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Category: Another Day in Appalachia
Stories that didn’t fit anywhere else.
This is all my fault. It usually is, I don’t know why I’m surprised. See, I had been thinking I needed to write. My mind has been all jittery lately, which is a sure sign something needs to be cut loose. But I didn’t have anything I really wanted to expound upon. Until this morning. I had to meet my DC & company with a folder so they wouldn’t be late for a field visit. Since I was in my personal vehicle and wouldn’t be compensated for mileage, I figured I’d stop and wash Maggie on the way back. It surely wouldn’t be an issue if I were stopping for breakfast, what’s the difference? Ten miles for ten minutes, same thing. I was planning on cleaning her up at lunch today, anyway, so two birds with one stone and all that. Look how efficient I am. I stop over here at the carwash by Burger King. I like to hand wash, since I have a sunroof and I hear those automatic ones are hard on sunroofs, not to mention paint. Plus, I’m a pansy. I find them terrifying. Alright. So two of the wash bays are taped off when I pull in, which makes me a little apprehensive. I ease into the one on the end, noting it’s dry. I give myself a little optimistic word of encouragement. Maybe it…
When you’re seventeen, you don’t think about your best friend’s dad dying. When you’re seventeen, you don’t think about attending the funeral of your first boss. You don’t wonder whether the guy who owns the mountain where you ride horses is gonna die of cancer. When you’re seventeen, all you’re concerned with is boys, hair, and if you’ve got enough gas to run to Wendy’s. You worry about how you look in your swimsuit, and who is going to prom with whom. When you’re seventeen, you’re self involved with your own problems…and too young to realize they’re not problems at all, because they have zero bearing on the rest of your life. But when you’re forty-one, you smile through tears as your best friend delivers her father’s eulogy. You remember the times spent with him as he patiently taught the two of you how to drive in their subdivision. The silver van with the emergency brake lever in the console. You think about how many times he drove you to Walmart because there was nothing else to do…sometimes twice in one day! You recall him helping move furniture and building bookshelves and baking cheesecakes. You realize how much he loved his daughter and how he impacted your life, too. When you’re forty-one, you dress in black on a dreary Saturday and drive to a nearby church to pay…
To be a mountain girlYou must be cold as frost on the tin roofAnd hot as cinders from the wood stoveYou must be witty on your comebacksAnd sharp as grandpa’s yellow Case knife To be a mountain girlYou must be tough as a pine knot And delicate as a monarchs wings as they pulseYou must be soft as spring’s peach fuzzAnd hard as the fallen walnut To be a mountain girlYou must know how to sew with catgutAnd how to heal with aloe and plantainYou must be able to rise and bake biscuitsAnd rest in the heat of the day To be a mountain girlYou must know how to bait your own hookAnd keep up with who’s buried whereYou must know who married whoAnd where their children scattered to To be a mountain girlYou have to talk to crittersAnd go barefoot most of the yearYou must know how to plant by the signsAnd what made that track To be a mountain girlYou will appreciate each day as it comesAnd be grateful to the one who made itYou will prepare as much as you canAnd give grace at every turn To be a mountain girlYou should be capable of shooting straightBoth with a gun and your mouthAnd you should have casseroles in the deep freezeAnd a stack of cards to send in sympathy or thanks To be a mountain girlIs to know which way to the riverAnd where to dig sangAnd hold the note on…
My grandmother built this house round about 1960. She had beautiful #1 hardwood floors put in. After a time, she decided they weren’t worth the effort to maintain (she was under the illusion you had to buff and wax them on the weekly) and had them covered up with some truly horrendous mustard colored carpeting. When she died in 2008, my first priority was getting that God awful carpet ripped up. A friend helped me with the biggest part, and I was tasked with pulling up all the staples and nails and cleaning the wood from all the bits of carpet cushioning before putting down some nice area rugs. This was a JOB. I did it all with a claw hammer and my trusty needle nose pliers. I love needle nose pliers. Some staples came up easily, some I had to really fight with. And a very small number got left forever because they weren’t coming out, no way, no how. And once that was completed I went over it with a paint scraper, then some sort of cleaning agent, THEN the floor polish. Three bedrooms and the hallway is what I slaved over. I had to get done before my furniture was delivered so I worked way into the night through the week and every moment those two weekends to get finished in time. And it seems like I had to get my library painted too. And the walls had to dry. I had fans…
Today was the Waynesville Apple Festival. I have attended this particular event before and found it wonderful. My good friend Tammy Lynn Huffstutler introduced me a couple of years ago. We made the trek again today. In preparation for the festival, I stayed the night at their very homey hilltop home in Greene County. Tammy Lynn so graciously offered to fix us breakfast, but remembering festivals from days of yore, there were lots of decadent food truck options offering many savory, dripping in fat, smoked and fried delicacies. This is in addition to the many restaurants and cafes lining the Main Street of downtown Waynesville. So upon the offer of breakfast, I politely declined, gently reminding my dear friend of all the gastric options that would be available to us in short order. But she mentioned she thought she could eat an egg, so we opted for an egg apiece on tiny toast. And off we went.We got pretty excited to find parking at the bottom of the hill for $5. Until we walked to the TOP of the hill and found parking for $5. #windedSo we figured out the “system” and joined the masked masses clumped up and traveling down Main Street. We were among the minority of unmasked, and dogless. Or catless. We saw a tabby cat on a leash wearing a Halloween tutu-type collar, being carried around the neck, much as one would wear a fur stole. I did try to get a…
I like to think that my writing is a gift I have. Y’all tell me so, and I want to believe you. You say that reading my words is just like having me in the room with you, chatting. And that makes my heart swell. Because ain’t nothing worse than pretentious writing. I have a little sign above my desk that reminds me every day to be thankful. It says, “The meaning of life is to find your gift. The purpose of life is to give it away.”~Pablo Picasso I think I do. Even if I’ve had half a pot of coffee, I can write. Even when I hurt, maybe especially when I hurt, I can still write. I may not be writing about the thorn itself, but I’ll be circling it like a shark circles its prey. My other gift is my hair. It gives y’all something undeniable on which to blame my crazy. You’re welcome. It’s also a gift to me from God, that way I can shrug and say, “What’d you expect? I’m a redhead.” I think my hair was the gateway that got me here. It’s wild, and people are drawn to it. When there’s nothing else to talk about, when we’ve exhausted the weather, and what we do for a living, conversation will unfailingly turn to…
I know I write about death a lot. It’s on my mind. I’m all the time having to go to the funeral home. And that’s fine. I love a lot of people. That’s what you do if you’re brought up right. You go see them one last time. Sean Dietrich writes about his dad who died when he was 14 almost every day. It’s tiresome, but it’s what he knows. And his heart is obviously bleeding out right there on the screen. You don’t have to read it. I used to be terrified I would die at the happiest point of my life. Then I came to the realization that to do so would be the best way to go. I consistently wished on birthday candles and pennies in fountains that I would always be as happy as I was at that moment in time. That’s unrealistic. Of course we’re going to have highs and lows. I’ve had some doozies. But, as Shelby taught us in Steel Magnolias, “I’d rather have five minutes of wonderful than a lifetime of nothing special.” Yeah, I’ll buy some stock in that. You have to have darkness to appreciate the good times. We’re spoiled. We forget how good we’ve got it. Anyway. What I’m here to tell you is that…
From June 12th, 2019: I haven’t written anything in awhile, I know. Slap me with your splintered ruler. (Any Alanis fans out there?) It feels like a waste when I don’t write, like I’m throwing away perfectly good food that I’ve allowed to rot simply because I forgot to eat it. Yes, that happens more often than I care to admit. But I sit and I try to think if I have anything worthy to share. And most times, I don’t. So I don’t write one day. And one day turns to two, and that stretches into a week, and before I know it, a month has gone by and I haven’t shared a word. Because I don’t have anything much to say. Oh, I’m doing stuff, and I do have topics I’d like to write about, but most people have an idea of me: that I’m fairly happy-go-lucky, apart from my occasional outburst on fast lane slow drivers and what have you. The truth is, sometimes I feel like I have bees in my head searching for a place to build a hive. It’s a relentless buzzing as they dart here, there, and yon, smacking into the sides of my skull and flying into each other because their radar doesn’t work in such close quarters at warp speed. Occassionally it’…
