October 5th 2013
I tried to explain to a guy from New York the “orange thing” today. I had to work, & although I do possess a couple of official Co-op shirts in orange, I was wearing a jersey.
“What’s with the orange? Y’all got a game today?”
Although Georgia isn’t viewed with the same hatred that fuels us against Florida or Bama, they are still SEC & it’s still a “big game”.
I thought for a second & finally said, “I can’t imagine NOT wearing orange on game day. I can’t imagine not caring about the turnout of a Vols game. I’m working till four, or I would be down there, screaming my head off with a hundred thousand other die-hards, because that’s what we do. That’s what my momma’s doin’, & that’s what my grandmother used to do, & that’s just what you do if you if you’re born here in big orange country.” He looked at me a while, cocked his head like a cocker spaniel, & said, “You people are a rare breed. You’re loyal to the end. Syracuse fans will leave in the first quarter if they’re down by ten.” I just smiled, & didn’t say the rest, but I’ll tell y’all:
I don’t know how to explain it to you. I can’t make you understand how we pray to God while sneaking bourbon & simultaneously yelling obscenities & introducing ourselves to our neighbors & taking pictures of families who are there for their first game. I can’t describe the feeling of camaraderie that comes from singing Rocky Top with Knoxville’s population at least three hundred times in under four hours. There are Vol fans all over. I’ve seen them in Vegas, Portland Oregon, all over Texas, & even FLORIDA. I’ve seen us in all seasons, in all shapes & sizes, colors,& ages.I’ve seen us in varying stages of sobriety. We aren’t a rare breed, we are TENNESSEE. What can I say, but I am my mothers daughter. And I bleed BIG ORANGE. Good game guys. You did your best. Love ya already, Butch.
And one year later….
October 5th 2014
Growing up, I was taught there are two subjects taboo for polite company: religion & politics. Well. Facebook is anything BUT polite, and I reckon sports are fair game (pun intended) so here goes.
First of all GO BIG ORANGE!!! Now & forever. Emotions were running high yesterday, and I’m still brokenhearted. I tend to reach the end of my fuse rather quickly, and I elected not to get involved with any snarling debates. But today I said, that’s it.
If you live here, you root for the Vols. Period. I don’t give a red rat’s ass if you were born elsewhere, raised elsewhere, went to college elsewhere. Cheer for them when they play everyone else. When they play UT, you put on your orange & sing Rocky Top. Or you have the good taste to keep your dang mouth shut. This is the same principle as “Mexican Pride” {oh, yes, I did} Drop your loyalties at the border. You’re here now. You chose to be here for one reason or another. You don’t like it? Go back to your precious hometown, then. Or shut up. I think most of Florida’s fans are jealous of the loyalty we show our team, win or lose. I remember when playing Florida was just a blip on our radar, Alabama was the team to beat. But Spurrier made them surly, so here we are.
As far as Muschamp’s comments post game, he was out of line. Yes, I’m well aware of what was being hollered in the stadium, and while that is the very definition of poor sportsmanship, I believe it was primarily the student section. Coaches should be held to a higher standard & should exhibit better morals. Like Butch Jones. But I guess that’s part of the reason Florida’s head coach’s head is on the chopping block, since way before yesterday.
Spare me the lecture on how there are many more things to be worrying about, and if our biggest concern is football, then we are in high cotton, indeed. I know.
I don’t want to hear how it’s “just a game” or the whining about all the money wasted on the athletic program. UT football brings a lot of revenue into Knoxville & Sevier County. Furthermore, some kids dream of growing up & playing for the University of Tennessee. Or playing for the Pride of the Southland Band. Sure, it would make me proud to have a cousin who enlisted in the Army right out of school, but to each their own.
I am not interested in any comments to the contrary of my statement here. I am smack in the middle of my “sore loser” stage.
VFL.
There’s a lot I could say about today. Heck, there’s a lot I can say about any given day. But I know what it was like to be scared to drive home on this day 13 years ago. I know how utterly terrifying it was to put your life in someone else’s hands & fly for the next year or two. I know what it feels like to worry about being a target, due to being in such close proximity to Oak Ridge. Yes, I profile. Yes, I’m prejudiced against Islamic people. (Actually, I’m not prejudiced. I despise almost everybody equally.) And it makes me angry that people disagree with our presence overseas, argue that we didn’t need a war. “Fight fire with fire” isn’t just an expression. You actually do fight fire with fire sometimes, especially in the case of brush fires. See, fire is reckless. It’s dangerous. It has nothing to lose, it takes everything in its path with it. So you start another fire, and control it to make it collide with the uncontrolled burn. They meet, and there’s nothing left for it to take. So it burns itself out. My metaphor here is the kamikaze pilots. They know nothing but fighting, death, & destruction. So that’s how you make them understand. You can’t reason with evil.
Imagine getting up to go to work this morning & seeing your workplace demolished by terrorists & everyone running for their lives-some into the very face of evil, & some away, running to rejoin their families. Imagine hearing news that there is another plane crashed into the Pentagon. Imagine another has crashed into a field in Pennsylvania. You don’t know what’s coming next. You just want to go home & gather up all your family & pray. Businesses were closing, flights were cancelled for days. Now stop imagining. This is what we were dealing with a few years ago. A broken country.
So all international flights were cancelled today. That’s a bit of an inconvenience to some people, but better off inconvenienced than dead, I say. Thank our military that we’re here to complain about it. And while you’re at it, thank God, too. 9/11 is more than a fleeting memory of news for some people. It represents a life shattered by people who wanted to see America fall. God bless America, land that I love.
Last week, I decided that I needed to learn how to can before everybody I know crosses over & there’s nobody left to teach me. I mistakenly thought this would be fairly simple. I ask a coworker, who is known for her huge garden & her season-long canning of green beans.
She promptly informs me that she can’t can tomatoes, that her husband always does it, she’ll send him to talk to me next time he’s through. Inwardly, I’m dreading this, I don’t talk to him a lot, because outwardly he projects a kind of gruff demeanor, even though I know he’s really not. I’m not sure how he’s going to be on giving me direction for something so precise.
The very next day he’s in, & I bring it up.
“Oh, it’s easyyyy….it’ll take you twenty minutes, tops.” This sounds promising.
“Okay, is this something I need to come watch you do, or is it something you can tell me how to do right here, right now?” I asked.
“I can tell you right now. It’s simple.”
“Alrighty-roo. Hit me. Wait, do I need to make notes?”
“You got a good memory?”
“Nope. Hang on.” I rip out a sheet of notebook paper, making an additional mess because it’s the spiral type. “Ok. I’m ready.”
“You getcha a tub of tomatoes & core them,” he begins.
“Alright, when you say a tub, how many is that, exactly?” (I’m used to explicit Pinterest recipes)
“Awww, just a bunch. You know.”
No, I really don’t, but I nod like I do.
“You put them in a pot & boil ’em & the skin will come right off.”
“With salt?” I’m writing frantically.
“No, no salt. Then you pour the water off & boil them again for about ten minutes after you squash them. Then you pour them in a jar & put your lid on real tight, tight as you can. And just let them sit & they’ll seal themselves. They’ll pop, don’t panic.”
Will pop, don’t panic, I scribbled. I looked at my notes. I felt like I was missing vital information. “Okay, let’s go over this. I get a buncha tomatoes.”
“Yep.”
“I core them, but don’t peel them.”
“Yep.”
“I put ’em in a pot with water–but no salt–& heat to a boil until the skin starts coming off.”
“Yep.”
“This is where I get a little confused…I drain the water off?”
“Yeah, & get all yer peelin’s off, but run them under cold water first.”
“Okay….and put them in a different pot?”
He nods. “Then you mash ’em up real good with your hands & feel around for more cores. There’ll be little pieces that you missed when you cut them out. But you’ll be able to feel them, they’re real hard. Now, be careful, they’ll still be real hot.”
“Okay, can I use a potato masher?”
“Whassat?”
“You know, the thing that’s all swirly metal & has a wooden handle? My grandmother used it before she used her mixer to break the potato into clods.”
“I guess you could, I just use my hand.”
“Alright. But you’re tough. I’m just a wimpy girl.”
That got a grin.
“So I mash them & boil them again for about ten minutes.”
“Yeah, & if you see any little green pieces, pick them out. They’ll float to the top. And dash your water off.”
“Wait–what?”
“As it boils, dash your water off.” He demonstrates with a hand motion.
I could feel my wrinkles in my forehead deepen. “But I drained them before I mashed them, right? In a colander, then?”
“No, just pour your water off, but more water will come out of them, still. Don’t bother with a colander.”
“Ok. But I don’t want to make a sauce, I want them to be like that jar you brought in.”
“Right. Just keep dashing your water off as they boil.”
“Ok. Do I stir them?” Twenty minutes my foot. This was complicated.
“Yeah, stir them. Have your jars ready.”
“Oh, that’s another thing, do I need to boil the jars?”
“Nah. I mean, you can if you want to, but you don’t have to. I bake mine.” { oh, Lord, I thought} “Just pour them in & clean the top off good with a paper towel & put your lid on right then. Screw it on tight as you can so it’ll seal later. That’s all there is to it.”
I’m running out of room to go back & write the directions that he left out the first time. And I’m still confused about all the draining/ cold water/ switching pots step.
“Okay.” I blow air out that I hadn’t realized I had been holding. “Let’s go over this again.” I recite it to him, & I think I’ve got it this time. “And just fill one jar at a time, put the lid on right then.”
“Yes. Don’t ever, ever use a pressure cooker for tomatoes. Some people will, but don’t. You don’t need to.”
“All right….” I say uncertainly.
“Call us if you need to. I can help you.”
I thanked him profusely & he was on his way. I looked at Brion & Yankee, who had been witness to this narration. “I see a facebook status in my future.” They were cracking up already. “You got like, step one, then one step in the middle, then the last step!” Yankee giggled gleefully.
The wife came through & asked how it went. We all exchanged glances. “We-ll….” I hedged. “I sorta got step one, then step nine, then step two, then the last thing to do, then step two-B. But I think I got it now.”
We laughed heartily. I sat down to improve my notes. About this time, sweet Betty comes through. I stop her. “Betty, you ever can tomatoes?”
“Yeah, do you need some?”
She is so sweet. “No, I was just wondering about how to do them.”
“Oh, well, I use a pressure cooker.”
Of course you do, I thought. “Well, tell me how you do yours.”
“Okay, well, you just peel your tomatoes…wait, what are you wanting to do with them?”
“Just you know, for chili & soups & stuff.”
“Okay. Just peel your tomatoes & put them in the pressure cooker for a few minutes, not long.”
You can see where I’d have trouble. “Ok. So you peel yours. You don’t blanch them?”
“Naw, I just peel them.”
“Do you core them too?”
“Yeah, I do. Sorry, I forgot that part. I’m as bad as he was!” We giggle like schoolgirls. “And you just squish them up real good, or you could do whole ones if you wanted…but be sure & drain your water off.”
“Do you salt them?”
“Yeah, Amy, I forgot that too! Just salt them however much you think. Oh! And just put them on five pounds of pressure for about ten minutes. It don’t take long.” I thanked her & she starts walking away then doubles back. “Have your jars & lids there, too.”
Yankee & I just looked at each other & burst out laughing. Then here comes another coworker, who shall remain nameless, wanting to know what was so funny.
“Oh, we’re just discussing how to can tomatoes & it’s turned into a major ordeal.”
“Oh.”
“Do you can?”
“I do, but I water bath mine.”
“Oh, goody. Please tell me how to do it.”
“Well, first you crack open a longneck beer….” I quit listening because he was another one who talked about a rack you submerge, & the lids being tight, but boil your jars first, yada, yada, yada. I come in today, & pecking away at this, & yet another coworker asks what I’m doing. I explain that I’m writing about the methods of canning tomatoes. She starts explaining to me, more in depth, about each process. But of course, it’s a slightly different variation.
And this, ladies & gentlemen, is how you can tomatoes. Holler if you need to know anything. I’m sure I can give you step-by-step instruction.
**it should be noted that the wife of the man I started with set him down, got all the details out, and transcripted them in order, in legible hahdwriting, just for me.
I have yet to can the first jar.
A soft, gentle, much needed rain will be falling this morning at the gravesite of Mr. Ralph Newman. Maybe I should call it a “mourning rain”. Ralph might’ve got to Heaven & made that his first order of business, ’cause he sure knew we needed it. My heart is with all the Newmans this morning as they lay David’s daddy in the earth. Many of you know him, have bought hay from him, have seen him working in the fields. I loved Mr. Newman. He was one of the first farmers I ever waited on when I came to work at Co-op. He was patient with me as I hunted item numbers for his requested feed and baler twine. He has been patient with me over the years as I tracked down the right bolts, seeds, shoestrings, oil, vaccines, and information for him on herbicide & pesticide application rates. I’d spot him ambling along the aisles of the store & I’d break off from whatever I was doing to go speak to him. Well, go holler at him, is more accurate. We got along good because his hearing had been sub par for several years & I tend to talk loud. ” Hello, Mr. Newman!” I’d bellow, & he’d grin ear-to-ear. “Hello, Amy!” He’d holler back. Or sometimes he’d call me “sis”. It’s been a long time since he’s called me ” little’un” but we won’t go into that 😉
Mr. Newman was a tall, wiry man who wore glasses, checkered button-up shirts, & overalls without fail. He is exactly who you picture when I say “farmer”. He was always smiling with his lips AND his eyes. He had a great laugh that I will miss as much as anything. He spent 87 years on this earth, 63 of those with his wife, and I reckon that’s long enough for anybody to grow weary & desire to go home.
I went to see him in the hospital about a month ago. It was a dual-purpose visit for me. A good friend had just had her baby earlier that afternoon & so it was convenient for me to make my rounds with everybody that evening. I stopped by Ashley’s bedside first & it was wonderful, as all newborns are. Everybody was joyous & laughing & having a great time celebrating this new life. I stayed for awhile then bid my fare the wells & took the elevator up to Mr. Newman’s floor. I wasn’t sure what to expect, David had been telling me his daddy was “not doing good”, but that can mean several different things. Clearly, for him to be kept in the hospital he was under the weather. But I was unconcerned, as only the truly oblivious can be. I boldly walked into the room & my courage evaporated & abandoned me on the spot. For one thing, I was alone. It was just me & Mr. Newman, who lay motionless on the bed with his eyes & mouth open. Oh, what had I gotten myself into, being so fearless to come by myself? “Mr. Newman, you awake?” I called, loud enough to probably wake the people down the hall. No response. I sat down in the chair next to him & began to cry alligator tears. I couldn’t stop. I finally decided this wasn’t doing either one of us a bit of good & stood up to go. I was barely patting his shoulder & telling him goodbye when he turned his head towards me. “Whattya doin’ sis?” He croaked out. I bout had a heart attack. He had been sleeping with his eyes open. Some people do that. Especially servicemen. I apologized for waking him & collapsed back into the chair, after helping him with his applesauce & water. “Everybody’s left me, ain’t they?” “Oh, I’d say they’ll be back,” I assured him. “It’s suppertime,” I added, after glancing at the clock. Then I sat there sniffing, trying to dry up my tears. I was afraid I was going to upset him with all my crying I couldn’t seem to get a handle on, but he was unperturbed. I guess after 80-some odd years you become accustomed to a woman’s tears. He didn’t have on the TV & didn’t seem to want it on & all my crying was getting on my own nerves so I had to tell him goodbye. I watched my tears hit his sheet. I was sorry to leave but I couldn’t help it. I cried all the way home, that awful hiccuping type that children have after you scold them. I knew I was fortunate & blessed to see “new beginnings & near departures,” as one of my eloquent friends described it. That Friday was profound and I am thankful for the experience.
I guess that’s why I didn’t cry last night at the funeral home. I was all cried out for him. I was relieved I didn’t get emotional. I have been known to be more torn up than the closest of kin, just because I’m a crybaby. (I know one thing, I would make a crummy funeral director) Funerals are awkward for everyone. The family standing with the departed don’t know everyone, the people coming through the line don’t know the family. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” is the general platitude, but it seems so removed. “Thank you for coming,” is the general response, but if you were close to the person lying there, or to one of their loved ones, where else would you be? Funerals are an obligation when you become an adult. Although I am noticing a decrease in the number of people my age who attend. I don’t know if it’s a general act of disrespect or if they just weren’t taught better. You have to buck up & swallow your fears & at least go sign the book even if you can’t bring yourself to walk up to the casket. I know to some of you it probably seems like all I do is go to the funeral home. Shug made the comment not long after we started dating that I seem to go a lot. But I can’t imagine NOT paying my respects. The presence of people in your life makes your life your own, does that make sense? If someone influences me, then I owe them a little something. The person who died may not know we were there, but the ones that are left notice. And it matters. Do you understand that love is all that matters? That’s what Jesus tries to teach us. We take them our best home-cooked dishes after they bury their loved one to give them comfort & ease their way back into real life. We send them flowers so their hardest days will have something beautiful in them. And we give them our ears & our arms for their voiced fears, tears, and memories. The rain kept me from the graveside this morning but I hope Virginia and the rest of the Newmans are comforted by the words I have left here. Thanks y’all for the kind words. I want to tell you about Mr. Newman’s last hour too.
He was completely lucid till the end. He ate every day. After a rough weekend of coughing & not getting much rest, Monday came & he didn’t want breakfast. He was argumentive about the hospice nurse coming. His granddaughter came & changed his pajama top & socks. They finally got him talked into allowing the nurse in, & she was getting him cleaned up & was going to change his shirt & he let her know real quick she wasn’t going to. Told her that his granddaughter had put it on him, & that’s where it would stay. And same went for his socks.
They finally got him settled & he laid back & closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, and was gone. Just like that. Quick & peaceful. Isn’t that what we all wish for? The family has been with him pretty much full time for about two months now, and I think that’s the best many of us could wish for.
Postscript: Sometimes I think it would be nice to be so far from my family. But then we’ve lived clustered in our little compound for so long, I’m pretty sure part of me would wither up & die to be separated so long from any of them. I can’t imagine not being able to look out my kitchen window & not see the fields I’ve spent countless hours riding horses or playing with my dogs.
Y’all settle in.
There are a few places in this world where life gets real. You know what I mean. Where rubber meets the road. Hospital rooms, church altars, courtrooms, gravesides, and bars at two a.m, to name a few.
Delmar Maples was my co-worker for my cumulative years at Co-op. He didn’t say much, but that’s ok, because what he said counted. He always, always, said “Good Morning,” (which seems to be becoming less common these days). If yes or no was adequate, that’s what you got. I think the first time we ever really had a conversation was when he was showing off his first grandson, he carried him all over the store, grinning ear to ear. Delmar was a small man, with ropy muscled arms, dark eyes, and a scraggly beard. He was never without a mesh-backed “old man” hat that he carefully folded down in the center, essentially making a crown around his head. He traveled with a limp & a whistle.
Delmar changed the oil in Patsy many times, & filled a bunch of propane tanks for me & the rest of Sevier County. He didn’t complain or ask for a break in the rain & sleet & snow. He simply bowed his head to the weather & kept working. He crushed boxes too, & I’m ashamed to admit how many times he saved me from losing inventory…I tend to get in a hurry & throw out boxes that still have product in them. Oops.
His longtime companion, Margaret, would call & ask to speak to him & you would think their house was burning down & everybody they knew was in it by the way she carried on. I would take the message to Delmar & he would just shake his head & trudge in to call her. I got used to her after awhile, nothing was ever wrong, she was just excitable. Delmar was exactly the opposite.
We all began to worry about him when the knot came up on his neck & began to grow…he seemed to think it was gout. Do you think this tough little man would go to the doctor? No. He waited until he couldn’t swallow anymore. He clocked out & that was the last time he did.
Delmar was a very sick man, and we all knew it. I visited him in the hospital not long after that, and honestly, I wouldn’t have given him ten minutes, let alone more than a year. But the day following his hospital stay, he got up, put his uniform on, gathered his lunch box & was headed out the door when Margaret caught him. Devoted to work till the end, he would plead to stop by the store to and from their trips to doctors in Knoxville. Co-op was his family, it was in his blood. He told everybody it was “the best damn job he ever had”.
I didn’t know until the obituary was printed & hanging on the time clock that he served with the Marines. He went to Vietnam. I gleaned the information that he earned several medals while fighting. That explained a lot, as Joe Woods observed. We all learned something. He was buried in his dress blues, with his Co-op uniform shirt & black cap by his side. David Newman (fuel truck driver, among other things) officiated last night, and had visited Delmar frequently since he became sick. He was quick to reassure us all that Delmar was right with the Lord because…well, sometimes it was hard to tell. But for someone who saw things that nightmares are made of & kept them inside all these years, it ain’t no wonder.
But they sent him off right. The singin’ was pure & clear, old hymns that the mourners joined in on, the preachin’ was true and reassuring, and the prayers were heartfelt & humble.
I never knew the feeling of driving in a funeral procession until today. It touched my heart, seeing everyone pulled over with their lights on. Through my tears, I noticed one man had even gotten out & put his hat over his chest. That means a lot.
We traveled to Caton’s Chapel, a beautiful drive, especially coming through Mitchell Bottoms & the line of grievers wound our way through the old mountains. The cemetery covers the side of a steep hill, overlooking the gorgeous panorama of farmland & the Smokies. We stood in the shade of an old oak as the last rites were said over our quiet friend. The honor guard fired their 21-shot salute, the trumpet was played, and Margaret wailed in her grand children’s embrace. Brion squared his shoulders while mine shook. The flag was presented to his son. The doves were released and that was the best dang burial I ever attended. I hope Delmar approved.
Last Sunday I was driving down Boyds Creek & I saw these two old ladies out in the yard. One was pointing to a particular plant in her flowerbed, and the other was peering at it & nodding sagely. They wore polyester pant suits, it looked like to me, with their hair sets & big-enough-to-notice-but-not-big-enough-to-be-tacky necklaces. I slowed, and resisted the urge to stop & watch them, or better yet, join them. They reminded me SO MUCH of my great-grandmother, my Mamaw. I was fortunate enough to have her next door until I was in high school. She loved her flowers. There were several flowerbeds surrounding her home, taking up most of the yard. She had a huge sage patch, and she grew dill, and tended the biggest aloe plant I have ever seen (For those of you that have seen mine, think x3). She also had this magnificent Christmas cactus that blossomed so hot pink it didn’t look real. Anyway, any time she had company, that was part of the ritual: touring the gardens. No matter how many times you’d previously visited, or how recently, you still had to observe the growth of her “cannies” (gigantic leafy red plants with enormous stalks I always thought were hideous), her prizewinning elephant ears that I could hide behind until I was ten, her millions of tulips, the weeping peach tree she was so proud of…the list goes on & on. The inspection could last an hour or more. She had cherry trees, a crabapple tree, shamrocks, a rosebush that served as the border for the vegetable garden (the front field where I rode my horses in later years), and some weird pampas grass stuff we never did really figure out what it was. Anyway, the irises are blooming in profusion now & remind me so much of her. I always wanted so badly, in my childish way, to pick them all & put them in a vase to enjoy inside. She always gently reminded me they best thrived outdoors and we could enjoy them longer out there. She would make me a banana milkshake & let me watch whatever I wanted on her TV. She was a feisty old lady, never failing to speak her mind. She traveled to Hawaii once, bringing back a pallet of pineapples & muu-muus for us all. Plus hundreds of strands of silk-wrapped beads. She adored Hawaii with all their exotic flowers. Her favorite song was “The Battle of New Orleans”. She always had a passel of cats, all outside, and all underfoot. She had a white Persian inside for awhile that would sit on her lap after she bathed it to be dried with a blow dryer. That was the only cat that would not tolerate me for any amount of time.
Spring makes me think of Mamaw, and smile.
I could not have been more wrong.
I bit into what I thought was a delightfully sweet red pepper….and immediately my eyeballs began to sweat. I thought, well, I can fix this by eating a bite of mozza…rella & tried repeatedly stabbing it with my plastic fork. It refused to be impaled. Desperate now, I pick it up with my fingers & popped it in my mouth.
It was a plump clove of garlic.
Gary is watching all of this transpire from two feet away with a mild expression, much like a cow chewing its cud from the safety of its pasture while the farmer is electrocuted by their fence. I had no water because who needs water with mozzarella salad? I dash to the fridge in the small engine department. Luckily, I had both water & mountain dew stockpiled. I gulped at both as soon as I got the lids off. Shooooweeee!!! I will be more diligent in my shopping next time.
Most women, I think, grow up dreaming of having a baby. They think about it all the time, starting with a fantasy about what their husband will look like, where they will meet & fall in love, what type of fairytale princess wedding gown they will wear & the flowers they will carry…then where they will make a home. Depending on their husband’s profession, these women may be envisioning a plush apartment in the city, or a colonial with a picket fence in the suburbs. They may even be aspiring to a grand greek revival mansion on the river. I can identify thus far. But when they start thinking about the little ones…and they’ve got the names picked out & what order they may have them, & how they’ll decorate their bedrooms…well, that’s where my dreams always ended & another one started.
As surely y’all know about my proclivity to devouring books, it should come as no surprise that I dreamed of my own library. Walls of books. Stacks & shelves towering on every available surface, too many to count. Books of all types: old, classic, leatherbound editions; mass produced paperback fiction; history books; college textbooks; journals; coffee table photographic books, you name it. I wanted them ALL. I wanted a red wall, & a warm rug, & a leather chair. I wanted a Tiffany lamp & a box of kleenex when emotions were running high. I wanted a cozy blanket & a candle to burn.
And guess what?
I got it.
I’ve had such a room since I cleaned out the spare bedroom about four years ago & pulled up the carpet to reveal the honey colored hardwood floors underneath that I bruised my knees on for two weeks. I would come home from work & pull staples & scrape at rubber carpet mat that was stuck to it from years of being covered up & walked on. I scrubbed with pine sol & brillo pads & wax to get it presentable. I grunted & groaned & strained to bring in my bookshelves, followed by my collection of books & then I bought more. I have hauled in more as the years progressed & my cases are jam packed & the shelves sag under their weight. I am proud of my library. It is like my life’s work. Laugh all you want, & I know it’s not the same as creating another human being & raising it up right, but I’m not destined for that. Here is home. And here I have sat all day, nestled in my cocoon of books & favorite possessions, & I have been content & happy. It has been quiet, no lollipops stuck in anyone’s hair, no pancakes to fix, no shoes to be tied. If this sounds lonely, I have painted it wrong. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to fix supper, or take a shower, or go to bed. I want to stay right here. I don’t get to enjoy this room nearly enough. It never fails to bring me peace. Build your happiness with what you may.
Upon returning from lunch, I retrieved from my purse all the essentials for coloring my lips back in & laid them on my desk. I had a few customers walk up, so I was waiting on them & here comes Gary. Not everyone knows Gary, so allow me to paint you a mental picture:
Bull in a china shop.
Does that do it?
Alright, so here he is, hovering. “Did that guy come in & pay for that trailer?”
“I don’t know, I just got back from dinner.”
“Well, he said he might be in today, or he might wait till next week. He ain’t pickin’ it up till one day next week anyway, here’s his title. It’s an 8×10–”
“Let’s write the item number on here, what is it?” I asked, reaching for a pen.
“Three-zero…no wait, let’s see…three-seven-zero-zero…hey! Wait a minute! What IS this?!???!” Unbeknownst to me, he had picked up my Clinique lip liner, thinking it was an ink pen.
“Gary! That’s my lip liner! Dang!”
The customers were hee-hawing & I was too. What a Gomer. Have a nice day.
