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Category: Another Day in Appalachia
Stories that didn’t fit anywhere else.
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’…
I once owned the best horse in the world. It’s true, everybody wanted him. He was a perfect blood bay, no markings. Oh, he had about four white hairs where a star would have formed if hairs multiplied like fungi, but they don’t, so no star. He was 15.2 hands, and finely muscled from carrying me around for a minimum of two hours every day. I fed him an all-grain mix, heavy with molasses, cut with a bag of 12% sweet feed because I hadn’t been educated. And of course, I added a supplement for hoof growth, one that’s probably not around anymore, replaced by a fancier, daily-dose, with more attractive packaging, and marketed on all the right websites. I fed a supplement derived from seaweed and it worked great but smelled terrible. But my beautiful Saddlebred consumed it willingly. This horse would walk through fire for me. He was spirited, and every time I lost my balance, I could feel him shift to accommodate by oaf-like tendencies. He tried to help me look graceful. But I sometimes still wound up on the ground, and he would stop, and look down at me pityingly…maybe with a touch of disdain. I’d dust my breeches off and climb back on, shaking my head at myself. He was beautiful, and people would stop their cars in the middle of the road to watch us. I’m…
There are a lot of rings in rivers. There, under a layer of silt and mud, a multitude of diamond rings gradually becoming covered with sludge and moss, growing dingier and more tarnished by the day. These rings were once worn and cherished by a host of good women. Or maybe they belonged to cruel women. Women with pure hearts and vicious tempers. Women with big smiles and twisted souls. Women who put supper on the table every night and mopped the floor every Saturday morning. Or perhaps she just sat on the couch, talking on the phone and eating bonbons. Maybe she had an agenda the whole time. But I would guarantee you, the rings in the water were loved. As were the men that gave them to the women who slung them. Their rings were never taken off till the day they were. But it’s not the diamond’s fault. The diamond had one job: to sparkle. At first I didn’t write about it because it was all I could do to get dressed and drag myself to work, forget about extracting words from the shredded pieces of my heart and telling the world my woes. Then I didn’t write because to write it made it real, and I didn’t want to see it in black and white. I didn’t want to see it at all. I wallowed in the land of delusion, where I didn’…
It’s been awhile since I’ve written one of these. Find joy where you can. I like when the sun shines on snow and makes it sparkle. I like Christmas decorations, except Santa. I like Johnny Depp’s movies. I’d like an opportunity to find out if I’d like him in person. I like reading real books, except when it’s dark- then I like my Kindle. I like trips. Short ones, long ones, on a plane or in a car. To the city, to the sea. I like trees and I will cry if deprived of them for an extended period. I like magnolias and live oaks best of all. I like dogs with spots. I like drinking cold beer on warm nights outside. I like seeing 4-wheel drives that look like they’re actually taken off-road. I like corny jokes. I like being near water. I like all the items on the Chickalay menu. Except that kale stuff. That should go without saying. And the macaroni, which I have not tried. I like watching groundhogs. I like driving when there’s not much traffic and the road spreads out before me. I like going 100. I like flowers, but not the common ones. Keep your roses and daisies and babies breath. And your carnations, too. Bring me daffodils and dahlias and foxglove and lilies. I like people that tell the truth. I like my red…
I’ve been having that anxious, at ends, nothing-is-quite-right feeling for some time now. When in truth, everything is better than it has been for awhile. But my brain never has paid much attention to black and white facts. I had been blaming my coffee; I’ve taken it back up in earnest with the temperature recently plummeting. And I’m glad of it, make no mistake. but then I got to thinking. I haven’t written anything in quite some time. So I decided to write. But it’s a mine field. Nothing feels like a safe topic. Do I pour my guts out and make myself cry? That would be stupid. Do I slash someone else’s guts out and hope I make them cry? That’s not very nice. So I’m just gonna start, innocuously enough, with fog. Fog is appropriate for these -ber months. I prefer it only in October, though, when it’s setting you up for the spooky holiday at the end of the month. And it just occurred to me–wouldn’t it be nice if ALL holidays fell on the last day of the month? That way, you’ve got the enitre month to prepare and celebrate early, if you wish. You don’t have to keep up with if it’s the first Monday of the month, or the third Thursday, or anything…
I’ve been poisoning the ants at work for some time. I can’t tell that there have been any long term effects. I KNOW Terro works, I’ve used it for years at home and recommended it to countless people. I have had to hear people groan that they’re only feeding them, because you don’t actually get the enjoyment of watching their little bodies keel over, as it is a bait- they carry it back to their Motherland to be put in the catacombs and clutches for the entire colony to divide and consume. Socialism, I say. So anyway, about a week ago, I had stuck some Eggos in the toaster and topped them with blueberries. One can’t have fresh blueberry waffles without whipped cream, so I was squirting it artfully around when I ran out. You know what happens when you reach the end of a can of Redi Whip? I’ll tell you, it ain’t pretty. You don’t even get a warning. Everything is going fine, and then it suddenly isn’t. The little globs of cream shoot haphazardly all over the place. It was on the counter, in the sink, probably dripping off the cabinet. I had whipped cream dotting my arms, my shirt, my glasses. But I’m not one to let a little mess stand between me and breakfast. I went ahead and ate. When I took my…
Out my window, I gaze upon a church, a pink house, an alarming number of squirrels, and a yard that is often in need of a cut. I count the rabbits that frolic, and pray the stray cats aren’t nearby. I keep a close watch on the weather, because I seem to serve as the local weatherman, and look for my buddy, the black lab, that lives two doors down. I can’t complain about the temperature yet, we’re hovering at a stable 73°. Pollen is present, but it’s raining frequently enough to keep it beat down. The redbuds are in full bloom, the dogwoods are just beginning, and the daffodils are quickly expiring. The birds sing all day long. It’s quiet, for the most part. I’m near the library, and the school, and the police station. It feels safe in my cozy space. It’s not a town where many walk, but I do. Not necessarily to get anywhere in particular, just to enjoy the day while I can. Away from my backyard where I look out at a church, a pink house, and a multitude of squirrels. I go to see the cherry tree, and the red tulips down the road, and the old man at the corner sitting in his lawn chair with his wooden cane and mesh back hat. He always speaks and remarks upon the weather. There goes a rabbit. When the phone…
The Montgomery Vindicator was a newspaper ran out of Sevierville, Tennessee from the late 1800’s through the 1960s when it combined with another local newspaper. I am told it operated in the Hatcher’s Cleaners building downtown. My intention when I set out on this particular blogging journey was to tell you that bit, and then turn it into several stories, the first being a fictional newspaper story, then in recurring posts, the Montgomery Vindicator being the name of a firearm passed down from generation to generation since the Texas Revolution, then whatever else came to mind. Perhaps a Judge whose nickname was The Vindicator. Or something. I first learned about the Vindicator during a side conversation at library board the other night. It immediately intrigued me and set my mind a-swirl. Early this morning I thought I’d start the telling of it and Googled “Montgomery Vindicator Sevierville” to get all my facts straight. One of the first links was for “some death notices from 1897-1901”. In case you didn’t already know it, I am a sucker for obituaries. They frequently let me down. I need more details! I assume the worst anyway, you may as well appease me. I’m already thinking it. I am also a fanatic about local history. Well, really, any Southern States history. Okay, okay, any history. Except maybe China’s or something. But lemme tell you, I have been…
