I’m going to tell you a story.
When my friend and I went to Jonesborough a few weeks ago, we were on our way back to Sevier County but I hadn’t quite satisfied my antique foraging itch. I was keeping my eyes peeled for the places along the road I had noticed on the drive in. I finally spotted the one I wanted–a white, well kept farmhouse. Sometimes with these places you just can’t tell. They look almost abandoned, & like spiders would be crawling just beyond your hand when reaching for something that caught your eye. But not this one. This building set off the divided highway just a bit, just enough to be private, & had a red metal sign –the kind that would creak a bit when there was wind–out by the road proclaiming, simply, “Antiques”.
There was no wind that day, & the sign was silent.
We traveled up the gravel road, split by a strip of cropped green grass, until we stopped at the end near the house. There was a massive, weathered barn to our left, on a little hill. A knoll. Another “Antiques” sign stood near the gray board barn. A small “Antiques” sign, up against the house, next to an obvious addition. A concrete walkway met us in the driveway that led to the shop. We followed it. Around the door, there were several placards. “Please ring bell for entry” “Please allow me time to get to door” “smile! You’re on camera!” Posted among them were hours for the shop.
I rang the bell, thinking this is how it is for little country free-standing businesses, you can’t sit in your shop all day, hoping a stray customer will come through soon. And during the week? Probably not a lot of traffic, not a lot of people with time on their hands to dig through junk, in search of treasure.
In hardly any time at all, much quicker than I had anticipated, here came the proprietor, a rotund dark haired elderly woman. She smiled, unlocked the door, & beckoned us in with a rush of words: how what we were about to see were ALL original, authentic antiques, no reproduction pieces.
We prowled in her shop for some time, while she told us all about her life. How she & her husband had traveled to all fifty states, procuring all the antiques we saw before us, and the many more we couldn’t, housed in the barn. The barn she only opened on Saturdays; she explained it was too hard on her legs after the two or three replacement surgeries she’s had. And she found out real quick people weren’t looking for anything in particular, they just wanted to look. (“Well, yeah,” I thought. “That’s why it’s called shopping.”) She spoke of theft, too, about all the people who come in on weekends & she can’t possibly keep track of them all, & once she got took for several thousand dollars in some kind of glassware.
She followed us around, every step, as we picked up & examined her trinkets & collectables. She gave us anecdotes & stories about how she came by specific pieces.
I came across no mermaids, unfortunately, but did ask to be sure I hadn’t overlooked them. There was so many cabinets & cases–she pointed out the ones her late husband had built– and drawers full of all kinds of beautiful things. It was all precisely arranged & carefully labeled, too. She probably went back over it with a fine toothed comb after we left to make sure nothing was out of place. We heard about how her husband had built the shop where we stood, with a ramp and a bathroom, to her specifications, because she wouldn’t buy in a business where they offered no restroom. She told us about his death, & her daughter’s death, & her surviving grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She mentioned, almost as an afterthought, it seemed to me, her son, who checks on her regularly.
She was pleasant enough, but the longer she talked & the more personal she became, the more nervous I grew. Not for us, but for her. I had told her we ran away from home for the day, a short girls’ trip to see some sights, & shop, & have lunch. We left our husbands working in the hot June sun.
After I paid for my tiny giraffe with the chipped ear that came from a package of Rose Tea, that had a rough base so men could light matches from it, we made for the door, complimenting her on her dustless, organized, lovely, shop.
When we got to Patsy, I exchanged a troubled glance with Jeannie.
“She really shouldn’t tell people she’s there alone. And look, her van, she really needs to put it in a garage, out of sight so people won’t know if she’s home. This is so dangerous!”
“Yeah,” Jeannie agreed. “She’s right here on this main road, you could be on the interstate & gone in no time!”
I put my sunglasses on.
“She didn’t know who we were. We may not be nice girls! We may have been casing the joint for our wicked, felon husbands to come back & rob her blind & slit her throat & leave her lying.”
“That’s true,” she concurred.
It was about that time we noticed a line of traffic parallel to us as we crept back down the crunchy gravel drive. I checked the clock. A few minutes after two. “Must be shift change. See? Who are all these people? She will open her door to anybody…it makes me very nervous for her.”
“Me too. You don’t know people.”
So we came on back home, and that’s where our story ends, but still, this bothers me.
If I were a better storyteller, I would weave you the rest, how she met her fate at dusk one day, two men stealing up the driveway just as she was settling into her velvet Lazyboy to watch Wheel of Fortune while eating a microwave dinner. We just happened to be the last visitors caught on her ancient surveillance camera, & we were brought in for questioning. To make things tidy for local small town police, we were arrested & I was writing from my dank, dingy, darkened cell, waiting on a lawyer to get us out, to prove our innocence for a crime we didn’t commit.
But all I can do is speculate & hope she fared okay through the Fourth of July festivities & all the loud pops were just firecrackers, nothing sinister in the outskirts of Greenville.
I have been reading too much Stephen King.
I was waiting on the wife of one of my regular customers today. She’s always super sweet, & I’m invariably glad to see her.
“Yankee,” I began, “her daddy was one of my regulars when I first started working down here. I didn’t know what to think of him. He used to say, ‘who’s your momma?’ All the time & tell me when I got married I was gonna hafta wash the skidmarks out of my husband’s drawers!”
Yankee’s eyes got rounder. Clearly, she wouldn’t have known how to take him, either.
I smiled at Miss Tammy, his daughter. “But I came to love him. He was a nice man.”
She nodded. “Daddy was. I remember too, you & another girl from down here came to his funeral.”
I paused.
I had forgotten about that. “Yeah, me & Skeeter came. It was probably the first funeral I attended on my own.” (Meaning, without my family) I recall Shanea & I talking ourselves into going. We felt that we needed to. “My husband says I go to more funerals than anybody he knows,” I told Tammy. “But he understands now that my customers are like my family… They’ve seen me grow up, in a way. I don’t necessarily like to go, but I need to.”
“No, I don’t like going, either, but it’s something you’ve got to do,” she agreed.
“I’ve tried explaining it to younger people-you might not go because you loved who died…you might be going because you love who’s left,” I added.
“That’s exactly right.”
So we parted, with tears & smiles.
I know I talk about death & funerals a lot on here, but it strikes a chord within me. It’s natural, and an act I grew up getting accustomed to. It’s never occurred to me to be scared of death, or afraid of the dead. You pay your respects & move on, & hope the spirit does the same 😊
I have just come from yet another funeral. Now this one was a little different.
It was like others in the respect that the deceased was a senior citizen, and someone I knew through work, and there was no shortage of familiar faces paying respects. The difference was, I stood in line sniggering the whole time. I couldn’t help it. And yes, there’s a difference between snickering & sniggering. Snickering is when you’re laughing with somebody about something (or someone) but you’re trying not to. Sniggering is lower in the gut & deeper & knowing you shouldn’t be laughing & trying to stop. I thankfully got to Tuletta quickly & apologized, I didn’t mean any disrespect. I COULDN’T HELP IT. Tuletta’s mother was one of the biggest practical jokesters I’ve ever met & every picture they showed of her you could tell she was into some sort of trickery or meanness. Bows on her head, britchie leg yanked up, fluttering eyelashes behind Greta Garbo sunglasses. I kept getting tickled. The pictures made me think of my own memories…she was one of those ladies who carried her possessions in her bra. She’d embarrass Tuletta to death when they’d stop to get a biscuit before work & Hazel would whip out a roll of money from her cleavage. Tuletta was always afraid she’d go to diggin’ for change. And everybody knew her, she was Postmaster at the little Seymour Post Office for umpteen years. And then the infamous calls: “Get your elastic waist pants on, we’re going’ to Red Lobster!” I could just hear the woman cracking up. I had to get a grip! I was in the funeral home, less than three feet from the body! Anyway, that got Tuletta to laughing & then I felt super guilty ’cause her daughter was looking at us like we’d flew the coop. But she said she’d picked those pictures for that very reason. And we talked about what Hazel would say if she were in attendance. “I know exactly! ‘Look at those roses! They’re bee-yoooo-ti-ful! Oh, honey, I just love them. Reckon I could start some off a clipping? I don’t have anything on the side of the house facing the well…'” Tuletta agreed wholeheartedly.
Tuletta’s mother has been sick for many years & it has been quite the hardship & heartache on her. It would be difficult to watch anyone you love suffer from dementia & slip a little further away each day, but most especially your mother that you have lived just down the road from almost your entire adult life. A mother you really loved & were thick as thieves with. A mother who was truly your best friend. So. Hazel’s gone, but I tell you: she looked younger tonight than she did ten years ago. I think she was happy to be under that massive blanket of roses & even happier to be celebrating in her new heavenly home.
The best part is, as I sit here writing that comment, I’m giggling & J asks what I’m laughing about. “Hazel.” I answered simply. “I thought she was the one who just died,” he responded with a puzzled expression. “She did. That’s the best part.”
Talking with a friend today about this lady we know of who recently took her life. I asked what she did for a living because some careers have a high suicide rate. He didn’t know, but asked me if I’d looked her up on Facebook. I hadn’t.
“She looks….kinda…different. Like a writer. You know?”
I thought immediately of my hair, springing out all over my head in 16 million directions. I thought of my eyeliner, that I’ve never managed to conquer, and even if it looks decent when I leave the house manages to be smudged by the time I get to work. I thought of my glasses, that are perpetually spotted from who knows what. I thought of my clothes, how some days my pants are dragging the ground or my socks are inside out or I’ve wound up wearing two different shoes. Or earrings.
“Yes, I know,” I replied dryly, flipping my hand to indicate my current appearance. “WAS she a writer?”
“Well, no,” he backpedaled. “Well, I don’t think so. But, like, she just looked…I can’t put it in words.”
“Unkept?”
“No. Just…plain, I guess. Maybe homely.”
“Was she a poet?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Because poets are tortured, you know.”
He nods like he understands, but I can tell he doesn’t.
“I feel sorry for poets. They have these beautiful words in their minds…but they’re misunderstood. People don’t GET them,” I tried to explain. “For instance, I can write a story. People will read it & they can visualize what I’m talking about. Poems have hidden meanings. It’s not hidden to the poet, they want to tell it, but people miss the point. They want it to mean something else. It would be awful being a poet, having everything trapped inside of you. Wanting to share it, but frustrated because nobody takes the time to listen. Poets are truly tortured souls. No wonder they die young.”
You think about it. How many of you sit down & read poetry as regularly as you read literature? I know I don’t. It takes too long to read, let alone decipher, & then when I bother researching what it’s actually about, I’m wrong. Anyway. Just thought this was worth thinking about. If you know a poet, maybe take them out for coffee or tea or something. They could probably use something tangible that is vibrant & happy. Like flowers. Or a handmade mug. I don’t know. I’m just a rambling writer.
Sometimes you meet people & think, “Wow. They are so nice. I could never be that good hearted.” This also brings to mind the saying, “Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
That sums up my step dad. He is humble, soft spoken, & good natured. He is gentle, kind, & loving.
Not at all like me or the woman he married!!! I still can’t believe our good fortune! Haha.
Now, he’s not perfect. He’s slow as molasses in January…slow as Christmas…slow as a herd of turtles stampeding through peanut butter…but good things come to those who wait! Love ya Scott. Happy Fathers Day.
Happy Fathers Day to all the DADS out there. Happy Fathers day to the MOMS who have to be both. Happy Fathers Day to all the men who helped me grow: Uncle Dale, who patiently explained to me about fish guts & species of trees, Carroll Adams who claims me as his, Richard Montgomery for not killing me & Megan when we used his golf balls for creative purposes…and stole his convertible Mercedes to drive to a class in Morristown…and the old gentlemen I’ve met at work who counsel me day to day. There are many. And Johnny, who’s a disciplinarian to our naughty naughty dogs. Lol. I’m also thinking and praying for the fathers overseas who would like more than anything a hug from their kid today. Maybe they’ve met them, & maybe they haven’t, but the love is the same.
Today, this woman walks up to the counter & asks for someone to help her with fencing. She gestures vaguely. Whitney & I are standing there, & I let her take point most of the time because it’s good for her to learn & I’m right there if she does need help. Whitney says, “Okay. Whatcha need?” Standard reply for any of us.
The woman gets a sharper tone. “I need help with fencing.”
Whitney hesitates. I look up. She is a replica of Peach in Lonesome Dove, bonnet, red-faced demeanor, plumpness, & all. My mouth drops, but I recover. “Yes, ma’am, we’ll be glad to help you. But are you building a fence? Do you need pricing on barbed wire or vinyl or wooden…???”
She sighs like we are her cross to bear. “I need help BACK HERE with your fencing, I want to get some sticks out of the ground,” she enunciated each word clearly as if I were a stupid hillbilly. Not appreciated. But I had time on my hands, as it were, & could humor this…old wet hen. Normally I would call for one of the guys but decided I could handle this swiftly. (Plus they were all at lunch).
I followed her back to the wall where we have a few pieces displayed. Most of the stuff is in the warehouse, & in order to price it, I must be at a computer. Like the one we started at. I hoped against hope she would badger me for prices of various materials.
In a round about way, I learned that she lives in some gated community in Gatlinburg & was taking down a fence a previous occupant had installed. She couldn’t get the t-posts out of the ground. I suggest she saturate the ground with water around them & waller them out. She couldn’t, she’d already tried that. I suggest she borrow a tractor & buy this handy-dandy little tool you attach a chain to & pull them out with the front end loader, easy as pie. She can’t do that. I suggest she buy this fence post jack & ratchet them out three inches at a time. She doesn’t think she can do that. I tell her I will find her a goat & she can put her fence to use & not worry about it.
That suggestion was met with a severe look.
We go back to the ratcheter. This tool is $57 dollars. She asks if we rent them. No. Do I know a place that rents them? No, but you could rent a bobcat, buy this little tool & ta-da! Problem solved.
She switched tacks abruptly. “Are those like the old-timey galvanized buckets?” She points to an 8-foot section of galvanized tubs & tanks.
“Ummm…well, they’re just a galvanized tub. People use them for all sorts of stuff…weddings, mostly, anymore.” I’m not sure what she’s getting at, because they’re RIGHT THERE. She’s looking directly AT THEM.
“Yes, but are they the old-timey kind? The old ones have more metal in them.”
“Oh. No. These are lightweight. They’re serviceable, but they will eventually rust if they hold water for long periods of time or are against the ground.”
She’s still looking at me strangely. “They were manufactured this year…probably in China.”
At last she concedes they weren’t from days of yore.
Next.
No, we’re not done yet. She asks if we have any old-timey water spigots. At this point I want to ask her if when she came through the door if she passed a sign reading, “You are entering a time warp. The year is 1935.”
“Ummm…these are all we have. Simmons brand.”
“Oh? You don’t have any of the old-timey kind?”
I am officially exasperated. “No ma’am, we have carried these state-of-the-art models since at least 2001. They feature a hand pump design & are blue.”
She goes on to explain she’s making a sink & wants vintage stuff. I suggest she see the nice people at Wayne Blalock’s across the street, perhaps they could special order something to suit her. “Or, you know, antique stores or flea markets for the real treasures.” Thankfully I am spared from further conversation when a co-worker comes up to tell me there’s an old lady laying on the floor in the bathroom. I dash away, only to Irene’s laughter. She was talking about a pattern in the tile. Ha. She’s also found Satan & a gnome.
Later, when I’m relating all this to Shug over supper, he says, “You should have told her in the olden days like she’s trying to reproduce, they hired slave labor. Now we have Mexicans.”
Tomorrow is Wednesday. The next is my day off. Thank you Jesus.
So, yesterday I got to go back in time AND be a snake.
I don’t mean I was a snake in a past life. And I know you know I’m scared of snakes. But it was really a good time.
The good thing about having the same job for so long is I travel in the same circles & get to know a lot of people. So when I go to meetings, I see at least one familiar face. This is both a blessing and a curse, because I’m comfortable enough to chat with people, but also, I get called on a lot & made an example of, because the speakers know me by name.
As was the case yesterday. Minor, Whit, & I went to a meeting in Morristown to learn about sales skills from Purina. You may not know it, but Minor & I go way back. To Walters State. Like, twenty years we’ve known each other. There’s another girl in the Co-op system we went to college with, Mandy Hicks. And Mandy was at this particular meeting, too.
You know how it is when you get around people you’ve known that long. You regress to the good ole days, & reminisce about that time in your life. It’s a great deal of fun catching up. And the three of us haven’t been to a meeting together in a long, long, time. So it was kinda like we were back in Tech 130, listening to Roger talk about what we needed to learn to apply to life.
But there was a flaw in the slaw. We had assigned seating. And I was separated from all my people! Minor & Mandy somehow ended up at the same table, though, next to mine, so that was something.
Well, as is typical in these meetings that people in sterile offices dream up (meaning they are so far out of touch with the day to day operation of a farm store they couldn’t tell you what fertilizer is for), they are supposedly “teaching” us how to greet customers on the phone & in person. A guy named Rick is our speaker for this particular segment, whom I don’t know, but now knows me. “Amy! How do you greet customers when they come in?”
“‘Well, what are you doin’ comin’ in the front door?’ or I might say, ‘What have you broke now?'”
Silence.
Rick blinked. Twice.
“You say what, now?”
“‘What have you broke now?’ or maybe, ‘What’d you bring us?’ Because they’ll be toting a mangled PTO shaft or draggin’ an ole hydraulic hose.” Laughter is beginning to erupt all over the room.
“So that’s really how you greet them?”
“Yes.”
“You mean if you know them?”
“Ahhh, it don’t matter. But yeah, usually I know them.”
He’s getting kinda sweaty looking & a little red. Flustered, if you will. Like when you’re crappie fishin’, & you think you’ve hooked one, & you pull a snake into the boat. You’ve got it, but you don’t know what to do with it. And it ain’t your fault, you didn’t mean to catch the snake, & it ain’t the snake’s fault, either, he was just trying to eat dinner. But there you are.
Now what?
Hence me, being the snake.
“But if you didn’t know them, what would you say?”
“‘Hey, how are y’all,'” I call, just like I’m in the store.
“What about if you said, ‘Hello, welcome to Co-op, I’m Amy?'”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I hate it when they do that at my bank. It sounds rehearsed. And they don’t hear any of it, anyway, because they’re standing there like this.” I demonstrate the look of awe our first time customers present.
Again, he’s giving me this gears-turning look while everybody else is hee-hawing.
We moved on to the handshake.
Now, I don’t know about y’all, but I have absolutely zero interest in shaking every Tom, Dick, & Harry’s hand that darkens our door. It’s weird, & people are nasty. I don’t know-or care to know-where their hands have been. Our customers aren’t always the most hygienic. Not ALL, just….several.
Anyway, then we are addressing how to speak on the phone. Poor ol’ Rick ain’t learned a thing from our previous interaction.
“Amy!”
Here we go, I think.
“How do YOU answer the phone?”
“‘Sales, could I hep ye?'” I drawl.
I hear Minor snort behind me.
“What?” Rick asks me.
“Well, our phone system is automated. So, when they call, they get my chirpy voice giving you a directory of what button to mash for whichever department. Nobody listens to it, anyway. They hit zero, they get me. They hit two, they get me. They hit any other number & they’re on hold for too long, it rings to me. So I say, ‘Sales, could I hep ye?'”
“Don’t you think you should give them your name?”
“Nope. They don’t care. And I’ve been there so long, anybody that wants me, knows my voice.”
Clearly, Rick is at a loss.
I am a snake.
At the end of his lecture, he asks me, “Amy, do you think you will go back tomorrow & implement these techniques?”
“Nope. I’m an old dog. I don’t do new tricks.”
We broke for lunch.
Mandy, Minor, Whit, & Rusty are beside themselves. They stagger over to me. “When he called on you, I held my breath,” Mandy said.
“We all KNEW what was gonna happen,” Rusty said. “But he didn’t have a CLUE.”
“Well, I was gonna sit there, & be all behaved & nice & quiet…but he asked for it,” I countered.
“He sure did,” Minor said.
“I told the truth!” I became slightly shrill. “He didn’t want me to lie!”
“I know you did,” he soothed. Easy, Killer.
When you’re growing up, you meet people that you just know you’re going to be around the rest of your life. These are not two people I would have thought I would be connected to this long, but I’m so glad I am. We have a great time in each other’s company & I love them both dearly. (But don’t tell ’em that, they think I’m a hard@$$) Even if the learning part of college was kind of a joke, I did form some lifelong friendships in the unlikeliest of classmates.
Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl with long golden hair. She met & fell in love with a handsome young man. They were wed in the middle of Crawford’s Notch by Jimmy Temple.
The little family grew, & soon they had three wild mules running around the house & over the hills. They had a swimming pool, but preferred the pond. Theirs was a picturesque farm on the river, in the middle of town, with beautiful horses grazing in manicured pastures.
As the mules grew up & formed relationships with others, these friends were welcomed as family. Their home was always full to brimming with an ever growing group of people. There was much laughter & fun & plenty of tasty food. We sought counsel many times over the years & found understanding in their eyes and a big hug at every turn.
The family remained strong & close knit as the years went by. They gathered every Sunday morning at the main home for biscuits and gravy at 9:30 sharp. It was the one time a week everyone was expected to convene together as a whole. They believed in agriculture, & they all worked hard to keep the Sevier County fair going so it would always serve as a special memory for all the kids of the county. They brought it out of a black hole & made it the best one in the state. And we were proud.
This family was loved by all that met them.
Then one day, the dad got sick.
And just like that, he was gone.
So the county mourns.
And the mules cry.
The family asks for privacy during this time. Please be in prayer for this wonderful family that has been everything to so many.
This morning, I was running behind (I know this surprises no one) and didn’t have time to fix my lunch. I did tote along a mountain dew and a baggie of chips, thinking I’ll just run up to Subway. You know, that’s a racket. It’s like, six bucks for a sandwich, but if you need chips and a drink, all of a sudden it’s $24.
Anyway, traffic is monstrous, but I eventually get there. There is a man trying to pay for his $7 sandwich with a hundred dollar bill at 11 o’clock in the morning. I’m thinking, “What an arrogant ass, who in their right mind pays for a sandwich at eleven o’clock in the morning with a Franklin?” The cashier is flustered & asking the other sandwich artist if there was money in the back. She’s saying no, no way, the guy is halfheartedly digging for smaller bills. (Who in this day and age doesn’t carry a debit card, anyway???) “I’m gonna run right over here & see if I can break it,” she tells the man, inching towards the door, showing his $100. “Where you goin’ with it?” he demands, all indignant.
Ok, chick is head to toe Subway attire. Her coworker is there, as well as a policeman, trying to quietly consume his sandwich in the corner. Like she’s gonna run off with his money and buy pills in the parking lot & then say she “lost it”. Gimme a break. “I’m just going right here to Popcorn Video. Right here in the parking lot. You can watch me.”
And danged if he didn’t. But anyway, the other one is making my sandwich right along, and I’m directing her what to put on it.
I’m pretty mild when it comes to my sandwiches. Lettuce, tomato, pickles, mayo, mustard on my wheat bread cold cut. And maybe vinegar if I’m feeling froggy. She finishes my sandwich, wraps it up, clears the other sale out, & takes my money. I pick it up and hit the road, while the other girl is counting the twenties back to the guy by the side door.
I’m sitting in gridlock traffic in front of the bank & thinking about my sandwich that is sitting right there beside me.
I’m an instant gratification type person.
I think I can eat a bite or two while waiting.
I get it out of the bag. It feels a little warm, but I figure that’s where it’s been sitting against me, maybe in a sunbeam.
I slowly unroll it.
That does NOT look like mustard & mayo.
I unroll it the rest of the way to expose a flatbread turkey sandwich with lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers and -WAIT FOR IT—THOUSAND ISLAND dressing and JALAPENOS.
Gag.
Gag gag gag gag, gag.
What the hell kind of person gets JALAPENOS and THOUSAND ISLAND DRESSING on their sandwich?
The kind that tries to pay for a $7 sandwich at 11 in the morning with a hundred dollar bill, evidently.
I wiped off the French as best as I could, piled up the jalapenos to the side, & tried to choke it down.
It was slow going, to say the least.
And it still feels like it may come up at any moment, even after two hours fermenting in my gut.
Update: things have went progressively downhill since lunch. Like Minor said, I shoulda “Thrown that sumbitch out in the road & ran over it.”
Getting quite a bit of this view today as I pray for my great uncle Roy Dykes, Tammy’s daddy. He’s a tough ole bird and my mind won’t quite wrap around that he’s in ICU and the doctors are not confident. They say it could go either way.
Tammy’s momma always said Roy was supposed to go out of this world the same way he came in–by accident.
He has survived the following: having been trapped under a tractor for an hour and ten minutes and was among Lifestar’s very first airlift patients. He had his middle finger ripped off at the knuckle while leading a mule (it’s buried in the flower bed…the finger, not the mule), he was attacked by a gigantic emu while trying to load them in the trailer (someone told him he could have them for free- “I ain’t gonna have no little bird hurt me!”). And while we’re on poultry…he was burning leaves out in the barn lot one time & it got a “little” out of control. Well, a rooster somehow got his tail feathers in the flames, & made for the barn. Roy followed in hot pursuit, before he could burn the whole barn down. He succeeded in running him out, mildly scorched but no worse for wear. There was also the time he totaled his truck while pulling a rented fertilizer buggy home one day. He’s also got me in a wreck or two. While fostering a love of horses in me, he still walked a fine line of quality horsemanship & “try this & see what happens”. Like the time he told me, “go ahead & mount in the hallway, she’ll be alright.” She was NOT alright. The mare lost her mind & very nearly killed us all.
This is why he can’t die from appendix surgery. The idea is ludicrous. Please help me pray for him, his soul, & comfort for my most huggable sweet cousin.
Mountain Dew
There’s a big hollow tree down the road here from me
Where you lay down a dollar or two
You stroll ’round the bend and you come back again
There’s a jug full of good old mountain dew
They call it that mountain dew
And them that refuse it are few
I’ll hush up my mug if you fill up my jug
With that good old mountain dew
My uncle Mort, he’s sawed off and short
He measures about four foot two
But he thinks he’s a giant when you give him a pint
Of that good old mountain dew
Well, my old aunt June bought some brand new perfume
If had such a sweet smelling pew
But to her surprise when she had it analyzed
It was nothing but good old mountain dew
Well, my brother Bill’s got a still on the hill
Where he runs off a gallon or two
The buzzards in the sky get so drunk they can’t fly
From smelling that good old mountain dew
For Roy. The man who gave me Crockett and my first job (green breaking horses for $100 a head when I was in high school). He once offered me $1500 for my saddle horse, so I knew he was worth twice that.
For those of you still following updates: I left once Tammy got a solid army behind her to return to the pressing concerns of the Co-op in spring. Turns out I should have stayed. Mom texted me that they are waiting for the preacher, then turning off everything. His organs have failed. To have lived 83 years the way he did, this seems like such an uninspired ending. Maybe I’m just optimistic that he will blink a few times & say, “let’s go to Cracker Barrel, where’s my moneybelt?”
My uncle Roy did not become a miracle, he did not wake up, and he was cremated within two days. My cousin celebrated her birthday amid many tears and memories of both her beloved parents. I guess no matter what you’ve clawed your way through in the span of your lifetime, when your ticket is punched your board the train.
