green and swift and cold. It’s perfect for the sleek rainbow trout. It’s also home to the “elusive” yellow perch (named by me, sarcastically, after that was all I caught one afternoon and I had to make them sound more exotic and sought after), salamanders, white tailed deer, eagles, and the healthiest crop of moss outside the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I had caught record setting pounds of it. Bushel baskets wouldn’t hold it. And somebody wouldn’t hush every time I hooked a fish.
“Ahhh, prolly s’more a-that ol’ green stuff. You catch a fish, now, it’ll ‘bout take your arm with it, since you’re used to the vegetation, Kid Stuff.”
Yes, I carried all manner of nicknames, including, but not limited to: Pilgrim, Ralph, Kid Stuff, Freckles, Suzy-Q, Floss, Crumb Cruncher, RugRat, and ARE YOU DEAF I SAID GET THE GATE.
Ahem. As I was saying.
The Clinch was cold and deep. So cold I rarely bothered with a cooler, even in July. I’d lay my sammich and can of Mountain Dew in the hull and most days frost would form there. Early in the morning and late in the day the fog was so thick you couldn’t slice it with a yeller Case knife. And it would penetrate you to your bones. So I layered up. You wouldn’t want to go on the river during times of fog unless you were with someone who knew it well, who had fished it for decades. And even then, it was still dangerous.
I twitched my line and thought about swappin’ plugs.
“Don’t quit on it, yet, Pilgrim,” he said, reading my mind.
“Lemme borry that ol‘ ugly crawdad,” I said off handedly, like I could catch him off guard. Ha. Fat chance.
“Throw off on my prized crawdad all these years and now you wanna borry it? I don’t think so!” He grinned his gap-toothed grin. “You’d get it hung in moss and then what would we do? I gotta have a little help, I can only fish with two poles on account I’ve only got two hands!”
And on it went. I reapplied sunscreen. I sang Brad Paisley’s “I’m Gonna Miss Her” but changed the words to “him” to make it work for me. I caught one fish to his three. I ate peanut butter and crackers, prepared by Aunt Bren, who makes the best peanut butter and crackers there is.
And then the wind changed. Uncle Dale was instantly on alert. You gotta remember, this was before smart phones. We didn’t have the weather at our fingertips. We thought we were in high cotton when we caught a signal on the river. And nothin’ would get you chewed faster than talkin’ on the phone when you’re tryin’ to fish.
“Pilgrim, we better head in. That rain wasn’t s’post to get here till three, but somebody didn’t tell the river.”
This was not a discussion, this was an order to reel in, stat.
The fog rolled in, instant-like. My stomach dropped. It was ok, we knew where shore was, but dang it was spooky. Middle of the day like that and all I could make out at the back of the boat was the blaze orange on the inside of his jacket. He was less than six feet away.
“Do your best to watch, and hold this light,” he told me, turning us. “I’m gonna go to the opposite side, then troll straight with the bank.”
I nodded and held the light. We were underway.
It seemed to take forever to reach the other side. I kept watching the water direction to make sure we were going the right way. just like I knew anything, compared to this man who had fished this river since he was twelve years old.
“SNAKE!!!” I hollered, as one fell off a tree right in front of me, missing the boat by millimeters. I jumped one square mile into the air.
“Is it in the boat?!?”
“Hell no! You think I still would be if it was?!”
“Then why’d you scream?”
“‘Cause it was a snake!!”
I heard him sniggering, but I didn’t think it was the least bit funny.
After fifteen minutes that passed like a kidney stone in a third world hospital, we finally arrived at the canoe ramp. It was like a scene from a Friday the Thirteenth movie.
“This is freaky,” I said for the fiftieth time.
“So you’ve mentioned. Tie us off.” He threw me the rope, which landed in the water. I lunged for it, nearly tipping us over.
Rapid fire cussing from the back.
“Sorry! Sorry! I got it.”
I sat still and held us as steady as I could while he climbed out and got his land legs back under him, then he started up the hill to the Ford.
I shivered, looking around.
Fog is weird. It’s like heavy snow that’s hung up, mid-fall. I couldn’t see squat. I heard a fish jump and flop a few feet away. Then I heard footsteps. Or was it a deer? Deer were thick here, and so were ticks. But I wouldn’t hear a tick coming.
A man in a yellow and black flannel shirt appeared in front of me. I started, then smiled. He smiled back, exposing teeth that matched his shirt.
I shuddered and quit smiling.
“Any luck?” He asked.
“Some. My uncle caught six. I only got two.” I shrugged, like such is life.
“What are y’all catchin’ ‘em on?”
“Rapalas, shallow runners.”
He nodded thoughtfully. Hurry up, I willed my uncle. The fog was thick enough to muffle the sound of the diesel, but here it come, I could see the lights, thank ya Jesus.
“Y’all be careful gittin’ back to Sevier County,” Snaggletooth Sam said, and turned back into the fog from which he came.
“Yew see ‘at guy?” I asked my uncle as he took the nylon rope out of my hands.
He looked around, fog still walling us in. “What guy?”
“Guy in the yellow shirt.” I shivered. “Creepy.”
“You’re just weirded out on account of the fog. Here, flip them seats down. Git that paddle and push it out some.”
I obeyed the stream of commands willingly, constantly looking over my shoulders and his. I pulled the plug and watched the water drain, splashing and returning to the mighty river. I retrieved our life jackets and put them behind the seat in the cab and made sure everything else was secure. I was very relieved to climb into the passenger seat and lock my door.
“Lockin’ the boogeyman out, Pilgrim?”
“You didn’t see him. He was seedy.”
“Ehh, just some ol’ bachelor, down here sneakin’ him a pint.”
I looked out the window, expecting him to pop his head up. “He could have slit my throat while you lollygagged gittin’ the truck.”
“Well, I had to take a leak.”
“That’s great. That’s how it goes on Dateline. You turn your head for one second, and the girl who lights up rooms and is the life of any party, the one everyone adores and was successful in anything she put her hand on- body snatched! Never heard from again!”
“Ahhh, you’re safe, then.” And side-eyed me.
“I’d hit you if my arm wouldn’t so tarred from reelin’ all them fish in. They ‘bout fought me to death.”
“Which one? You only caught two!”
“They made four of every one of yours, though!” I countered, a bald faced lie if there ever was one.
“Good thing that hoodlum didn’t carry you off, I’d have to tell that. Then it’d be, it’s all over now, ‘cept the sad singin’, the slow walkin’, and the deep diggin’.”
And he rolled out of first gear and caught second, grinnin’ like a mule eatin’ saw briars.
Yeah, a bad day fishin’ beats a good day doin’ pert near anything else.
Postscript: this was the eeriest thing. Not just the prompt, but I had literally been discussing potential and past fog events on the phone with my friend moments before. We talked about wrecks, and how to avoid them in foggy weather, and places around with known fog (looking at you, Portland, Tennessee). Then I asked for a number, and this is what I got. Tell me that won’t make the hair stand up on your arms. I started to write it as a car wreck, since that had been the focus of our conversation, but that felt like tempting fate. Then I thought about a hiking story, but I didn’t want to scare myself. Then, of course, my beloved Clinch River. Parts of this story are true, but ol’ Snaggletooth Sammy was pure figment of my imagination.
I hope you enjoyed. I enjoyed reliving those Thursdays.
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Trigger warning….vomit ahead. If you don’t wanna read about snot vomit, please skip to the third paragraph.
I spent the second half of my day irritated because my coworker is the single most disgusting human being alive. He throws up because he refuses to blow his nose. I am not even joking. He admitted to it today, freely, with no urging from me. It is a regular occurrence. It happened just yesterday afternoon and he didn’t even bother washing it off before he came to work today. He also never washes his hands. I mean never. And by the way, I’m not talking about Double Fries David or Addison the Saving Grace. This is a new guy, y’all don’t know him. And you’re not going to, because I am embarrassed by him and wouldn’t want to make you feel obligated to pretend you aren’t totally repulsed upon introduction.
This is not to say he isn’t a nice guy. I feel confident in saying his mother has done the best she could. He’s not intimidating or anything like that. He’s just nasty. And this is nothing I wouldn’t say to him, and have, multiple times a day, since he started three months ago. I’m trying to help him improve his hygiene habits. It’s not working. If I wind up sick, I’m gonna string him up by his toes like a crow caught in the cornfield from the first light pole I come to. I’m washing my hands about fifty times a day and using Clorox wipes like it’s March 2020. I’ve eaten approximately a dozen tangerines since Monday afternoon.
I just had to get that off my chest.
>>>>>SAFE TOPIC: Now, in ways that I’m not perfect: I was making stuffed peppers. I like cumin seasoning a lot, so I don’t bother measuring it, I just sprinkle till my heart’s content.
Well, the sprinkle lid fell off about the time my heart was reaching contentment and I wound up with about a 1/4 cup instead of a tablespoon. Ah, well.
I had put in a load of laundry, my good work clothes, which included a new pair of pants. I thought I had gone over them really well for wayward tags. Obviously not, as I missed a glaring red one, which promptly disintegrated into sixteen teeny tiny sticky pieces and reattached to the other garments in the load.
Here I have been thinking I make a decent homemaker. I wasn’t worth two hoots today.
That’s all I’m gonna report on that, y’all deserve something better. And this is not going to be better, but I asked Fish for a number, and he gave me 221.
Writing Prompt #221 A superhero is trapped and his arch enemy talks at length about his disdain for superheroes. Write that monologue.
The only thing I know less about is math. Please don’t make me write about math. I had to research Superman (as that’s who springs to mind for superhero) and ended up way more confused and unsure than I started. Then I moved onto Batman. I felt marginally more equipped to write about him, since I’ve seen at least three Batman movies. Ok, the Joker. I know about him. I can do this, I told myself. You like bats.
Setting: A circus tent, garish flashing lights blaring from all angles and a disco ball hanging directly above Batman’s head, where he sits tied to a Tilt-a-whirl by laffy taffy. The calliope emits its teeth gritting tune, over and over and over. You can almost see the pupils in Batman’s black eyes turn into red and white targets, spinning relentlessly.
Joker: “Hey Batman, what’s red and bad for your teeth?”
Batman emits a low growl.
Joker: “A brick.” The Joker laughs manically, as The Joker is wont to do. Without missing a beat, he goes to the next one: “What’s blue but smells like red paint?”
No response from the Dark Knight.
“Blue paint!” The Joker cries, dancing around and twirling his cane.
“What’s green and has six wheels?” He continues, just like he had an audience that had paid a cover and was begging for more. “GRASS!!! I lied about the wheels!!” He bends double, clutching his stomach.
This had been going on for hours, relentless riddles and jokes. Batman said nothing. He just waited. He waited for darkness. His bats would come. And everybody was scared of bats, even the ones who didn’t have the sense God gave a goose.
{Fish, I started to write you as Aquaman, as I have referred to you in the past, but my knowledge of Aquaman only stretches to a few episodes of Big Bang Theory where Raj complains about having to dress up as him}
Not much love here tonight…this was too much like work. I didn’t even mention the mysterious blue line that popped up that I couldn’t get rid of for several anxiety ridden minutes. I still don’t know how I did. Those WordPress forums are beyond useless. I need a class where somebody holds my hand and then is available on FaceTime forever and ever, amen. I’m beginning to think I’m not much on challenges. I’m craving the mundane after this disaster.
Just plain Amy
Writing Prompt #752 You’re the last person on Earth… but somehow the internet still seems to work.
I don’t even know where to start with this one. Like, how would it even be possible for me, of all people, to be the last man standing? Highly unlikely. I’m more apt to be struck by lightning and hit the lottery in the same day. Because lemme tell you, I’m looking forward to my big reward and have zero interest in fighting tooth and nail to merely survive. But anyway, here we are, plunged into this story because I decided I was short on inspiration tonight.
************************
After four months in my home and observing no other humans, I decided to take the show on the road to see what I might find. The wildlife certainly seemed to be enjoying having free run of the place once again. I’d seen my first ever bobcat, loads of deer, turkey, birds of all kinds. Foxes, rabbits, and even a bear. I had found myself constantly reaching for my Redfield Talus binoculars (a gift from last Christmas before humankind ceased to exist), so often I generally just wore them around my neck. I was continually searching for any movement, human or animal, in assurance it wasn’t just me and Chess in the great big world. It appeared I was the last person in this neck of the woods, anyway.
Searching for other humans would have been easier in the winter if we’d had snow, that way I could just look for tracks and follow them. But winter is much harder to survive than the other seasons, so I’d bemoan lack of companionship at a later date. It was never that important to me, anyway. Fortunately it was May, and the heat had yet to really set in, so I could still make use of daytime hours for traveling. Every day I went a little further. It was so odd…no dead bodies, anywhere, roads free of cars, it was like life had paused at two in the morning, everyone raptured from their beds.
Everyone but me.
The internet still worked, my phone still updated daily weather and time, Facebook was still active, but of course there were no updates. Sometimes I felt like I was just a click away, like I had gone up a channel on the CB radio and had failed to notice. Like life was still going on without me, on a different wavelength. Brings new meaning to a day late and a dollar short. No mail arrived mysteriously, and that was fine by me, anyway. Good news rarely travels by United States Postal Service.
So I made my way through the neighbor’s house, finding no one, and decided to go where I have always gone to calm my heart and set things right: the library. If anybody would know what was up, and better yet, how to fix it, it would be librarians.
After a couple of hours of walking (conserving gas in my car for when I really needed it and wishing I’d kept a horse. Horse thievery is still a hangin’ crime, as far as I know, so I didn’t even wanna borrow one) I arrived at our newly remodeled branch. The doors opened soundlessly for me and I entered reverently, calling “Hello?” fully expecting Janet to poke her head out of the glassed in partition. But she didn’t, and neither did anyone else. I had never known our library to be so lifeless. Tears sprang to my eyes anew. This was it, then. No sign of life. I wasn’t going to walk to Walmart, because the type of life found there in normal times was best left to sort itself out, anyway. I sat down in the Childrens’ Room and had a good sob.
Then I pulled myself up, walked over to Kroger, and helped myself to every bag of mint Milano cookies on the shelf. Then I swept all the chocolate and caramel Ghirardelli squares into my wagon and headed back home. I hadn’t been taking more than I needed at any time from any stores, just in case. But I was having a Crap Day and needed all the chocolate.
The thing was, I was no Will Smith, out here with a transistor radio and a cool dog. I had the dog, but no radio. That’s really the only difference 😁 But I needed to get somewhere to figure this out. Someone, somewhere, knew something. Surely. I decided a trip to the county seat was in order. I could walk in the Sheriff’s Department and demand answers. And if I was faced with cinderblock walls and filing cabinets, as expected, then I’d just help myself. And if that didn’t work, I’d take myself next door to the courthouse. And then TVA, because I was definitely gonna need to figure out how electricity worked. I’d probably have to put in a few hours on YouTube for that. And you know, it’d be great if I could figure out how to keep us high and dry.
I headed to bed with the best laid plans. I was going to fix the nation. I was going to unearth the cure. And I was gonna find out the truth about UFOs and Pearl Harbor, once and for all. I hoped there was time.
As was my nature, I checked Facebook one last time before calling it quits for the night. To my surprise, I had one notification, the first in four months.
A friend request.
From Sturgill Simpson.
Be still, my faint heart.
🤣🤣🤣 I’m done, y’all. Sci-fi ain’t my forte. Y’all feel free to write whatever ending you want.
Love from a fully staffed Appalachia,
~Amy
Writing Prompt #475. You’re asked by the love of your life to define what love means to you.
What is love? Baby don’t hurt me…don’t hurt me…no more…
Love is time. Love is effort. Love is listening.
Love is saving the cabbage stem in a little bowl of water all day for the one who enjoys it most.
Love is sacrificing something you enjoy doing to do something the person you love enjoys doing. Like sitting on the beach under an umbrella all day when you burn like a lobster and you’d much rather be touring old houses and being gently buffeted by porch ceiling fans, hung from haint blue ceilings. Or not going fishing, but instead taking your wife to the beauty parlor because she’s nervous about driving on the highway.
Love is a dog who meets you at the door even though you’re an hour late.
Love is bringing you a Sprite with the good ice when you’re sick.
Love is starting your car for you on frosty mornings.
Love is telling your children no, even though it hurts your heart, because you know it will benefit them more than giving in.
Love is tulips on a Tuesday in April.
Love is coconut cream pie like your granny made.
Love is picking them up from the airport at one in the morning, even when you have to be at work at eight.
Love is simply good morning texts with a blowing kiss emoji, but also making sure you’re ok when you had to cry a little bit when you learn your friend had to put their dog down.
Love is carrying in firewood and making sure the generator has gas before a winter storm.
Love is not posting unflattering videos when they have their wisdom teeth out.
Love is a koozie from the beach, just because.
Love is loving you, warts and all, as my friend Rhonda says.
Love is, “I don’t know why I called you, I just wanted to hear your voice.”
Love is lighting up when you see them, and craving their touch.
Love is rubbing aloe on their sunburned back, or rubbing your legs even though you haven’t shaved in a few days.
Love is help doing whatever needs doing, without being asked, like carrying in groceries or picking up sticks in the yard.
Love is feeling safe in expressing true feelings or thoughts and knowing the other person won’t judge you. It’s not holding back truths, because true love won’t desert you, just like Journey tells us. Love is also safety in knowing they fully support you, that they have your back against the rest of the world, that they will back you up, no matter what. Love is a partner.
Love is a best friend, a dog, God, a horse, a river, parents, your children. Love is passion and comfort.
There is probably no one less qualified to write about love than me. I don’t have a marriage of fifty years to smile smugly about…even though those who make it to fifty are rarely smug. It’s the twenty-five year veterans who think their world can’t be flipped upside down. I didn’t even get ten before I learned otherwise. I didn’t have a Cleaver family upbringing. I didn’t have hordes of cousins or a neighborhood gang of friends. I didn’t have unconditional love from any traditional source until I realized I had it in Lisa. No matter how bad I screw up, no matter how hateful and cross I can be, no matter how much I get onto her about certain lifestyle choices she makes, Lisa loves me. I know this. She’s the truest friend I’ll ever hope to have because she knows it all and still loves me. And if I said, “come”, she’d come. I’d have to do all the diggin’ on account of she knows I would, (and she wouldn’t want to wreck her manicure), but she’d help me drag.
I was talking to a good friend of many years tonight, telling him bits and pieces about how this blog was coming along. You ask people what their version or definition of love is and you’re very likely to get some of the best stories ever. His parents were much older when he came along, and they were of the generation who didn’t show much, if any, outward affection. His mother stayed home and kept house and his father farmed. It was an existence without flowery declarations on social media, no flowers on the table for an anniversary because it was more important to stay current on the Co-op bill. There was a diamond on her hand and a new washing machine if the other one started making a racket. There was a new Oldsmobile under the carport every few years, something safe and reliable. For him, there was biscuits and sausage gravy and pot roast and mashed potatoes and cornbread and clean, white, pressed shirts. As it goes, his dad became ill in his later years. When they’d brought him home from the hospital and installed him in the hospital bed in the bedroom, his dad said to him, “What do we need to do to the living room so when I roll over I can see your mother?” Later that same day, his mother said to him, “We need to move that chair in case John needs me so I can get to him.” She hadn’t heard heard her husband’s comment earlier, and the chair had set in that same exact spot for thirty years. They moved it that day.
We need six friends to carry us when we’re gone. Most of the time we’re lucky if we’ve got one to hold our hand while we’re here. I know love. It’s all around me. Love can be one of the scariest things to admit to, putting your heart on display like that. Offering it up for all the world to see. But you better tell people. They need to know.
And this, my friends, is why Valentines Day is hogwash. True love is in the every day, to the last day.
LOVE from Appalachia,
~Amy
Where did the day go, I ponder, as I sit down to type this out. One fingered, as it was brought to my attention the other day. Even turning my iPad sideways and trying to type still feels wrong.
Today went right on along, lost on the highway with Miranda singing about pushin’ time. Sometimes songs will rip your heart right out and show it to you, pulsing in its grip. Songs are poetry, and poetry is songs. Jewel is a prime example of that. Life is poetry. Sometimes it’s carefree and whimsical, sometimes it’s brooding and murky. Poetry is not just O Cap’n my captain stopping by the woods on a snowy evening. Poetry is Shel Silverstein and Dr. Seuss and Guns ‘n Roses singing about rain in November.
Dinner was consumed at 10:30, because I wasn’t feeling like breakfast. Which meant I ate like a hobbit the rest of the day. Second lunch was eaten at 3:30, followed by hot fudge cake at 4:30, scarfed down in the Hobby Lobby parking lot. And then, in an effort to even things out, I had a salad at 7:30.
And that was my day, in food.
So as not to short y’all, I have selected from my book of prompts a little something. The other two I landed on were about zombies and gangs, and I just wasn’t feeling zombie-ish.
Writing Prompt #27 [WC: 40] Write a poem that describes all that is beautiful to you.
Carefree
Cantering
Carousels
Glistening stars
All the trite items of romance
But also gut splitting laughter
After being so serious
Delicate touches
And suffocating hugs
Paired with kisses
That knock me off balance
Mountains to sea
Even in the rain
Love from Appalachia,
~Amy
Writing Prompt #8 How’d you get that scar? Most everyone has a scar. Talk about it as if it you were about to get that scar for the first time. Scar free? Then you need to invent one! Or talk about another person’s scar as if it was your own.
Oh, at the scars I have. I guess the most unpleasant one is the deep tissue muscle scar I got when I was 16 or 17, when my horse accidentally kicked the dog snot out of me when I released him back into his field. He didn’t mean to, I know. He got me in the head, too. And NO, that isn’t what caused me to act this way. I was already crazy. And no, I didn’t know why it didn’t knock some sense back into me. Anyway, the scar was on the inside of my right thigh, visible through much of my twenties as a half horseshoe shaped indention. Then I got fat and you can’t tell it anymore. So is it still considered a scar? Would it come back if I lost a bunch of weight? The world will never know, because I’ve eaten eight chocolate chip cookies today.
I’ve also got a scar on the top of my foot from where my water glass fell off my dresser and busted and a shard sliced right into me. It hurt like the devil dickens and I had a field visit to go on that day. I bled through my boot and never said a word. I did go get a tetanus shot a few days later, though, because I was going to the beach and you know how nasty saltwater is. I should have gotten it stitched up but I didn’t so here we are.
The worst scars are the ones you can’t see and I’m covered in them. All the scars I carry on my heart. As we all do, from people we love that have hurt us or that have left us, and sometimes both. Scars that remind us to forgive, but not to forget. Scars make us tougher…but I do wonder if the heart is meant to be scarred…wouldn’t we be freer to love if we didn’t remember the last time we got hurt? Would the love be purer, fresher?
I dunno. Sometimes I feel like an ol’ junkyard dog, matted and mangy, skulking and distrustful, with bared teeth and pieces of ears missing from long ago fights. Other times I’m a tattooed nymph, flitting away before I can be caught in my mischievousness, rubbing a spot where the arrow nicked my backside again. And sometimes I’m just Amelia, jaded but willing to try one more time. Sighing as I apply mascara, knowing it’s no use, my glasses shield my eyes from anybody who might give a second glance. What’s one more scar on this heart of mine? What am I supposed to do, sit around waiting on something to happen to me? Nah, kick start and throttle down. Might as well get a broken bone or two. It makes for a more impressive story.
They say love is a battlefield. So what is a war?
Kickin’ and a-gouging in the mud ‘n the blood ‘n the beer~Johnny Cash
Tattooed and scarred in Appalachia,
~Amy
Writing Prompt #6 Describe the perfect home. Make that home come alive; put yourself in your mind in that place. How large or small is it? Where is it located?
I’ve often thought about this very thing, as I believe we all have. I remember playing MASH in grade school with the notebook paper folded to fit over our fingers. What was it called? Chinese something catcher. Anyway, mansion-apartment-shack-house. Of course mansion was the one to shoot for. Back in those days an apartment was out of the realm of our comprehension, and we didn’t know a mansion in Seymour until the Creutzinger monstrosity was built. I could see my dream house clearly, probably pulled straight from Gone With the Wind: a Greek Revival with the two story columns, dark red brick, circular driveway, a Juliette balcony off the master bedroom, swimming pool (mine would have to be indoor, or at least covered with tinted glass to keep me from frying like an egg), stables for my many breeds of horses (at least seven: one for each day of the week), a greenhouse, and the river out back. There would be magnolia trees lining the alleé, a black wrought iron gate with scrolls that would swing back from the monogrammed center to admit you after you cleared entrance via the intercom system. The fences would be curvy brick, except where they were black wood plank. Back then I admittedly never gave much thought to the inside, as I would always be out riding. I’d have a Morton building to ride in when the weather was less than ideal. But obviously you always figure on four or five bedrooms, with an en-suite each for those kind of houses. I’d have those great big tester beds with the sheers or drapes around them. It was all so old-fashioned and romantic. Of course there’d be a wondrous library, with dark wood and a rolling ladder that stretched to the second story. I’d have an enormous carved desk and all leather bound edition books. It wouldn’t be complete without a widows walk for viewing the property. I don’t know where this stately home would be located, probably South Carolina or Georgia.
Yeah, big dreams. It still sounds really nice, but I know I’d never be able to keep up with a sizable house, let alone a barn housing seven horses! I’m too lazy to keep up with one. Eradicating the dog hair around here is a full time job. Of course if I had the means to afford that kind of home, I could likely afford some stable hands to clean stalls and a maid for the house.
Instead, here I am in one of the few homes I’ve ever known, the house I grew up in, the home my grandmother built. I’ve made it my own; I have the yellow kitchen and the solid red front door, and the cozy library. There’s a creek out back, but not big enough to swim in. There are no stables or barns at all anymore, and I have to get out in the rain to open my chain link gate. But it is fully home. I have all the space I need, and Chester has plenty of room to run. Thanks to the fence, I don’t worry about him. I do wish subdivisions hadn’t encroached all around us, and I wish people wouldn’t use Amy Ivey Avenue as a shortcut between Chapman and Boyds Creek— or, in the very least, I wish they’d slow down— but on the whole, I feel fortunate to have this place. It’s home, and it’s filled with things I’ve accumulated from traveling. You won’t find Hobby Lobby knickknacks and filler here. You’ll notice my sweetgrass baskets and worn books, certainly. The pride of the place is obviously my farmhouse table that demands you to notice it right away, set with my pretty paisley placemats and a green bottle of wildflowers. That table hasn’t been here long, compared to many of my other things, but it has seen its share of good memories 😊The brightly painted abstract oil from a local artist hangs against the yellow wall. The hallway is lined with pictures I’ve found in antique shops and various little hole-in-the-wall retailers. There are things I’ve made and things I’ve just collected. My seashells from the seashore and sand collections adorn the top of my chest of drawers, and Scarlett and Rhett are scattered throughout. Mermaids are not confined to just the bathroom, they’re alongside Mardi Gras memorabilia in the library. Quilts draped on many surfaces, both for comfort and decor. Lots of well loved objects from one end to the other, and most of them I can still give you the story or provenance of. It smells of coffee and bacon more often than not, and apple cinnamon candles in the fall. Usually the State of Tennessee flag is rippling in the wind, and if it’s summer I try to have something bright in the planters.
I don’t want to be afraid to spill. I don’t want a “theme”, I am certainly not interested in shiplap or farmhouse white aesthetics. I want to be comfortable, and I want you to be comfortable, too.
Do I wish it was bigger, more impressive? Not really. Could I use new living room furniture? Absolutely. But my ratty leather furniture still serves its purpose and what’s the point? Chester would ruin anything in a few years. If you’re here to judge me on the state of my possessions or how sterile it is, you’re not here as a friend to me. So…sorry about the dog hair, just don’t wear black pants. I’ll let ya borrow a lint roller before you get back on the road. I promise I tried. Or we can just on my porch and crack back a few Ultras and watch the lightning bugs and people driving too fast. The stars and the moon usually put on a pretty worthwhile show if you have a mind to snag a quilt and lay in the middle of the yard on your back, or so I’m told.
Home is where the heart is and the grass is pretty green here, if I do say so myself. That’s why it’s so hard to pry me out of here on the weekends. It’s what home is supposed to be, a cocoon of safety and comfort.
In conclusion, the perfect home is warm, both in ambiance and temperature (unless it’s July, then you might need a sweatshirt 🤣), the perfect home has plenty of cheese and wine and natural light, the perfect home is also home to a dog. ❤️
Love and coziness from Appalachia,
~Amy
“You are moonlight,” I told him
Present and dependable
Calming above all else
The peace it brings knowing it will be there tonight
Even if nothing else will
The moon is not often showy
It is humble
Orbiting Earth
Letting her steal the show
Shining as a backlight
But with an irresistible pull
Whole or partial
Even when it cannot be seen
It is felt
It is powerful
It is unstoppable
There is no such thing as too much moonlight
You cannot burn from it
It will not blind you
It just lights the way
It guides baby turtles home
It is in every bedtime story
It is stalwart
And steady
It is not fickle
Or vain
Moonlight is romantic
And I feel the pull now
To just let it
Where would I go
What would I do
Drown
In the things I cannot say
In the daylight
We must wait for the moon
And the moon
Will wait for us
