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Browsing Tag: #appalachia
Deep breath. Where do I begin? “Begin at the beginning,” the King said gravely, “and go on till you come to the end: then stop.” ~Lewis Carrol, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I will apologize in advance to my long time readers, for I will have to repeat stories most of you all have heard before to get this all told. So let me begin by introducing you to Joe Woods. This is a little piece I wrote on him a couple of years ago for the store’s Facebook page. It paints a more descriptive picture than his concise obituary (not that there’s anything wrong with his obituary, the family is grieving and has their hands full) MEET YOUR CO-OP!! This week is the 3rd edition, & we couldn’t pick a more iconic figure than Joe Woods. I sat down with Joe around 10:30 this morning. Well, “cornered” would be a more appropriate term. He is always in high demand. I was able to extract some facts about his life over the next 45 minutes, between customers stopping by to chat and tell him how good it is to see him. Joe was born & raised in West Tennessee, not the land of milk & honey, but of cotton & pit barbeque. Joe has never been satisfied with what passes for barbeque on this end of the state. He graduated high school in 1944, and was…
My oldest friend turned 91 this past July. This is a picture from his 90th birthday. Joe Woods was super intimidating when I went to work for the Co-op in 2001. He seemed gruff, no-nonsense, and had the demeanor of the remarkably smart. For someone as wet behind the ears as I was, the best I could hope for was to stay out of the way. But as you all know, Joe is none of the above, other than the exceptionally smart part. He loves nothing better than a good joke-as long as it’s not on him. He helped me approximately 14,788,923 times during my years there. He probably repeated everything he told me at least twice. I still can’t tell you how to kill duckweed in your pond without killing your fish. I do know that you better put the lime to your garden and water in the morning if you don’t want your tomatoes to get “the rot”. I also learned to never, ever, ever ride with him, even if it’s just to Frank Allen’s. I depended on Joe daily, and I never thought twice about calling his cell phone if he was gone to the post office or “checking on some corn” out in Wears Valley. That’s why he gave it to me. And I was his IT person. This meant I showed him how…
I was taught to lie at a young age. I also had my butt busted at a young age for lying about the least little thing. It did not occur to me until this morning, at 38 and a half years old, that I was brought up a liar. I was frying bacon and eggs for a sandwich. I thought, “Oh, goody! We can use our new Christmas plates since this is just a sandwich and we don’t need big plates.” I then went over to the table and felt their heft as I lifted them. Maybe this wasn’t such a bright idea. I broke my new turtle glass the other day, and I didn’t want to risk these so early in their life. What if I couldn’t replace them? I mean, they’re just Wal-Mart plates but I really like them. No, not the Pioneer Woman ones they’re pushing. These are the Twelve Days of Christmas. I could just see me washing them and their soapy slickness slipping through my grasp and thirteen million pieces as it went everywhere. So I set the plate back down and thought, “Lets not and say we did.” Which. Is. A. LIE. But that’s a passable lie, since it was always used in jest. Like when I wanted to do something that nobody else did, like go to the store, or…
November Writing Challenge Day 25 Smoke. Not an easy one to write about, as we’re nearing the one year mark for the Chimney Tops Fire, but I’ll do my best. Last year on this day there was smoke in the valley. There was smoke on the hills and hollers, both. There was smoke everywhere. It’s a year later and nobody can believe it. Friends from out of town ask how things are…and I don’t remember until I’m reminded. Life has gone on, pretty much as scheduled, since summer and green once again took over the hillsides. For me, anyway. But I’m not in Gatlinburg every day. I’m not in Gatlinburg at all. I don’t see the devastation or the rebuilding in person. I’m not depending on the generosity of others to help me face another day as I struggle to have half as much as I used to. I was talking to one of my friends who works for dispatch the other day, and she brought up a new kind of post traumatic stress disorder that hadn’t even occurred to me. People who were right there in the smoke and the fire and the mayhem are having trouble being around it again. As you would. So here we are at the anniversary, and everybody’s memories are being jarred again and again by news…
November Writing Challenge, Day 5 Holy. How fitting that it’s Sunday. But then, not everybody worships on Sunday. Not everyone worships at all. I’ve fallen out of church, myself, I’m sorry to say. The reason isn’t because I’ve had second thoughts on religion. No, nothing like that. More like laziness. And I guess the best way for me to keep today holy is to stay away from other people. Because, face it, people annoy me. So anyway. I’ve known holy rollers and I’ve known spiritual people who have more compassion in them than people who are self proclaimed born again Christians who go to church every time the doors are open. Of course, we all know sitting in church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car. Of course I should be witnessing to readers instead of bashing people who are probably doing more than me to get right. So. I’ll tell you about the time I was baptised in the Spirit. Never heard of it? Neither had I. (Mark 1:8 touches on it, along with a few other passages). We were attending this little church in South Knoxville-in Vestal-to beat all…Shug likes the tiny churches. And I will admit to feeling more in touch with the Lord in them little places where your…
I didn’t want to go to work today. Sometimes I have an ominous feeling on the anniversary of September 11th, those are the days I keep my bug out bag within arm’s reach. Sometimes I’m despondent, dwelling on the lives lost starting with this fateful day through the War on Terrorism. And sometimes I’m just mad. Today I was dejected, thinking about how useless it all is. And the hurricane, on top of all that. And yes, it could have been a lot worse, but is that how we’re going to live our lives? It was going to be dreary and wet and cold. So I just wanted to loll in bed and read, and kinda forget the rest of the world existed for one day. In short, I wanted to be selfish. On this day. This day. THIS day. The day when selfishness was banished from society in one of the hardest cities on Earth. When strangers kissed on rooftops, thankful for their lives. When emergency personnel rushed into burning, tumbling buildings just to save one more life, knowing they probably couldn’t save their own. When the President of the United States of America kept reading to kindergarteners after receiving the worst news possible whispered in his ear. So yeah, I could get out of bed. I could do this. And so I drove to work, thinking about people in New York City and Washington 16 years…
I decided the other day I was tired of sunshiny, waxing nostalgic posts about the South. My beloved, mosquito-infested, sun-tea South. I wanted death and mayhem. It was a Stephen King kind of day. But instead of reading one of his tomes, I thought I’d try my hand at my own. There’s a little hotel in Seymour, my hometown, that’s been around since before me. Seymour isn’t a destination; it’s a place you pass through to get somewhere better. We have no attractions, unless you count McMahan’s Nursery. Generally, if you come to Seymour, you’re visiting relatives, and if they’re not crazy, you’re staying with them. If space is tight, or they don’t have a pool, you’ll stay in Sevierville. Preferably close to the Cracker Barrel. I digress. The name of aforementioned hotel is The Wayoma Hotel. I don’t know what it means, I’ve never really thought much about it. It used to have a teeny tiny pool out front, surrounded by a utilitarian chain link fence, but when I started doing my Google-based research I saw that it has been filled in and now serves as a “playground”. Read: patch of browning fescue where you might walk your dog. I’ve had it fixed in my head forever that this was a no-tell ho-tell, you…
Inferno: A place or region that resembles hell. Two weeks ago the community was told that the state’s call record for November 28th had mysteriously vanished without a trace. Sound familiar? I won’t bring national politics into this, but it sounds suspiciously like another time citizens demanded answers that for some reason, couldn’t be supplied. And now we have the EMA director who was in his position for eight years taking a Operations Director position with a construction company. After a lifetime spent in emergency services, this is unheard of. Something tells me he knows the government has failed. He was the one on the phone with the state, pleading with them to issue an evacuation. The call was dropped due to cell phone towers being engulfed by flames and the evacuation warning never came. The state reasons they didn’t want to send citizens deeper into the inferno, which is a reasonable excuse…however, not doing anything proved to be just as lethal. Some people in the community are saying drop it so we can move forward. We’d be glad to, as soon as we know what happened. Or rather, what didn’t happen. How do you make your peace without answers? Regardless of what officials were telling people in the county, one thing is for sure: 911 was handling it the best they could. For all their training, nothing could prepare them for the night…
For the Mountain People I’ve been whittling on this since the day after. It seems I run a full mill of emotions as I work through it. It’s disjointed and twisty and repetitive but I’m leaving it as it is for now because that’s what it’s been like here-confusing and excessive and unsure. Maybe one day I’ll come back to it and get it right, but for now it will have to be enough to get it out. It’s been seven months and five days since the sun rose and illuminated what remained of Gatlinburg. Seven months and five days later…it is raining. And rain is appropriate. We’ll still take all we can get. Even on the Fourth of July. I say hooray because it will put a damper on fireworks activity. Fireworks start fires. I never TRULY believed that until my days at dispatch. Here’s what happens: It’s high summer, which generally means it’s been fairly dry. People drink all day, out in the sun, then they play with fireworks. They may possibly even hurt their fool selves, or the kids who don’t obey orders to “Get back!” (or maybe the kids were never even warned, or maybe it’s just bad luck). The dogs are barking, or howling, or quivering in the corner. The cattle and horses are…
About a week ago, there was a post on the Sevierville Speaks Out Facebook page. A gentleman was requesting local writers message him their word rate to write a local article, 2000-4000 words, twice a week. I was tagged by four people. So I thought, I’ll humor them. “Good morning” I wrote, using his name. “I was tagged by a few people on your post in Sevierville Speaks Out. I’m a native Sevier County resident. I worked at the Co-op downtown for 13 years, and now work as a secretary for {I’m not publicly announcing my location to potential stalkers}. I’ve met a lot of local color…some might say I AM the local color. 😁 I’ll be completely honest, I don’t have a rate per word. I have a blog that I started last year. Please feel free to check it out and you can get a clear idea of my style. Amysappalachia.com I have written two articles for our local fair book, an article for 911 magazine, and the feature for the first installment of Sevierville Living. I would be interested in learning more about your position. Thank you.” The message I got in response five days later was clipped and standardized. “Hello. We offer 3 cents a word. If you are still interested, please send you name, address, and a sample writing the 3rd person…
