I know....

"You'll go down these roads, and the devil talks to you: 'Nobody loves you, nobody cares. If you'd just quit...you'd have a lot more money. If you got off the field and got a job, you could drive new cars and have new houses and have everything everybody else has got.' I hear these voices every day of my life."

Mike Ferree, traveling Evangelist

4th Grade

I wrote this song to celebrate the 80's and also people well on their way into Middle Agedom who feel the need to act like utter babies when ending relationships:


Why can’t we just talk like grown-ups?
When did this become fourth grade?
How did I get back here to 1989?
Just because your manners chose to fade.
Hell, while we’re at it let’s go sell lemonade!
Yeah, open a little stand on the corner where we sell lemonade.

Go ahead, forget my number.
I’ll pretend that I don’t care.
And try to forget that I loved you
And I would have followed you anywhere.
I would have followed you anywhere.
But since we’re acting like kids, I’ll just get my teddy bear.

I can forget your laughter.
I can forget your eyes.
I’ll even forget your daughter,
But not the silence you gave me for goodbye.
No, not the silence that stood in for goodbye.

Guess I should do my bangs up pretty?
Bust out my scrunch-socks in neon green?
Trade in my Honda for a Big Wheel?
Put "He-Man" on the TV screen?
How about "Transformers" on the TV screen?
I love "She-Ra" on my TV screen...

I just wanted to talk like grown-ups.
I’m sorry you didn’t, too.

But when you start talking, there’s one thing to remember:


I’m rubber....


Guess who’s glue!

Mother Of Mercy

Check this out. It has nothing to do with my blog, but everything to do with ridiculous Suzy-Homemaker-Gone-Awry recipes from the 70's. And it made me laugh so hard I almost got kicked out of the library.

http://www.candyboots.com/wwcards.html


Thank you, Max. Thank you.

My new little brother, Chris. People looked at us funny when I introduced him as my brother and we LOVED it! 

It's BACON!!!

That's the pig I've come to love . . . 

I Have A Cannabalistic Pig.

Leaving Cincinnati that Tuesday morning, the rain pounded April and I as we hugged in the driveway. I had left my windows open all night through the storm and braced myself for a wet ass ride all the way to Northern Ohio. We must have looked like we were crying as we got into our cars, but we knew it was just raindrops and there was no reason for sadness.

I was nervous driving to Sandusky; I had no idea what to expect. I was still amazed - still am amazed, really - that Earl, Lisa and Chris would open their home to me indefinitely like they did. I knew I would have my own room, and a home base for awhile, which was a novelty at that point. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll ever take having a roof over my head for granted ever again.

From what Earl said there were a lot of jobs opening up during the fall season. I wanted all of them. Seriously, I wanted to work five jobs, just so I could raise the most amount of money in the least amount of time. For the first time in months, I was hungry to work.

Sandusky didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet, weather-wise. A torrential downpour followed me from Cincinnati to Earl’s doorstep and made itself at home for a few days. Still, they say that rain on a wedding day is good luck and I hoped rain on a moving day would garner the same.

I managed to get lost, as I have many times since, trying to find my way around Sandusky that first day. I was kidding myself thinking I could find Earl’s house from the highway, so instead I pulled into a gas station and finally broke down to call. "Um, hi, can you come get me?"

The summer heat was intense, making my windows fog, but I still saw the silver-blue Chevy Cobalt pull up in my rearview as I scribbled in my notebook. Christopher jumped out and ran over to my passenger window, dually noting the seventeen tons of crap in my car. "HEY, JESSICA!!!!!" I could hear him through the glass.
"Hi, sweetheart!" I rolled down the window, letting the rain in.
"My dad and Lisa said I could ride with you!" he cried.
"Awesome! Just let me move some of this stuff," I said, trying to clear the passenger seat. It was more than a small chore - I had grocery bags, CDs, maps, reciepts, water bottles, books, a couple flashlights, the remnants of more than a few McDonald’s visits, and a laptop all in his way.

Christopher surveyed the damage like a champ, standing there in the pouring rain and saying, "Um, okay, let me just go back and ride with them." I continued to throw garbage onto my clothes in the backseat in the hopes he’d change his mind, but he is such a nervous little guy, most likely the result of his ADHD medication. He seems to live in constant fear of being in trouble, like he’s very aware of his condition and is trying to protect people from himself. Throughout living with him, I’ve become able to tell when he has taken his meds and when he’s skipped, as soon as I look at him or hear his voice. And I can honestly say, I love them both, Dr. Jekyll and Christopher Hyde. When he’s on meds, he’s polite, wary, suspicious and sensitive. When he doesn’t take his pill, he exudes a confidence I can’t help but adore. Sometimes I wish I could blend the two together.

He climbed back into the Cobalt and I followed them down Columbus Avenue, simultaneously anxious and relieved. I was going home.

Lisa asked me later that afternoon how long I was planning on staying. "I don’t know," I said. "Maybe ‘til I make, like, 800 bucks."
"You think that’s all you need?"
"Yeah, I’m looking to be out of here in about a month." I was so anxious to get back out on the road, and even though I claimed Sandusky as a new home, I was petrified of getting too comfortable and never making it back out.
"Well, with gas the way it is," Lisa said, "I’d feel better if you left with about two grand. You can stay as long as you need to, but don’t you think that sounds more like a usable number?"
She had a point. She’s so good at that.
"Yes," I said, almost dejectedly. I was still so mad at myself for running out of money, but slightly proud that I was starting over in a new place rather than heading back home for Maryland.
"Well, we’ll help you in any way that we can," she said.
"You already have."

Earl and Lisa’s driveway is a menagerie of vehicles. There’s the Ford truck, the Cobalt, Lisa’s Taurus, an old Dodge, and my Civic (the token Asian). Back in June, when I first met Earl, there was also a red Ford Lightning, a racing truck, and since moving in the Taurus has been replaced with a Mustang convertible. Not to mention the Pontiac Grand Am, which belongs to Earl’s daughter Danielle, which has to double park the Dodge and the Civic, if everyone is at home. Meaning, my parking space was on the front lawn. "You’re killing my grass," Earl would tease me.
"Well, tell your pig to stop fertilizing the carpet and start fertilizing the yard!" I told him.

Yes, the pig. For those of you who have been reading this blog for awhile, or who have the time and patience to dig through the archives (which even I don’t), you may remember my last trip to Sandusky, in July, when Earl and I fell in love with the pigs at the Catawba Island petting zoo. We both said we would buy one someday. I meant it. He actually did it.

Well, Lisa bought the pig for him as a present, a little black one they named Bacon. That pig became the love of my life. I couldn’t be in the house without him crawling into my lap, mainly because he quickly figured out that I was a sucker and would feed him scraps of any snack. He loved to be scratched, and I just loved to have a pig, so if I was home, we were inseparable. I started working at Ruby Tuesday’s in the mall and would go home on my breaks to feed and walk him. I would brag about him to my new co-workers and think of little things to buy him, like special lotions for his dry skin. Bacon was the coolest new toy ever.

One morning Lisa was making breakfast and a piece of bacon was dropped on the floor. Bacon pounced on it before anyone could stop him. It was like a slow-motion scene from a movie - everyone saw the bacon fall, everyone looked at the pig, the pig started to move, and everyone tried to stop him, going, "NNNNOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!", but to no avail. Bacon ate the bacon and loved it. He kept snorting and rooting around for more. We were all disgusted. But ten minutes later, we laughed.

The only problem with Bacon was his inability to be house-broken. Lisa suspects that he lived too long at the petting zoo, being able to go wherever he pleased, so it was too late to teach him to only go outside or in a litter box by the time he was brought to our home. Every day was like one step forward and two steps back, to the point where Earl and Lisa were at their wit’s end. "You’re taking that pig with you when you go," Earl said to me one day. "That’s your pig now."
"Fine by me."

Bacon went everywhere - in the kitchen, behind the fireplace, under my bed, in the living room. One day he went on a pile of clean laundry. It was really bad. Still, I adored him and talked about him incessantly to anyone who would listen, and I dreamed about the day that I packed up the Civic and headed back out on the road, my pet Bacon at my side.

And I loved my new home - living with Earl, Chris, and Lisa was fabulous. I fit right in. And once I started making new friends, everything fell into place. I had a family, a pig, a job, and a posse. I had everything I needed. Except money.

testing, testing 1 2 3, why is my blog not letting me post?

Listen To Your Heart?

Yes.


Lately, so many people have been telling me to stop listening to my heart and listen to my head instead. To them, I leave this quote of Ray Bradbury's, courtesey of Amanda:


"If we listened to our intellect, we'd never have a love affair. We'd never have a friendship. We'd never go into business, because we'd be cynical. Well, that's nonsense. You've got to jump off cliffs all the time and build your wings on the way down."

If I'd listened to my intellect, you wouldn't be reading this blog.


Affectionately signed,

A Wing-Builder

Beautiful April. Damn that girl, she can wear anything and look good. 

Thank god for wigs so I know NEVER to get my hair done like this. 

One of April's dogs, Kayla, bit me because she thought I was a burglar. Right after she bit me, she sat down and licked my hand. I love that dog, but she's crazy. 

The Politics of Suicide.

Making the way back to the highway out of Barbourville, the Blue Ridge Mountains were behind me. The sun was dead ahead, making me wish I hadn’t left my shades on the driver’s seat and then sat on them. When I think of all the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches I could have eaten with the money I’ve spent on replacement sunglasses on this trip, my mouth waters.

The drive north through Kentucky was uneventful. I passed billboards for the As Seen On TV outlet that read, "FLOBIES! FLOBIES! FLOBIES!" I didn’t stop. The only sign that really got me excited was the one that read, "Cincinnati 120 Miles". I made it before the sun dipped past the skyline.

As I drove into Lexington snippets of my own writing flashed through my head, about what a clusterfuck Lexington traffic is. That Sunday, what with the Bristol NASCAR race and late summer Ohio River fishing traffic, was no exception. Still, it was nice to see some slightly-familiar landmarks - the Northern Kentucky water tower, the double-decker bridge across the river, the cheerfully patriotic sign declaring, "OHIO WELCOMES YOU!"

"I hope Ohio welcomes me," I said aloud. "It’s my new home."

I drove straight into the grid of downtown streets, knowing each one. "Right on Second, left on Vine, turn at the fountain, and there’s my parking garage!" I secretly wished that Maryland Brian was along for the ride with me, if only so I could amaze him with my newfound sense of direction.
"Aren’t you the same girl that got lost in her own town on the way to Target, like, five months ago?!" he would shout.
"Uh-huh!" I would nod emphatically, making sure not to hit anyone as I turned into the garage.

I parked in what I’ve come to call "My Spot" in the Vine Street Garage, just to the left and down the ramp. Then it was up the elevator to the lobby of the Commerce Building, waving to the young security guard. "Hey, I haven’t seen ya in awhile!" he said.
"I know, I’ve been out of town! Good to see you again!" Walking up the street, I had the same thought I did months ago. "I fit here."

I passed the juice bar, but didn’t see my irate Iranian friend. Next to it was the Skyline Chili where I had gotten sick on the Cincy staple. I passed the suit store that displayed the pimp-tastic cotton candy pink suit, hat, vest and shoes in the window. I passed Madonna’s, where I had become fully indoctrinated as "One Of The Guys" by schooling Kurt in front of Kevin. I came upon McFadden’s and there she was, my sweet little April talking on the phone. As I came through the door, she whispered, "I’ll have to call you back," before jumping off her stool. We hugged and shrieked like little girls, getting dirty looks from the tough guys at the bar.
"It’s dead tonight," she said. "But it’s cool. Hey, when I get out of here do you wanna go over to Kentucky and hang out with Matthew?" Matthew is her boyfriend, literally her other half.
"Sure, I still need to meet him, to make sure I approve."
"Cool, I’ll drive."

I regaled her with tales of the goat races, of the Badlands, Arkansas, armadillos, whittling - anything to keep from asking her the questions I didn’t want to ask. Namely, "what happened with your dad?"

Finally, in the car on the way to Kentucky, I couldn’t hold it anymore. "What happened?’
"Well," she started, "he was under a lot of stress. He was being investigated by his company for illegal use of funds...."
She continued on and I listened, awestruck and horrified, as she recounted the way his head had morphed from the force of the bullet, how she had wanted to touch him but stopped herself. "His ears were too close together, like they’d been pushed around his head. He looked so thin. Since then I haven’t been able to watch movies with gore, I freak out really bad. It was right in the front yard. My brother built a cross that’s there now, I can show you when we go home."
"That would be great."

An interesting phenomenon is the aftermath of suicide. The family is reeling, with so many questions that will remain unanswered. You want to comfort, but have no frame of reference. You resist the urge to regurgitate the usual funeral quips - "He’s in a better place." "At least now he’s not in any physical pain." "At least he led a full, happy life." With suicide, that’s impossible. You can’t reaffirm the fact that the person wasn’t taken too young. You can’t reassure someone that their loved one was called by God. You can only listen. You can never, ever hope to answer those questions. And no matter how hard you wish, "I’m so sorry" isn’t one of them.

Still, I listened. I listened all the way over the bridge, in the McDonald’s as we pooled our pitiful funds to buy some Dollar Menu fries, and in the parking lot of the bar. "The good thing is he put in his will that the house would be paid off and all of our debts would be taken care of if he died, suicide or otherwise," April said as she parked the car. "Because for the months leading up to his death we were afraid we were going to lose the house and Brandon." Brandon, at age 9, is the family’s third foster child, and the only one who hadn’t been officially adopted yet.

April continued. "When we go back to my place, you’ll notice a lot of my stuff is gone from my room. My parents basically told all of us, keep only what you can pack in a box, because we’re going to lose the house. I think my dad figured dying was the only way to make sure we were taken care of. I really hate saying it, but I’m starting to understand his reasons. And I’m starting to see the good in it. Of course I’d rather have him here, but I understand why his thought process led him to do what he did."

April’s statements prove that the politics of grieving are a Catch-22 in themselves. In another conversation with her since then, she mentioned going to a support group for people who have lost family members to death, suicide or otherwise. "When I finally met another woman who was there because of suicide, I was like, ‘Yay! Someone else!’, even though that sounds really bad," she said. "I feel awful for saying that, but it was a small comfort, y’know?"
I do know. Not firsthand, but it’s easy to see where saying, "There have actually been a few positive things as a result of my father shooting himself in the head," can make one sound insensitive and advocational, when in reality it’s merely a comparison and possibly even a tiny shred of comfort for the people left behind, a way to make sense of it all.

April and I walked into the bar, laying the subject to rest for the time being and ready to have fun with Matthew. To see the two of them together is living proof that opposites attract - he’s the blond, clean-cut, All-American law student with old money, and she’s a tiny Indian punkstress with a wild side a mile long. By all conventional stereotypes, he should be the popular jock teasing her mercilessly for being a gothic lesbian, but there they sit, completely enamored of each other.
"You two are so cute, go to Hell," I teased between kamikaze shots.

Matthew’s goal is to become a state judge, then senator. Personally, I hope he and April get married and then he runs for president. That girl would make such a bitchin’ First Lady.

Matthew coached me on what to expect if I do go to law school. "If you like reading and hate sunlight, then law school is for you!" he said. "I adore it! It’s stressful, but I love reading. I sit in a dark corner of a basement all day with nothing but stacks of case files and I love it."
"That sounds..... um.....pretty shitty!" I said. "Does it have to be in a basement? Could I, like, sit in the sun and read?"
"I guess. But that stuff is pretty hard to sift through sometimes. You have to focus. Distraction’s not really an option if you want to do well."
"Dammit!" Honestly, I think I’d love law school until I saw something shiny. And that would be the end of Jessica’s law school career.
(Seriously, I’m thinking of putting out a 4-song EP and calling it "Future Law School Dropout".)

April and I left not long after that, making our way back to Cincinnati in the rain. It continued raining for five days. That night we went right to sleep, waking up late the next morning and puttering around for about, oh, all damn day. We ate cereal, then wrote a song. We made beaded earrings and bracelets with some kits of her sister’s. I made a blue set for Lisa, Earl’s girlfriend, as a thank-you gift for letting me move in. April showed me pictures of her father. In all of them, he was smiling. She played a CD for me that he had recorded on a little 4-track, about 6 months before he died. He was a very good guitar player and his voice reminded me of Neil Young.

"He and I were the two big music nuts in the house," she said. "He would always play awesome covers. One day I told him he should start writing his own songs, and he kind of shrugged it off. But right before he died, he showed me these handwritten sheets. They were songs. He recorded both of them, but didn’t label it. One was about my mom, I knew that right away. And the other was about me. It doesn’t come right out and say it, but I knew. And I still haven’t told my sisters, because they’d probably be upset, but I know it’s about me. He and I were the closest. Anyway, when all of our family was sitting around, figuring out what to do for the funeral, someone said we should play music, but they couldn’t agree on what. I said, ‘Why don’t you play that song he wrote for Mom?’ No one knew what I was talking about - he hadn’t even told my mother. I got the CD and played it for them. And then we played it again at the funeral. My aunt even made a poster of the lyrics, in calligraphy, to put next to the casket."
She showed me the poster, the scribbled sheets, the collages of pictures that had hung in the funeral home. Rick on a boat. Rick in the backyard, building a fence. Rick pulling a wagon full of costumed children through the backyard on Halloween. Rick in Disneyworld. He looked so vibrant and happy, as though he had never had a bad day in his life.

After looking at pictures, we took a walk in the front yard, to a small wooden cross stuck deep in the soft earth. It read simply, "FATHER".
"Josh made that, right after Dad died. We put it here, where he fell. A few days after he died, a huge hawk started coming around, just sitting in that tree up there for hours. We all noticed it. It was freaky, but comforting - being Native American, we always thought my father's spirit animal was an eagle, but I guess it was a hawk."

Eventually April and I got dressed, then went out for pancakes. We walked around downtown Cincinnati, stopping at a wig store for new looks. She helped me realize a long-time dream - actually being able to zip up a dress I haven’t fit into since my college graduation! (Who cares if I couldn’t breathe, at least I was wearing it again.) I told her all about Iarca The Romanian Adulterist and she almost ran off the road, laughing. We went back to her house after taking Brandon to football practice and had a Will Ferrell marathon, watching "Elf" and "Anchorman" back to back.

A funny thing happened in the morning, when she and I initially went down to the kitchen for breakfast. An out-of-place-looking young man with dark features was standing at the sink, pouring a glass of juice. April didn’t immediately introduce us, so I just stood there trying to figure out where he fit in the family portrait. After a few minutes, April said, "Oh, Jess, this is our German exchange student, Jan."
"Nice to meet you!" I said.

He nodded shyly, then asked "Where you from?"
"Um, all over. I’ve lived lots of places." I told him about the trip, and about how I’d met April. "I’m just back visiting now, but that first time I came over we made cheesecakes and stayed up - hey, April, how late were we up that night we made the cheesecakes?"
"Oh, god, I don’t know," she said, appearing in the doorway of the walk-in pantry with a box of Cheerios in hand. "Four, maybe? Five?"
"Yeah," I said, turning back to Jan. "It was pretty random. But it was awesome!"
"That is very cool," he said, still shy.

Later on, April went down to the kitchen for sodas and came back up with Jan at her heels. I heard her outside the door saying, "Hold on, okay? Just hold on a sec. I don’t know if she wants to talk, hold on. Stay right there." She opened the door, saying, "Jan had some questions for you, is that okay?"
I was sitting on the bed with my laptop open. "Oh my gosh, of course!" I said. "Come on in! Ask away!"

He came in the room and sat on the floor at my feet, looking at me very seriously. He spoke as though reciting a list he had been memorizing for days. "I just want to know what made you want to do this what you eat where you sleep how did you get the money why are you doing it is it hard what is the best part where have you been how long have you been doing it what kind of car you drive is it very expensive what does your family think of this and where do you want to go next?"
"Um, wow!" I took a breath before answering.

Coming Through The Back Door Of The Olde Hickory Inn

The next morning I woke up and tried to make it to church - unfortunately, every service in the state of Kentucky starts at 9:30 and Joe told me 10:00. I wasn’t about to come bumbling into a church, especially a Baptist one, half an hour late and catch hell from people I didn’t even know. So instead, I went and killed things.

Well, it was an accident, seriously. I was driving through the outskirts of Barbourville, just admiring the little shadow patterns the leaves made in the late summer sun. The road was full of winding curves, so I went slowly, making people behind me impatient. They cut past me on a double yellow. The cars turned right ahead of me, into a driveway, and I kept heading straight, around another curve. There, in the road, was a huge turtleshell. It was just far enough into the road that I couldn’t avoid it without losing control around the turn. I wouldn’t have had time to try anyway, that’s how quickly it appeared around the sharp curve. It collapsed under my tire with a sickening pop, like ceramic shattering. I only had time to take the Lord’s name in vain before I ran over it. Then I stopped short in the road, making a clumsy U-turn to go back and check on the turtle.

“Maybe it was just a shell,” I thought as I made my way back at a snail’s pace, afraid of what I might see when I came around the turn again. “It looked...empty.”
Well, I wish it had been empty, but sure enough, it wasn’t. There, in the middle of the road, was a splattered turtle, head still intact and blinking at me with accusing eyes. I could only cry and whisper apologies to the bloody mess before driving off, the turtle’s confused, blinking eyes seared into my mind. I pulled into the nearest parking lot and called my dad, blubbering “th-th-the t-t-t-t--turtle was-was l-loo-l-looking at meeeeeeeee!”

He finally calmed me down. “What are you planning on doing today?” he asked.
“Well, the one restaurant in town opens at noon, so I’ll probably go there and get some writing done.”
“Sounds good, honey.”

At noon, like clockwork, I rode over to the town square, and the Old Hickory Inn. A hand-written sign in the window read, “OPEN NOON SUNDAYS”, but the sign on the door was turned to “CLOSED”. I tried the door, it was locked. “So much for that,” I thought. “Might as well just drive to Cincinnati.”
As I turned back to the car, a man’s voice seemed to come from miles away. “Hey, yoooooou! Noooo! Wait!”
Turning back to the window of the cafe, a tall, thin man stood plastered against the glass, motioning me towards him with wide eyes and a crazed smile. “C’mere!”
I came closer, marveling at the oddity of the entire morning.
“Mah momma’s got the keys, and she’s at church!” the man shouted through the glass. “Come ‘round the back! We’re open!”
I laughed. “Okay!”

I mounted the high stairs to the place from the back parking lots, entering through the kitchen. I was the only one there. The tall man met me at the door, smiling and apologizing for “momma not bringin’ the keys!”. He looked about 35, but with youthful eyes. Two pre-teen girls milled around the kitchen, looking lost. “You kin sit anywhere ya want,” the man said. “Only thing on the menu’s the buffet raht now. Whatchoo want ta drink?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Bobby! Coffee, boy!” He called down a hallway jutting out of the kitchen.
“What?” A chunky boy of about 10 appeared in the doorway. iPod wires grew out of his shirt collar, into his ears.
“Coffee for this lady here, I said!” The man turned back to me. “Just find yourself a seat, little missy.”

The whole place - the whole town, really - was so random I found myself blinking back tears of laughter as I found the only booth with an outlet nearby. I wasn’t necessarily used to the degree of Southern hospitality I was being shown; the come-on-in-through-the-back-door-of-the-cafe-and-kick-off-your-shoes kind.

Or the egregious-defiance-of-child-labor-laws kind. I say this because soon after I sat down, a party of nine sat down. Bobby, the 10-year-old, waited on them. Why he waited on them and not his father, I may never understand, but bless his little heart, he was a terrible waiter. He screwed up the drink order and could only bring two at a time. The place had no trays, and his little hands couldn’t have carried one anyway. It actually took him 15 drawn-out and uncomfortable minutes to get the drinks right, but by this time the party had become so annoyed that they just left. In the meantime, my coffee was cold and Bobby never brought me any cream or sugar, but I couldn’t bring myself to complain. I mean, come on; he was only 10. I just drank it cold and black.

I wasn’t hungry, I was just there for the free electricity, but the tall man insisted I visit the buffet, which was a tiny table set up with hot pans of things I didn’t recognize. Thankfully, a woman came in about the time I caved under pressure to fill a plate, so she answered all my questions on the nature of the food.
“What are those?” I asked her, quietly, not wanting the tall man to hear.
“Oh! Them’s soup beans!”
“Awesome,” I whispered. “Joe and Rusty would be so proud.”
I piled some on my plate, making sure to scoop the shreds of bacon up too. “And what’s this stuff?”
“Hamburger steak.”
“And this?” I asked, pointing to a tray of long brown things.
She laughed. “Them’s ribs, suga!”
“Oh.”

Way to go, Jess. I’ve worked off and on at a barbeque joint for six years now, but I don’t know ribs when I see them. Nice. Anyway, I filled the plate, mostly with soup beans and canned peaches, and went back to writing. Or at least trying to write. It seemed every time I got a clear thought or a fresh sentence, the tall man or Bobby would breeze through and distract me. “Here’s some cornbread!” “That’s a nice laptop!” “Whatcha typin’ about?” But I welcomed it. It offered a welcome change of pace from sitting in my motel room moping over Justin.

Somehow the topic of music came up with the tall guy and he got very excited, telling me about his band. “We’re tryin’ to get signed raht now!” He was very serious about his music; he disappeared for a moment and returned brandishing two CD’s. “The first one is our EP, with all the vocals. It still has to be mixed, but it’s all there. This one here’s just instrumentals. We ain’t got no lyrics for it yet. Say, you write stuff. You think you could write me some lyrics for one-a these here songs? We’ll credit ya on the album! It may be hard ‘cause it ain’t your song, but hell, give it a try if ya want! Ah’d be honored!”
I was so flattered but uneasy. It’s hard enough to write lyrics to my own songs, but I figured I’d give it a shot. At least if I churned out a sheetful of uninspired crap, chances were I’d never have to face the gentleman again. I popped in the disc and listened to some of the melodies, trying to find one I liked enough to work with. It was track 4.

There was a lot of piano and repeating acoustic guitar riffs, so it was easy to jam to. As I listened in my headphones, I typed quickly. The tall guy.... Chris? Joe? I can’t remember his name, I meet too many damn people... anyway, he kept walking by, trying to look at the screen before I was finished. He and I had a quick, goofy way with each other, which made it easier to write his lyrics, but I still didn’t want him to see them until they were done. He snuck up behind me a number of times, but couldn’t keep from laughing, giving himself away. I slammed the laptop shut each time, giggling furiously and chiding him for not playing by the rules. “No peeking!” I shouted.
He looked out the large bay window painted with pictures of logs and pumpkins. “We better stop ‘fore someone come in and done think we’s married. We’s fightin’ lahk we is.”
“Good idea, get away from me,” I teased, shielding the laptop with my elbow like a 4th-grader taking a test. We had a good laugh.

Finally, after 40 minutes of heinously-interrupted songwriting, this is the pile of cheddar I came up with:


Remember that old dream we had about running away?
when we were kids we’d said we said we’d blow this town someday?
It came to me the other day, what’s stopping us now?
It may not be too practical but we could make it somehow

let them look at us like we’re crazy
let them tell us it can’t be done
I’ve got a credit card, you’ve got an old guitar
two grown kids starting over just for fun

let’s pack some sleeping bags for that old truck bed
I’ll grab the dog and the camera as you kiss me on the forehead
leave the map, baby, we can go on faith
your love is a compass and I don’t want to wait

let them look at us like we’re crazy
let them tell us it can’t be done
I’ve got a credit card, you’ve got an old guitar
what else could we need to have us some fun?

Anywhere that we end up,
I know you’ll be with me
Sleeping in parking lots, making love in crazy spots,
til we find a place we can feel free.

(Bridge)

(Chorus)

When we find that place we’re going
We’ll know it when it just feels right
you’ll squeeze my hand as you step on the brake
I’ll put my head on your shoulder and we’ll know we’re gonna stay

(Chorus)

Anywhere that we end up,
I know that you’ll be with me
Sleeping in parking lots, making love in crazy spots,
til we find a place where we can feel free.
Til we find a place where we can live free.



Okay, so that’s the song I wrote in the booth of the Old Hickory Inn in Barbourville, Kentucky. When I was finished, when the email had been exchanged and the money taken care of, I thanked the tall guy, high-fived Bobby, and left the same way I had come in - through the back door. Like old friends do.

The rose Joe left on my doorstep, which I promptly stepped on by accident. 

Joe, my neighbor at the College Motel. The go-to guy for all things soul food-related. Even turtle and squirrel. 

I'm-a whittlin'! 

The Whittlin' Lesson

While I was doing some weight-lifting in the room, before my exchange with Motel Owner Guy, there was a knock at my door. I thought it was the owner, so I wiped the sweat off my face and ran a brush through my hair before opening it. I pretty much stank, yet I figured if he could run such a shitty business, I could at least ask for a refund whilst smelling faintly of B.O.
But when I opened the door, no one was there. I chalked it up to the townies messing with the new girl, knocking on doors and running away.

There actually is an interesting dynamic that occurs when a solo young girl rents a motel room in a small town; I like to equate it to a nature documentary on mating habits of animals. The commentary: "...and once the female has successfully paid for the temporary habitat, she approaches the room with key in hand. The males, already aware of her presence by the scent of an out-of-state license plate, peer out of the broken venetian blinds of their own habitats. Upon seeing that the new arrival is female, they make their first moves. After a quick check of their Caesar haircut, gold chain and molester-mustache in the cloudy motel mirror, most will venture outside of their rooms pretending to talk on a cell phone. Others, not caring to shun subtlety, will simply stand in their doorway and stare at the female as she unpacks her car. The point of this sudden and collective need to be out-of-doors is not only to sniff out the female, but also to put oneself on display for said female, not unlike a peacock, should she become lonely during the night and find herself in need of a male companion. Unfortunately for the males, the female’s mind is not usually given to such extreme lapses of judgement, nor is her affection swayed by stained Tommy Hilfiger t-shirts."
The College Motel was no exception - when I first got there all the guys came out to stare at me like usual, and like usual I ignored them. But this was the first time I’d had a prank knocking. Especially a prank knocking that turned out not to be a prank at all.

I looked left and right for someone but saw no one. I scanned the parking lot and still saw no one. Then I stepped barefoot out onto the sidewalk in front of my door and felt something cold and soft under my foot - it was a red rose in full bloom, obviously plucked from a bush. I felt so bad for stepping on it, although the damage was minimal. I picked it up and whispered a tiny, "Thank you" into the dark before starting to close the door.
"You’re welcome!" chirped a big guy, popping out from behind a car in the parking lot. He’d been watching me.
"Oh my god!" I gasped. "You scared me!"
"Sorry," he said, sheepish. He was young, but his girth and height made him look older. His hair was short and dark under his NASCAR baseball cap and his eyes were nearly invisible behind the glare on his wire-rimmed glasses. I recognized him from the New Female Doorway Parade. "Whatcha doin’?" he asked.
"Working out. And you?"
"I’m just chillin’. You wan’ come out and sit on the porch wit’me?" He pointed to a folding chair outside a door two rooms down from mine.
"Maybe later. Thank you for the flower. It’s beautiful." I stepped back into the house, closing the door as he shouted after me, "I’ll be up all night if you wanna come over!"

He seemed very young, probably not even 21, and I hated to shoot him down considering he had picked me a rose from someone’s yard, but I wasn’t in the mood to get into an argument with someone over why they couldn’t sleep in my bed with me for the night. It’s happened so many times in the last four months that I’m sick of it. Besides, I had Justin Fever. I couldn’t get that damn kid out of my mind for anything. I hate to say it, but I disobeyed my cardinal rule and got attached. Please, wonderful readers, if you ever travel, never get attached. Never. That little blurb about Proverbs and motel room Bibles, I wrote that about Justin. I can’t even begin to explain the empty ache in my chest as I drove out of the Asheville rain. It was as though my heart was nauseous. It was more painful than when I left David behind in Chicago, because I at least knew that David cared about me back, and we’d always be friends. But leaving Asheville, I felt probably the loneliest I’ve felt so far on this trip. It’s been getting better every day (especially because I’m in Ohio and have a job now, both of which offer a lot of distraction), but for awhile there it was really painful.

Anyway, enough of the emotional bullshit. That having been said, I just wasn’t in the mood to hang out with a New-Girl-In-The-Motel-Documentary-Doorway-Stander. I finished my workout and took a shower. I shuddered at the idea of falling asleep between the sheets of the Booger Room, so I ducked out to the car for some blankets for the top of the bed and that’s when he caught me.

"Hey, you came out!" He was sitting in the folding chair.
"Uh, yeah! Yeah, I sure did. How are you?"
"Cain’t complain. What’s your name?"
"Jessica."
"I’m Joe. And you’re a long way from home. What brought you to Barbourville?" He actually called it "Barvull" in his thick Kentucky accent.
I explained the mission, the lifestyle. He was no stranger to being transient himself, being the son of a truck driver.
He and his father lived in the room two doors down.

"So if you’re here all the time, what can you tell me about the guys on the other side of me?" I asked. "There’s all this random banging going on over there, like they’re body-slamming each other."
"Dunno, really. They’re in town to sell some cars, that’s all I know. I think they’re tweakers, though."
"Is that pretty prevalent around here?"
"Is it what?"
"Pretty prevalent?"
"Huh?"
"Are there a lot of tweakers in this town?"
"Oh, hell yeah. It’s a dry town and people don’t want to drive all the way to the Virginia border for a beer, so they find stuff closer to home."
"Funny how everyone thought prohibition would mend the moral fiber of society, huh? It’s just making it worse, seems like."
He laughed. "I don’t really know what you just said, but I think you said it right."

"So what else ya wanna know ‘bout Barvull for your book?"
"Whatever you want to tell me."
"Well, okay. Let’s see... I’m 20. I’m gonna join the Army as soon as I lose some more weight. I was born and raised in Barvull. Southern boy, through and through! Mah momma lives on a farm ‘bout 10 miles on the outside’a town. Mah paw lives here in the motel. He don’t drive trucks no more, but I been all the way out to California wit’ him ‘fore he gave it up. I been to Michigan, Colorado. Never been to the East Coast, though. Ain’t never seen the Atlantic Ocean. But I love me some mountains! You seen them Blue Ridge Mountains today? They’s so pretty. Anyway, this town is boring. Ain’t no life here. You stumbled into the wrong place. I cain’t wait to get out."
"Is there anything you’ll miss?"
"Aww, fo’shure!" he cried with a big smile. "Mah momma’s chicken an’ dumplins’!"
I giggled. "What’s that?"

It was another record-scratch moment. His jaw dropped into his lap as he asked, "You ain’t never had chicken an’ dumplins? Like, you don’t even know what it is?"
I blushed. "No."
He threw his head back and laughed heartily, a huge belly laugh that seemed to start at his toes. The kind of laugh that can erase lonely or sad. The kind of laugh that says, "Take a breath, Jess. You just made a friend."
"I cain’t believe you ain’t ne’er had chicken an’ dumplins! Wait a second! Hold on! Dad! Dad, get out here!" He got up from his chair to call his father outside.
"What? What’s goin’ awn?" His father appeared in the doorway, a thin man with a blond beard and a matching NASCAR cap. He wore a blue t-shirt with cut-off sleeves and some denim shorts.
"SHE AIN’T NE’ER HAD NO CHICKEN AN’ DUMPLINS!" Joe cried.
"WHAT?!" his father screamed. "Well, I’ll be god-damned!"
I was blushing and laughing, growing redder every second from both. Joe’s father, Rusty, pulled up a lawn chair and laid into me, asking me if I’d ever had every food I’d never had before.

"You mean’a tell me you ain’t ne’er had no soup beans?"
"No, sir," I said, still laughing hysterically at my new, excitable friends. "What are they?"
Joe and Rusty began talking over each other. "They’s when ya boil the beans and mix in some bacon an’ onions!" "Yeah, yeah! An’ ya gotta soak them beans fo’ ‘bout a day or so!" "Yeah, then you git you some cornnbread and you sop dat up real nice!" "Yeah! You e’er had cornbread?"
"Yes, I’ve had cornbread! I’m not that much of a Yank!"
"Well, that’s good ‘cause I’s ‘bout ta say, if ya ain’t ne’er had no cornbread, y’ain’t no good a’tall! Ya gotta ha’you some cornbread in yo’ lahf!"

"Y’e’er had squirrel?" Rusty asked.
"NO!"
"Well, don’t knock it til’ ya try it, missy!"

The more they found out what a terrible Southerner I was, the thicker their accents got. It was quite endearing. Endearing until Joe told me about turtle soup.

"Y’e’er had turtle? Oh, mayn! A turtle’s got ‘bout se’en differn’t flavors on it! Dependin’ on what part ya eat, ya got chicken, fish, steak, porkchop, bacon, an’ burger!"
"Joe, that’s only six."
"Ah know! The other’s flavor’s the turtle!"

He gave me a verbal crash course on how to make the soup. "Ya get ya a turtle, cut the head off an’ stick a garden hose in the throat, raht? Then ya fill it wit’ water and wait for it ta’ bust out the shell! Or ya could just cut the belly an’ do it that way, but the hose way is more fun!"
"You know, I really don’t need to know how to make it." I said. "I’m not much of a cook."
"Ya shore?"
"Positive."

"Whatchoo gonna do ta’marraw?" Joe asked. "Stay annutha day or take off?"
"Well, tomorrow’s Sunday so I’ll probably go to church. I went last week and it was pretty cool. As long as they don’t say anything against gay people, I’ll be alright."
"Well, jist remember - this here’s the Bible Belt. People gonna say whate’er the hell they want to whether you lahk it or not. What church you goin’ to, anyway?"
"I don’t know. Prob’ly the Free Christian one down around the corner."
"That’s a pretty good one. The Baptist one’s okay too. An’ the Presbyterian one o’er on Buford. But whate’er ya do, don’t go to the one down past the gas station by the creek!"
"Why? Do they sacrifice animals?"
"Naw! They’s snake handlers! An’ you won’t know it neither, til you go in an’ they jist let a big ol’ bag’a angry snakes go, jist open it right there by the altar! They don’t warn ya or nuthin’! Their feelin’ is, if you’s in there, you better be a faithful person or else you shouldn’t be there. And if a snake bites ya, it serves ya right for not bein’ faithful an’ trustin’. An’ they don’t believe in doctors! Had one guy not too long ago, got bit by a snake at the church. His fam’ly done locked the doors and blocked the driveway so no ambulance could get to ‘im. Course he died."
"Jesus!" I exclaimed, my jaw gaping. "That’s insane!"
"Yeah, pretty much is."

Since then, I’ve done some research on snake handling and it turns out it’s actually illegal in every state but West Virginia, so the Kentucky church is technically not supposed to be letting angry snakes out of bags in the first place. And indeed, the parishoners do not believe in doctors, and there have been many cases of deaths due to snake handling. Interestingly enough, there have been even more cases where people are bitten but do not die. They may suffer flu-like symptoms until the poison exits the body, or they may experience permanent damage to the area bitten, such as paralysis of the fingers, but they do not die. In many more cases, people handle the snakes but are not bitten at all. Researchers believe this is due in large part to the frenzied state the worshippers enter into before touching the snakes, a sort of relaxed, softened dance that allows them to handle the snakes without fear and vice versa - the snake does not feel threatened, so it does not attack. Crazy, right? I would have liked to have seen it.... but from a distance. I don’t think I would have been able to get into that soft mental state once I saw live rattlesnakes darting at me in a church when I was only expecting a sermon. I was very glad Joe gave me the heads-up.

A wedding party drove past; tin cans and streamers tied to the back of a Chevy Cavalier. A Ford Bronco led the parade, a thin blonde girl barely visible at the helm, honking the horn and leading a convoy of pick-up trucks and sedans through the Barbourville night.
"‘Nuther weddin’" Joe remarked.
"Is that typical for around here?" I asked. "I thought they only did the tin-can-on-the-car thing in the movies.
"Well, whaddya think they do in real lahf?" he asked jokingly.
"Limos," I said, not skipping a beat.
He gave another hearty belly laugh. "Limos?! Mayn! Where’dyou think you are?"
I blushed again, a little embarrassed at sounding like an ignorant city slicker.
"I don’t know," I said quietly. "In New York City, or even Maryland, they always use limos. Limos for weddings and proms."
He softened a bit, noticing my embarrassment. "Naw, honey. No limos here. Ain’t nobody can afford ‘em. ‘Bout maybe the only time you see one is if a really rich person be gettin’ married. But ain’t none’a them ‘round here."
"How is the economy around here, speaking of which?"
"T’aint none ta speak of."

He continued. "Barvull’s a pretty borin’ town. You picked the wrong one to stay in if you’s lookin’ for fun. It’s a dry town, so they’s no real bars. People find other stuff’ta do. It’s ol’-fashioned. People’ll still sit on they porch an’ whittle–"
I cut him off. "No way! Whittling?! I thought that was only in the movies, too!"
"No, ma’am! We still whittle! I lahk it - get ya a good ol’ piece a cedar and just whittle it down all nice! Make ya a toothpick or whate’er ya want."
"Oh, man! That’s awesome! I wish I could whittle..."
"Hold on."

He got up and broke a thin branch from a nearby bush. Sitting back down, he pulled a pocketknife from his belt and proceeded to show me how it was done.
"Hold it raht here an’ just pull back on it. See how the bark comes off in one piece? Feel how smooth that is right there under it? Now you try. Use your thumb on the handle. Watch the knots, try ta carve around ‘em at first, get ‘em worn down..." He let me whittle until the stick was a smooth line, leaving piles of curly shavings at our feet. "That’s good!" he said. "So, you lahk whittlin’?"
I beamed. "Very much! Can I keep this?" I asked, holding the stick gingerly, like a relic.
"‘Course ya cain. Whate’er ya want."
"Thank you."

Joe’s father joined us again, having left for a little while to take a walk with a lady friend. They had strolled down to the town park to search for tennis balls lost in the bushes. That’s what I’ve noticed in dry towns - without the bars to while away hours in, dating becomes a lot like the days of middle school, making up stuff to do. I excused myself for the night, but before I could open my door, Rusty sat down and asked me a question I’ll never forget.

"So tell me - you’s drivin’ all o’er creation and whatnot, so how’s do ya not get attached ta people? How do ya meet folks - and men, right? - and not get attached?"
I took a breath. I could feel my face soften into a wistful stare. I leaned against the doorway, visions of Justin dancing in my head as I answered, "I don’t."
"Don’t what?"
"Don’t not get attached. I get attached all the time. Every place I go. I get attached to the places, the people. Sometimes one person in particular. Boston, Chicago, Asheville. I leave pieces of myself behind. I do get attached. I’m just really good at leaving, because I’d rather have that one day of awesome than try to make it last and know it failed. Plus I’m a notorious rusher, and guys don’t usually like girls who start thinking marriage after the first date."
"I do!" Joe piped up, eagerly.
"Well, most guys don’t. They don’t understand. Sometimes even I don’t." I thought about Justin, how I was ready to pick up and settle down in Asheville if he said the word, and how crazy that would have seemed to every other person in the world besides me, including Justin. "I rush in too much. I do get attached." I stared at the ground, still sprinkled with shards of my whittling-stick. "But I never stay. Just pieces of me do."

Joe tried to cut through my glassy stare. "Well, if you wanna go on a date and then git married, I’m free ta’marraw!"
I didn’t share the joke, too busy cursing myself for letting Justin get under my skin. I had left a more than a mere shard of myself at that old, bohemian house in North Carolina, two states away by that point. I felt as if a chunk had been ripped from my chest, a gaping hole echoing with questions, mainly, "Why’d you do it, Jess? Why’d you leave me behind? I don’t belong here."

"Thanks for everything, guys," I said as I stepped into my room.
"You gone be alright?" they asked in unison.
Rusty added, "Ah didn’t mean ta make ya sad or nuthin’."
"Oh, no, you didn’t do anything. Thank you for hanging out with me tonight! If anything, it’s me. It’s my fault my head’s in another place."
"Alright then, well, you sleep tight" Rusty said. "Don’t let the boogers bite! Heeeeheeee!"
Joe called after me, "I wasn’t kidding about a date! Stop by the room when you get back from church!"
"Maybe. Goodnight."