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Category: Family
We ain’t right
Thankful, Day 6 I think I’ve talked about divisions before. Like, when you’re having a conversation with someone (or maybe just one in your head), about when something happened. I’ll often say, “Let’s see. That was when I was working at the Co-Op the first time.” So that means between 2001 & 2005. Or I might say, “That was after I got married.” Okay, so after 2012. Y’all probably use the birth of your children to figure stuff out. Our biggest life changing moment should be the day we are saved. That is a truly life altering day if you’re living right. So this day is one of extreme importance as well, a day that lives in my mind as a mark on time. It is the day I lost my Uncle Dale. One year I have been without his guidance, his stories, his pestering, his laughs. One year has passed since I’ve told him any tall tales of my own, or eaten his grilled chicken and deer steaks, or performed a requested chore. One whole year I’ve lived with a new hole in my heart. As he would say, “All I know to tell you is you’re gonna have to get tough, Pilgrim.” But all I’ve ever been was wimpy little girl. However, in the spirit of being thankful, I can say…
If my Uncle Dale were still alive, I would be out there swapping lies with him right now. He’s not, so it’s on me to tell this one. And as much as I wish it was a lie, it ain’t. From 2002-2009, when the weather permitted, and TVA was running “big water” (two turbines) at Norris, we’d go fishin’ for rainbow trout on my day off. We’d set off early, before school traffic, and be humming down interstate 75 as the fog lifted off the limestone mountains. I’d be nodding, hopeful that the fishing yield would be worth sacrificing one of my only days to sleep in. Fords get one thing right- they’ve got a heater that blows hotter than the hubs of hell. Combine that with Newstalk radio, the hum of the throaty diesel, the smell of coffee, and you’ve got a recipe to lull Amy right on to Dreamland. We’d put in at the canoe ramp right below the dam, and walk the trailer through the bollards. I’d load our life vests and pop the seats up, readying for embarkment. Uncle Dale would climb in, get the trolling motor cranked, and let it warm up while he tied on his first plug of the day. I’d stand there holding the rope, yawning and shivering in the mist the Clinch is always shrouded…
He called me Pilgrim. We shared a love of peach milkshakes, pickles, peanut M&M’s, home grown tomatoes, blueberry anything, and we’d fight over Shirley Pitner’s stack cake. He taught me how to throw a frisbee, cast a line, shoot a variety of weapons, train a dog, clean my glasses, and identify trees in any season. Oh, and the best advice he ever gave me that I evoke multiple times a day (and it shows): “Eat all you can, every time you can, ’cause there ain’t no tellin’ what might happen before you can eat again.” We listened to Rush Limbaugh and Patsy Cline when I rode in his truck. We watched Star Trek and The Twilight Zone when I stayed with them when I was young. He bought me a microscope, and my first sleeping bag, but not the My Little Pony kite from McDonalds. And we have never let him forget it. My first (and last!) deer hunting trip was under his watchful eyes and sharp tongue. I couldn’t do anything right, but he’d sometimes concede that I was doing alright for a wimpy little girl. This was said in jest, and primarily to get me riled so I could do whatever it was I thought I couldn’t.He thought I should wear heels to work every day and that I should stay redheaded.He mowed my yard and…
I am sitting here, before this device, wondering how to say it. There are times in your life you live outside yourself. Some take you by surprise and take your breath and you wonder how it could be happening. Other times you know the day was inevitable and unavoidable but you still kinda float along, above and on the periphery. That’s where I am now. Today was the first day of deer season (muzzleloader). Today, and all first days of deer season for the last sixty or so years, you could find my Uncle Dale (“Tiny” to many) in the woods. “The deer woods”, he liked to say. And so my uncle spent his last day on this Earth where he was happiest. It is difficult for me to be SAD, because he passed away exactly where he wanted to, doing what he loved best. I cannot be angry, because he taught me to have respect, and he’s not here to argue his case. He would win, regardless. I will not be resentful because God took him, I will be grateful he didn’t languish in a hospital bed. He’d spent his due time in those over the years. I am broken-hearted and disappointed I didn’t get more tales on video. I am bewildered that the man lived through what he did and found a way to spin the incidents into a spellbinding story isn’t here to keep telling all he knew. My…
Sometimes I have words, sometimes I don’t. But I know that by writing it, I’m much more likely to get it right than if I try to say it with my mouth. I usually have an idea of what I want to talk about before I sit down to write. Sometimes I have to look at writing prompts to kick-start my motor. Since I’m not getting out a whole lot, I’m limited on subjects. Y’all can only read so much about my dog. One of my favorite columnists could benefit from this notion. I sometimes think if I have to read one more article about baseball or his dead daddy (who’s been gone way longer than he was ever here) I’m gonna send him a list of other stuff to write about. Just when I can’t take any more, he’ll pop off one about pound cake or some old lady eating alone at Cracker Barrel or something, and I’m good for another month or so. Anyway….yesterday I wrote about the herbicide thing. Well, really it was about women needing to pull themselves up by their flip-flop straps and believe in themselves what needs to be done, can be done. BY THEM. Sure, it’s nice to have a man around for the gunky parts of life, like plumbing, or the parts you just don’…
Wouldn’t it be nice to remember things as you wished they happened, but not as the actually did? Well, one of the small joys of being a tortured writer, is that I can rewrite history to my liking and visit it at will. I’m not usually one to bide my time. I like carpe diem and all that jazz. Dessert first. Explosive. But that’s not always wise, as I’ve come to learn. I found out about the indiscretion through his own stupidity. Isn’t that how it goes? These cocky men, underestimating the intuition of the woman they’ve been sharing a life with. They also tend to underestimate our cunning vengeance, thinking we are much to sweet to react with such murderous contempt. And so, after I talked to my attorney and realized that, yet again, it had not served me well to be a self-sufficient woman for so long. Because I had always had a steady income, and the lodgings originated in my family, and we had no children, I would get little to nothing from the man who had so easily taken my trust and reputation and totally wrecked the illusion I had of our marriage. I decided I would get it all, anyway. And the sooner the better, because no doubt he was squandering every dime on that crack whore. It was coming up on my birthday, and of course I preferred to celebrate out…
My Grandmother, even though I didn’t realize it until she was gone. Not really. She divorced her cheating lying husband, even though she had a new house to pay for and two kids to bring up. She worked night shift at a factory and still found time to go dancing in her gold shoes. She had her hair done every Friday morning, smoked Marlboros, wore Chanel #5, and caught her granddaughter a toad in the well house. She carried a .38 revolver, glued on false eyelashes every day, and raised Angelfish. She loved fresh long stemmed red roses but always killed houseplants. She cheered for the Vols and the Cowboys and cussed like a sailor when Alabama scored or she dropped food in the floor. She would drink bourbon while canning green beans. She was a registered Democrat that voted Republican most of the time. She nursed her baby brother to health and took care of her mother till the end. She counseled her granddaughter and made her stand up straight and become a well rounded woman through beauty pageants, guitar lessons, and clogging competitions. The only thing I ever knew her to be scared of was snakes. So here’s to all single mothers and dads. I really don’t know how you do it. I can barely feed and raise myself, let alone another human…
Dear Grandmother, You’ve been gone eleven years {eleven years!!! I had to count twice, then looked up a picture of your gravestone to make myself believe it}. I guess that’s right. But today doesn’t mark the day of your passing, it is your birthday. No, I didn’t forget. I just haven’t slowed down long enough today string words together in remembrance. I woke up, and it was Pearl Harbor Day, which equates to your birthday. Pearl Harbor day didn’t really resonate with me until a few years ago, when I was having a conversation with a young adult who didn’t have much to remember about 9/11. And that floored me. I couldn’t believe that it was possible to be alive and not recount the horror of that day in full detail. I digress. It’s a clear night, the moon is half full, and it’s cold enough to see my breath. You’d like it. I have so much to tell you, everything has changed since you’ve been gone. But you know, you haunted me for awhile. Why’d you quit, anyway? I knew it was you the whole time. I guess you moved on because it quit being fun. How do you like the new floors? I’m certain you hate the yellow wall. And probably my painting, too. It’s too abstract…
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