It is the first day of spring. I hope you found a way to enjoy it outside in the breezy brightness, with the budding trees and the thickening grass. I was running around the picturesque East Tennessee countryside for most of the day, admiring fields of fescue coming in strong from recent rains and 70 degree temperatures, and daffodils in ditches, and cows making the most of it, picking with gusto. But no early spring day is complete without noting the invasion of my enemy tree, the Bradford Pear.

But we’re going to overlook that in favor of the productive day spent in the company of a dear friend, a longtime friend, a good friend who needed a good day. And he got it. Do you all sometimes pause and realize that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be in that moment? That maybe, just maybe, we aren’t just floating along, happenstance, and a billion moments have connected and aligned to put us right where we are? Last night when I was up half a dozen times, I tried very hard not to come all the way awake. But I remember praying almost every time that today wouldn’t have any hiccups, that things would move smoothly along, that our plan be His will, as well. And best I can tell, it was. It wasn’t without hiccups, but it was close enough, and it’s kinda like people will tell you on your wedding day: “if, at the end of the day you’re married, it was a success. And that’s all that matters.” So today was a success. No, I’m not married! It’s a metaphor.

We all have our want list. We all have our needs list. Sometimes the wants will disguise theirselves as needs. It’s tricky business. I hope that we know our wants won’t hurt us. I think it’s a good rule to put our wants to the side, and save towards them, but if in six months they don’t seem as vital, to let them go.

Spring is often viewed as fresh life and new beginnings. It’s certainly easier to be more hopeful with the rising temperatures and brighter skies. So if you haven’t been setting the world on fire since January 1st, now’s you’re time to make up for it. All I’ve been doing is plodding along here, keeping it real, and trying to do a little good in the world, even if it is in unconventional ways.

I hope that today, on the first day of spring, in the year of our Lord 2024, you found a reason to be blessed and comforted and know that you are loved. I hope you have at least one good friend, and I hope you felt heard and appreciated. I hope you laughed and I hope tomorrow is just as good, or even better. I hope you don’t lose sight of yourself. And I hope you rest through the night, free of worry from what hasn’t happened yet. Don’t go borrowing trouble. There’s plenty to go around. The longer I live, the more I realize that things happen exactly as they should. The right person is out there, you just have to be patient. And I’m not even just talking about love. The right customer, the right neighbor, the right boss, the right contractor, the right husband or wife. The right person will listen to your stories, and be honored to hear them, and cheer you on. There will be an energy you can’t define; you may not even be aware until after. Kismet, fate, whatever you wanna call it. One day it’ll click and you might stop and take a moment to acknowledge that there’s something great at work, all over every single second of our lives. And thank God for that. Because I have zero business being in control.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

The Pollening has begun. And it’s all the Bradford Pears fault. I feel itchy and gross.

I was told today that people relate to my writing and like it because it’s real. I’m not trying to make it seem like my life is unicorns and sparkles all the time. I’m not gonna just write about the highlights and lead you to believe I’m having this perfect experience in life. No, that’s not my style. I’m tripping, I’m slipping, I’m falling, I’m spilling, I’m making a mess and causing a hazard everywhere I go. And right now I feel like I might have a touch of food poisoning to go along with my allergies. I sure hope not, lots of things to do tomorrow and I need to be in tip-top supportive mode and able to make sound decisions.

So speaking of fake, and I may have written about this before, but these books that everybody claims to have read…I’m reading 1984 right now and it’s slow going for me because it’s a mass market paperback edition so the print is small and it’s not very comfortable to hold. I never thought I’d be on the e-reader bandwagon but these things are great for indoor reading when you have low light. I also like the built in dictionary. Very handy. But I haven’t found a way to avoid the glare when reading outside, so in the summer I usually keep two books going: an inside book and an outside book. But, in the winter, there’s no need. But back to these books everybody supposedly read and adores.

For starters, the Bible.

I ain’t buyin’ it. No, no, I believe in the word. I have trouble believing so many people have read it cover to cover. Maybe over the course of your life you have studied it through sermons and Sunday school lessons, but no, I don’t believe the majority of people who claim to have read it sat down and read it straight through as you would read a novel. Nope.

Then we have the classics. Your Dickens, your Hemingway, your Fitzgerald. The Alchemist, Moby Dick, War & Peace or whatever other tome you think makes you look superior. I may possibly judge you *lifting eyebrows* that you would waste time on a 1000+ page book, but you still can’t use the correct version of there, their, or they’re. Or maybe weather and whether. Or then or than.

I’m stopping before y’all start throwing long division at me. Or perhaps simple arithmetic. ‘Cause I suck, I’ve got no lies to tell.

Anyway. Came across this article right off when I googled “what are the most popular books people claim to have read?”

I’m not surprised.

https://tysonadams.com/2019/12/11/the-top-10-books-people-claim-to-read-but-havent-2/

I used to lie about Little Women and Jane Eyre but several years ago I set out to read the classics and got to several of them. Rebecca was my hands down favorite and I felt like I hit A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and To Kill a Mockingbird too late in life to really appreciate them. Never cracked the spine on Little Women. Maybe this year. Really, I’d rather just read Gone With the Wind again. Or maybe Lonesome Dove.

I gotta go to bed so my dog can get some rest. He’s snoring and every time I get up he gives me this look like I’ve betrayed him. Never mind I’m the one going off to work every day so he can have kibble in his bowl and a stuffed dinosaur to disembowel while he lays around freeloading.

I shouldn’t presume. He may have run off a dozen potential robbers today, I wouldn’t know. Anyway. Just remember I’m always happy to talk books with you or try to recommend something. I was talking to a friend today and I was once again disappointed in myself that I didn’t participate in Lent this year. I thought about it but never committed to anything. I had intended to cut out all excess spending (that would have included all meals out) but let’s be real. I am not going to do without my weekly (…or bi-weekly) Bo-rounds. Or candles. Or a new cute top. Or something for Chessie. But I could have went to ol’ faithful and given up Facebook. And I’d be better for it. Because lemme tell you, comments on public pages are not good for my blood pressure. It’s like eating from a salt shaker while driving in Atlanta traffic. No good.

Ok. Goodnight. Happy reading.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

I don’t know Kim Rogers, but I hate her. Her clothing line for Belk evidently runs small, because I find my “normal” size is a bit snug if it carries her label. So I have to size up, and this perturbs me. Life ain’t fair, I’ve known this all along, but clothing should be!

I dated myself today. One of my friends purchased her daughter a car for her birthday and posted a picture on Facebook. It looked like a dern nice one, much better than what my friends and I drove at sixteen. I commented, “Sharp!” After posting I thought, “Nobody says that anymore. Not even Boomers. That’s it. I will never be cool again.” Not there was ever much hope.

I love it when people say they like my house. It’s nothing special, but I’m proud of it. I think I’ve succeeded in making it a home. Almost all my possessions are objects I’ve collected around on my travels. Of course the books make it cozy. There’s usually something cooking or maybe a cake under the glass dome. I’m trying to cut back on those, though. I try to keep it tidy, but there is always errant dog hairs here and there. And Amy hairs. But I feel like if you like my house, you like me, because my home is a direct reflection of me. And, it would stand to reason, you probably wouldn’t be welcome here if you didn’t like me, so I suppose this is all a moot discussion. Well, soliloquy, since you’re not contributing.

Saw this today and it made me giggle.

I hope that posts correctly, it looks chopped on my iPad. But it made me think, what would Chester do to get it trouble? I quickly determined it would be quicker to list what he wouldn’t do.

I think: sleeping in class, talking in class or other disruptive behavior, running zoomies and getting carried away and knocking other students and the teacher down, hogging food, unwilling to share napping space or attention from teacher, poor handwriting, impatient, and failure to communicate in a calm manner. Also excessive urination. Oh, and murder of all stuffed animals. And he would sit pretty in the principal’s office, exuding obedience and total charm, contrite and making you wonder if this is the same dog who was playing bulldozer on the playground twenty minutes ago. (He is the bulldozer).

It took me forever to go to sleep last night and I’ve been in a fog most of the afternoon. It didn’t help I didn’t make any coffee this morning. So I’m really looking forward to bed. Think I’ll go on. Y’all bundle up in the morning. Back to the twenties, so I’ve heard. We had the roaring part today. That wind! Zoinks! I had to make potato soup to feel warm.

Love from blustery Appalachia,

~Amy

“Write of what you know,” Mrs Tipton told my tenth grade English class. But what I know is no longer useful to those who lead lives so startlingly different than my own. I know nothing of long marriages, but instead, ill-fated love. I don’t know about securing a career right out of college, and being compensated fairly. It is a mystery to me, the act of raising children, or having a healthy relationship with my parents. I can’t tell you the first thing about iPhones or popular television programs or streaming services. I couldn’t list five current celebrities if you held a gun to my head, or anything about winning sports teams. I haven’t a clue what’s trending in clothes, or how I should be applying eyeliner. I haven’t a clue about diets or workouts. I cannot do sums in my head or use a sewing machine.

But I know about true friends, and fake ones, too. I know what it’s like to travel alone, to a destination hundreds of miles away that I’ve never visited. I am well versed in sitting in a quiet house all day, flipping pages of a book and cooking a pasta dish from a recipe I stumbled across online. I understand how it feels to not want to get up and do it again but you have to, because there is no one to bail you out. I’m familiar with being on my knees, sobbing, crying out to the one who formed us, unable to form words or see a way through. I know what it’s like to be under appreciated and taken advantage of, to be expected to be at someone’s beck and call, even when they are not at yours. No one is perfect, and a sincere apology and promise to do better will set it right again. As long as there is effort and a willingness to accept they acted unfairly. I can tell you about the unparalleled loyalty of a dog, I can write for hours about these mountains I call home. I can wax nostalgic all day over the heat of a southern summer in Savannah. I can explain why being stubborn and not becoming complacent is preferable to getting comfortable. I can quote Gone With the Wind, Lonesome Dove, and nearly every episode of Friends and Designing Women. I can explain about nutritional values in horse feed, and coach you in buying a horse to suit your needs. I can instruct you in making many southern foods, and give you tips about fishing (don’t expect to catch anything and you’ll never be disappointed). I can teach you how to piddle.

Because piddling is what I’ve done for three solid days, with one short-lived bout of housework yesterday.

Piddling requires dedication and a lack of goal setting. One must commit to no deadline, or an expectation that any project will be completed. Even calling a task a project is frowned upon. Piddling is just something you find yourself doing, like cleaning out the junk drawer, or rearranging a shelf in the basement when you found two empty spray paint cans in with the bug killer. Piddling is slicing an onion and realizing how dull your knives are, so you stop making lunch to instead sharpen all the knives in the house. Piddling is picking up sticks in the yard that bleeds over into fixing the gate that hasn’t been quite right in some time, that leads to restacking that odds and ends pile of lumber in the corner of the garage. Or scraping wax out of pretty glass jars to use as vases or storage.

Ahhh, piddlin’. There is no end. It can be soothing if you’re of the right mindset. But this blog and my resolution is not for the piddlin’ type. It would be so much better if I wrote like somebody with some sense. I even piddle in my writing. I’ll start with one thing I want to say then get off on something else, and wind up talking about something else entirely. I remember writing a research paper my junior year. The outline was due like, two or three weeks before the paper. This was enough to send me into a tailspin. How was I supposed to write an outline? I didn’t know how it was gonna go till I got into the paper and saw how the tale was gonna fall out. I tried to explain this to the teacher, who tried reasoning with me that was the purpose of the outline, to keep me focused and on track. Have you ever tried reasoning with a 16 year old redhead? No, I don’t recommend it. As my memory serves, I loosely wrote my research paper in two days, and hammered out the outline from it. Then I coasted until the first draft was due.

So a piddlin’, procrastinating writer is what I am, who is loved by a dog, and who craves a good cheeseburger more than is normal for any forty-something lady.

Tomorrow is Monday, in case you forgot. I might have to stop for biscuits and gravy on my way in to soften the blow.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

It has been an altogether pleasant day. I slept in, made me half a pot of coffee, and drank it quite leisurely, with my sweet dog at my side. So very much at my side, in fact, that I’m thinking of changing his name to Barnacle. I could call him Barney for short. Then I decided to clean the winter gunk from my patio table and dine alfresco. It was late for breakfast, but I wasn’t having a Bloody Mary, so I hesitate to call it brunch. Food just tastes better outside. I don’t care if it’s just a bologna sandwich, or peanut butter and crackers, there’s just something about the sun on your face and the wind in your hair. I watched a woodpecker sail right into the hole in the dead tree and clouds puff across the robins-egg-blue sky. I watched all the cars race by, people on an important mission to do things they probably didn’t even want to do. People who would probably be bored to death sitting on a porch watching woodpeckers and eating biscuits with their dog glued to their side. I wasn’t bored, but I was procrastinating. Saturday is housework day.

But I got everything vacuumed and dusted and swept and scrubbed. I did not strike a lick at laundry or cleaning my furniture, as is my custom on time change weekends. Yes, I am aware I’m a week late on the time change cleaning, anyway. See procrastination statement above. There’s always next weekend.

So here I sit in my clean house, on a beautiful spring Saturday night, listening to more people run the roads, and I don’t have the slightest desire to be anywhere else. I think I must be old. I already know I’m dull. But I’ve already had my night on the town this week. I’m content with my new candle flickering on my (dustless) coffee table, Barnacle—I mean, Chester, dozing beside me and making gentle shuffling noises in his sleep, and the prospect of finishing another book tonight. Somebody has a fire going nearby and the smoke is beginning to curl in through my open windows.

I am often alone, but rarely lonely. I saw a TikTok today that had a man giving pointers to other married men on how to woo your wife. One tip was letting her sleep in ✔️ Another was offering to take the kids for a few hours so she could do whatever she wanted in peace and quiet, like take a bath or eat junk food and watch TV. And for the millionth time, I was once again thankful I didn’t have children. I cannot imagine having to cater to tiny humans constant needs and having to carve time out of my day to do the things I see as commonplace. Lort. It’s hard enough being responsible for a dog, and I’ve been doing that my entire life. I’m glad I don’t have rabbits anymore. What a pain. I do miss horses, but not enough to go get one. Yes, I am completely aware of how selfish I am. But I’ll ask you again: is it selfishness that I had the foresight to realize what my expectations of life were and know that children would affect my desired lifestyle, so I chose not to have them? Not trying to start a debate here, but when people call me selfish, I wonder if they thought about it like that? To me, selfishness would be if I had a houseful of young uns dependent on me for supper and baths and I went flitting away for a night on the town with the girls. On a whim, I mean, not as a planned excursion with a sitter lined up, or what have you.

But at any rate, this is my life and I’m happy with it. Maybe I learned to be that way, that adjustment was necessary. I had a conversation this week about the definition of weak minded. In my opinion, it means letting circumstances cut you off at the knees and not trying to recover. Things that happen to everybody eventually, like the loss of a parent after a terminal illness, or a breakup, or a surgery, or the loss of a job, or a car wreck. Obviously truly traumatic things like the death of a young child or a house fire or something equally catastrophic warrants a longer recovery and professional counseling. I’m not trying to trivialize anyones distress, but you’ve got to overcome so many things throughout life and just keep trucking. I’m not saying don’t grieve, I’m saying don’t wallow. The other person saw it as more of mind over matter, like willing yourself well when you were down with the flu, or endurance of lifting objects for an extended period. It reminded me of a karate class I’d taken way back in college. We all lay on our mats and our sensei (instructor) asked us to move our right foot. We did so. Then our left foot. Then our big toe on our left foot. That wasn’t so easy- you try it. Then our pinky toe. I found it impossible. And sitting here, I still do. Mind over matter? Maybe,

Now, a word about Bradford Pears.

I hate them, they’re invasive, they smell terrible, they wreck havoc on my sinuses, and they break and make a great big mess. They’re killing out native pears and completely taking over. Farmers can’t stay ahead of them; they’re worse than cedars. The hybrids have thorns. Right now is a clear illustration of how much they’ve spread, just look for their white blooms. As if our farmers didn’t have enough to do. “Something else to fight,” one sighed in a recent conversation.

So stop planting Bradford Pears. Start chopping down every one you see. I’ll give you a quarter- that’s what I used to get for hoeing thistles. Must provide evidence of dead tree. Limit $5, then you’re just doing it for the greater good and I thank you 😁

I hope y’all have a lovely Sunday and find things to enjoy and be thankful for.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

I have eaten the awfullest mess of garbage today that ever was. Just like I didn’t learn a thing from Thursday night’s escapade. Oh well.

It was a rainy, stormy morning here in East Tennessee and I just couldn’t see the effort in driving to work and spending the day with Sniveling Jake. So I didn’t. And I’m glad of it, I’ve had a rather cozy day here eating whatever didn’t eat me. I feel like I stayed on the phone all day, and checking my log, it appears I pretty much did, from 10-6. Not all work, but some. But you gotta keep up on current developments with friends. And I did get my latest Lisa Jewell book knocked out mere moments ago. It was a hum– dinger and I recommend it to those of you who like “what if” type books or books about amnesia. The title was The Truth About Melody Browne. I liked it, I liked it a lot.

Some adulting things I’d like to share: stop buying Rice-a-roni, the San Francisco treat. It pales in comparison to Uncle Bens. I know Uncle Bens fell victim to the marketing attack a few years ago, and I also know it’s a smidgen more expensive, but I’m telling you, it’s worth it. It cooks better, it tastes better, and it makes more.

Adulting #2: like everybody else and their brother, I have Pyrex storage containers. They’re really great, they’re clear glass so you can easily discern what’s in them, they’re durable, and they’re easy to clean. I’ve noticed several lids cracking in the last few weeks. Not a big deal for refrigerator use, but if I need to freeze it could be problematic. And I can’t complain the lids are giving out, because they’re 12 years old this summer. So I get on Amazon to buy replacement lids. You probably know what I’m fixing to say.

I can buy the whole new set for $10 more dollars than what the replacement lids are gonna cost! I would have thought the glass would be the expensive part. Nope. Or maybe they just know that the majority of people are just gonna want the lids and have driven them to the threshold of pricing, where the public will teeter totter on “I don’t need them but…..”

The lids, at $21.99, are in my basket. The entire set is not. I am not wasteful. But dang.

It’s unsettling how many people don’t like tomatoes, or only like tomatoes in cooked form. It should please me, because that would equate to more tomatoes for me. But I’m under no false illusions that I could consume any more than I already do. A friend who eats only the cooked varieties (salsa, spaghetti sauce, soup, etc) asked me today how to even eat one. This is not a young person, and obviously it’s evident people eat them on burgers and sandwiches, as a rule, not an exception. But I took the opportunity to share my favorite tomato recipe. Many of you have seen it multiple times over the years.

First, get you two slices of white bread. Any will do, but if I have my druthers, I like that Nature’s Own Crafted bread. The wheat is what I use when it’s not tomato season. Getcha a jar of Duke’s mayonnaise. Lightly toast bread, slather on mayo, sprinkle salt & pepper. Peel garden tomato, or hothouse if that’s all that’s available. Slice into thick slices. Put as many as you want on the bread. Cram it in your mouth as hard as you can go while preparing a second, identical sammich.

That’s how you eat a tomato.

I will leave you with a quote from The Legend (self appointed). John Alan had to work overnight Tuesday. So, in other words, when he got up at 6 on Tuesday, he worked all day, then got called back in before he ever went to bed, worked all night, and then all day again Wednesday. He said he was asleep before his head hit the pillow Wednesday night. “I mean, hell, I thought I was younger than that.”

Yeah, no. Not in a long time, cuz. And all I’m trying to do is stay awake long enough to write a little something. Till tomorrow ~~~

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

I’m looking forward to when writing is so ingrained in me I just wake up and do it, like brushing my teeth or washing my face. As it stands, I put it off all day and now here I am at 11:00, tapping a little something out that I will be too tired to proofread. All errors are mine. (Who else’s would they be???) But to be honest about it, the main reason I put it off is to have something sensational to report on.

However, I’m generally happy to say it was another mediocre day. One of my board members asked me today if anything exciting had been going on. I was like, “Lorrrrrd no, please don’t let anything exciting happen!” Because when exciting things happen at work, it’s costing somebody a crap ton of money.

No, hold the excitement please.

I know a little dog that had quite the capital day. No, not Chessie Pie. Although he may have, I wasn’t here for it. And he is sleeping quite soundly…..

No, it was Angela’s dog, Yona. (Yona means Bear in Cherokee. And she does look like a very lean, leggy bear). Angela has two dogs, a 100# Bernadoodle named Okra who resembles a very large stuffed animal, and the little mischief maker, Yona the Aussiedoodle. They both had vet appointments this week for their annual checkup. Okra went yesterday, and Yona’s big adventure was today. You might be thinking, “Wouldn’t it be easier and quicker to take them at the same time?” At which time, any dog owner who has owned multiple dogs at the same time would laugh in your face and then pat you on your head like a British schoolboy still in short britches.

Taking two dogs into the vet at the same time is something like a form of primitive torture. Angela did not do this, because Angela is not stupid. (And probably like the rest of us, learned the hard way). So she walks in today, very pleased to find the waiting room empty and still.

It didn’t stay that way for long.

Yona immediately commenced smelling every nook and cranny of the cubicle Angela selected to wait in. In a matter of tenths of a second, she managed to launch herself halfway across the bench divider. Yona, that is, not Angela. Yona is the smaller of two dogs, but that doesn’t mean she’s actually small. She’s about 60# of tightly wound spring. So that was a fun task, removing lots of dog from a head-high divider, while Yona attempted to communicate with a dog on the other side of the plate glass window. She was in full-scale whine and quaking all over from the sheer excitement. Luckily, the staff got them situated in a private room quickly, and the nerves abated once she had sniffed everything and everybody down.

But, oh, the mayhem that had ensued in the waiting room while they were in their capsule.

A mother and son had come in and were waiting with their two bully breeds to be checked in at the front desk. Along with about a dozen other dogs with their families.

And errrrrrrybody in the club was yelling, because the two pits were in a full on barking war, which drove all the other dogs into a frenzy. It was panic at the disco.

Now, let me tell you, this place is chaotic on the best day. They’re very busy, and it’s concrete floors for easy clean up. It just echoes and reverberates and makes your fillings tingle. The dumbest part was, they weren’t separating the dogs that were mad at each other. The second dumbest thing was, the dogs knew each other. They lived together. They’d just had breakfast together, for Pete’s sake. How do I know this? Well, the woman was informing everybody in the lobby of it, instead of tending to her charge.

In the meantime, Yona was quivering and had moved her derrière into Angela’s feet, and giving her a look like, “Get me outta here, mom. These doggies have gone craaaaazzzzzy.” And this is where I thought, ‘I’d like to write Yona’s version of events”. But now it’s too late, because I’ve done told everything. But anyway, everybody got checked in, there was no human or canine blood shed, and Yona is a wimp, because she’d acted all bold when it was just her, but throw in some noise and crazy dogs and she’s all, “Hold me, momma!” I said I would love to know how she recounted the tale to Okra back upon arrival. Okra is the most laid back, chill dog on the planet. She probably told her she dreamed it all, and it was nothing like that when she was there. You know, the tall tales of the youth, and how they get carried away.

At any rate, it was amusing to think about. Poor Yona. To come from such a quiet existence to be thrown into all that mayhem….well, it would be something to write about if you were a dog with a blog…

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

I rarely know what I’m gonna write about when I sit down to do it. I don’t generally agonize over it, but sometimes I wish for an incident that would leave a desirable impression on me. I thought for sure something would inspire me from my outing tonight, but it was not meant to be.

It’s ok. It’s been a decent day. I got quilt #2 sent back to Amazon. I was supposed to have supper and drinks with a couple of friends in Market Square, but that didn’t work out. What DID work out was I caught Kay in Sevierville and we turned up for early afternoon. It took forever to get to our accustomed time for fellowship, so we ended up hitting some of Sevierville’s new spots. Not new to me, but definitely new to Kay. She’s freaking out over being served lobster in a funeral home. I’ve never met a bigger weenie in my life! She cracks me up. She’s all about reviving downtown, and places that used to be one thing and are now another, but she’s definitely out on eating oysters in a former funeral home. Obviously, I have no such qualms. And I got crème brûlée, so it really wasn’t a bad day at all.

I looked at the crescent moon tonight as I walked up my sidewalk. I pondered what all the moon has observed, and if it thinks we’re all idiots. I think we’re all idiots, and decided if the moon is paying any sort of attention, it probably doesn’t have much hope for us. I can’t blame it. I searched the stars for answers, but stars don’t answer. My dog was no help, either, but he is the best company I could ever ask for. He makes no apologies for nestling in as close as possible to me. He just loves. He needs no excuse. He’s just content and happy and I wish I could be half as accepting. He’s not sorry he’s so big and hairy. He knows there’s nothing to be done about his drool. He rests soundly, assured that the sun will come up tomorrow and there will be a bowl of clean water and another of kibble. Thankfully there’s no separation anxiety, the only personality glitch is he will not eat if I’m not home. I don’t understand the correlation. Maybe he is just rationing. It’s sweet, in a way, but concerning.

I’m going to bed. Long day ahead of me tomorrow. All this sunshine makes me think I need to be productive. I don’t like being productive. I’m geared more towards lounging with a book and coffee.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy

Today has been a day of conflicting emotions. It hasn’t been a bad day, just a day where I can’t seem to be on my true path. I know how to fix it, just need to talk to the Man upstairs. I’m afraid I ain’t gonna like what he has to tell me, though. It happens.

I am such a procrastinator. I still haven’t sent in my taxes. I did purge some things this weekend- not as much as I had hoped to. I stay on top of most of my stuff, for the most part. Got rid of several pairs of shoes, though. Is anybody interested in wedding dresses? I have two very beautiful ones. Of course, this is my opinion, but I think you’d be crazy not to agree 🤣 I was hoping to donate them to a good cause, so I first thought about the angel baby gown people. I asked Angela if she knew of any locally, since she’s in the sewing machine circles. She didn’t, but sent me a link for gifting to military brides. I liked that idea a lot, but they only accept gowns less than four years old that have been professionally cleaned.

Ok. I get it. You don’t want these 1980s puffy long sleeved lacy yellowing monstrosities with matching hats. But I’m pretty sure my 2001 couture A-line corset back ball gown is still posh. And my 2012 taffeta cupcake dress is still plenty en vogue. They weren’t accepting right now, anyway. Then I reached out to another friend who sews and has had her own angel baby. Sure enough, she knew of a local branch. They are taking them, and if they’re not, they sell them to make money to cover shipping costs and whatnot. They want clean dresses, too, understandably. They say toss them in the washer on delicate.

Ummmmm. I’m not 100% sure either of my dresses would even FIT in the washer. They both had 4’ trains. They also want $25 per dress to cover one angel gown shipment. I understand, I promise I do. But damn. These dresses total about 5K. Sure, I could eventually sell them on Marketplace or Poshmark but I don’t want to deal with all that. I want to feel good about their future. I don’t want to donate them to Goodwill and some crackhead get them. My dresses deserve a happily ever after, even if I didn’t get it.

So I’m dealing with that, something I should have dealt with forever ago, but they’ve just been hanging out in my spare closet in their zippered bags. If anyone has a suggestion, or would like some positively gorgeous material, or maybe want to dye a dress for another occasion, I’m your girl. Just promise me they’ll have another happy day.

In other news, I have a friend who’s selling the family farm.

Do. NOT. START.

Do you wanna pay land taxes on fifty or a hundred acres? Do you even KNOW what land taxes run on that size of place? Do you even mow your own yard? Yeah, the dream is nice: live off the land, watch the cattle graze, grow some tomatoes, have a little farm stand out by the road for excess okra and chicken eggs….{move to the country, eat a lot of peaches 🎶🎵} Here’s the bottom line: you probably couldn’t afford the fuel it would take to bushhog that size place. If it’s wooded, what good is it? Oh, you wanna run cattle on it? Cattle don’t eat pine and cedar trees. Cows eat grass, grain, and hay. And a lot of it. So you gotta grow or buy hay. Well, that’s expensive too. Equipment is outta sight. Plus baler twine, there’s hydraulic fluid, fuel, and oh yeah- rake teeth. That’s all annually. You need a barn, a barn for that high dollar equipment and hay. And how about fences? You priced 6’ t-posts lately? Wood posts? Barbed wire? Electric boxes? Hi-tensile and insulators? What about a chainsaw to cut the trees off the fence when they fall? And they WILL fall. And you’ll lie awake on those stormy, blustery nights wondering if your investments are out in the road. And what if they are? You’ve got a day job in town. You’ve gotta be there. Someone depends on you. The farm depends on you.

You don’t have enough time. You don’t even have enough time when the weather is perfect and cooperative.

Say goodbye to those vacations you so look forward to. You can’t leave, you can’t quit. The cattle are calving now, or it’s time to vaccinate. You’ve gotta have equipment for that, too, to handle them safely. Wanna price that stuff? Check out Priefert or Powder River’s website. Get a load of that. Plus the annual cost of vaccines. You know what it takes for your dog to see the vet, quadruple that per cow. Hmmm, what else? Oh, a little garden? Sure, nice thought. First, find you a spot. Till it. I’ll wait.

Tilled it? Great. How many blisters you got? That was the easy part. The weather is nice, huh? Fantastic. Please be overzealous and plant every variety of vegetable you’ve ever eaten in your life.

Now it’s June. It’s 100 degrees in the shade and the weeds and Junebugs have taken over. The turtles, cutworms, and coons have ransacked what the morning glories didn’t get. You’re having to haul water just to keep some semblance of faith, because of course you’re dependent on God and Mother Nature for sunny days and rain showers.

Don’t talk to me about not selling farms until you’ve been out there in the driving rain pulling a calf, till you’ve been out there in a foot of snow and more coming to fix fence, don’t come at me spouting how we should be ashamed when the only time you set foot on the place is once a year with a professional photographer to take pictures of your kids in the manicured fields or among the corn stalks. Save the farms, yes. That’s my business. That’s my heart. But some people have their own dreams, and to achieve that they have to sell the dream that was never theirs. If it’s your dream, find a way to buy it. But be prepared- those Destin vacations and Lululemon leggings are gonna be a distant memory.

It hurts, it’s bittersweet, but a farm that’s not being utilized is no farm at all. And if somebody hadn’t sold, where would you be living? Where would you get your groceries? Your clothes? You beloved Hobby Lobby and Starbucks?

Stars are nice tonight, go look.

Love from Appalachia,

~Amy