The coffee café appears to be open seating. Sofas and fat cushioned high backs nestle the perimeter in an inviting manner. Chairs are arranged for chatting, reading, and enjoying a beverage while contemplating the innerworkings of existence over a dirty chai tea latte, which is good, because that’s my plan. I situate myself near a bay window. Two turquoise-colored purses reserve a burgundy couch, so I sink into a chubby armchair in the corner. The barista created a feathery leaf with my latte foam – it makes me smile and I admire it before I take a sip. As I bring my cup to my lips, the owners of the purses return with their orders. They look at me as if I’ve been rolling in some type of dung, as if the mere sight and scent of me has somehow offended them. The way they emit disdain toward me catches me off guard.

“Hope y’all don’t mind if I sit here.”

“Guess not,” one of them answers.

I scan the room for a place to relocate. No vacant chair presents itself. When our rescue dog, Toast, senses bad tempered energy, she spontaneously combusts into a growl-bark that causes her body to levitate. It’s part cartoon wonder dog and part werewolf, frightening and fascinating in her ability to intuitively sniff out and react to bullshit. I consider how satisfying it would feel to growl-bark at these gals until my feet lift from the wood plank flooring, their long hair flying back in my caninesque wake.

“We’ll have to finish this conversation later,” says one, giving me the side eye.

“Right,” says the other, who is pregnant, her baby bump prominent.

I consider saying, “Ladies, I’m not even from here. I’m just trying to enjoy my latte and be nice to people but damn if y’all aren’t putting those tasks to the test.” I don’t say these things. Instead, I watch my foam leaf diminish and sip my bev.

“Do you think it’s a boy or girl?”

“They say I’m carrying like a girl, but I think it’s a boy.”

“I hope it’s a boy.”

“That’s just because you picked out the name,” says baby mama. “Cody says he’s gonna get the baby’s name tattooed on his arm right after its born. He’s so crazy, ain’t like either of us can afford a new tat.”

A table opens across the café, and I stand to move to a safer space. I suspect they might be happy that I’m departing.

“See y’all later,” I say. “Have a good one.”

They say nothing back. All this from people who look like me.

 

I spent a week at Wild Acres Writers’ Conference in the mountains of North Carolina. It was like camp ­– single bed, no air conditioning, wake up bell, forced room sharing, and family style dining hall. I had my car, but I was blocked in by some sort of strategic parking ingenuity specifically designed to hold me fast in these rustic conditions. I survived to tell this tale.

Being out of my comfort zone offered a window for me to see things through new panes as well as a mirror for me to stare at my own reflection and think about who I am.

It was hot in our room and my roommate had allergies that made her close our windows at night, sealing us into a sauna like vault. Although I woke at 2:00 AM in a sweat pile, hotter than a wool coat in Satan’s crawl space, I kept it together and found friendship with the sweet woman from Kentucky, my overarching gratitude outweighing the heat.

There was a Renaissance Faire theme night. People prepped for this. There were leather constructed plague masks and sparkly fairy wings. Poets struck poses with Shakespearian vests and suede boots. I brought a dress that laced up the front, thinking that it was Ren Fairish. Against the other attendees, I looked like I just left my shift in the smoking section at Steak & Ale. I could NOT stop giggling about how funny this was to me. I don’t think you had to be there to get how cleansing it is to laugh at yourself.         

I went to meditation although my mind has trouble being quiet. I did qigong. It took me four days to feel the energy we were supposed to be moving, but I’ve never been valedictorian in this space of my world, so I’m happy with little strides of improvement.

And the writing part of the conference – five-star kind of life shifting superb.

Heading home, my GPS took me down the mountain along 226A. I presumed it to be a scenic kind of highway. My daddy worked for the North Carolina Department of Transportation, so I’m well versed in road speak. The signs on the snaky road that wound down toward Marion were new to me. “Only Runaway Truck Ramp,” “Last Chance to Cool Brakes,” “No More Truck Ramps,” and the best of all, “Road Worsens Ahead.” What the heck does that mean? My Subaru was wedged tight between a pick-up pulling a trailer and a dump truck. No one was pulling to the side as we rolled down the switch backs. I stayed alert to the shrinking shoulder as we plowed forward toward a place where the road might worsen – reminding me how good and scary it feels to live in faith along the scenic path. All this from people who look.

Mid-week at the conference, my car a free agent from the parking grid, I traveled into the nearest town to stock up on provisions (wine.) The average employee age at Ingles in Spruce Pine on this Wednesday was approaching sixty. The cashier looked a tad younger, her dark red hair pulled back in a neat pony. Her eyes were bright and green, highlighted with black liner. When she smiled her teeth told the story. I grew up in the country without fluoride and a bend toward candy, so I relate to substandard teeth, but this was something else. Her mouth spoke of drug use and things gone wrong, yet she smiled broadly.

“Hey there,” she said in a mountain drawl, an accent of angels. “You got an Ingles card?”

“No, there isn’t an Ingles where I live.”

She looks around to make sure the coast is clear then pulls up her Ingles app and scans her number so I can get the discount.

An older man was bagging for her. I’m going to call him Paw Paw, because someone somewhere should call him that. He was confused about how to bag my three items and at one point he was physically leaning on her for support. Paw Paw appeared to have some mental challenges (possibly others too,) but she helped him get it all straightened out with gentle guidance. She never raised her voice or lost her patience. She never took over his job for him even though it would have been easier and faster for her to have done it herself.

I don’t know their relationship but I’m glad I got to witness and experience this slice of humanity in the Spruce Pine Ingles. All this from people.

I’m approaching the five-year mark of when my life turned upside down with a health diagnosis that rocked my world as I once knew it. There was a period that I stared at my future from the death row of cancer. A breakthrough med, good luck, prayers, and God’s healing power helped me make a comeback. My doctor says that I’m better than I was five years ago, as “stable and not spreading” outshines the unknown era before my tumors were discovered. Ignorance isn’t always bliss – and from this benchmark, the silver linings shine with metallic wonder. Of all the things that have been revealed to me as I opened my mind and heart to the divine universe’s playbook of miracles and love, the loudest and most vibrant is the opportunity and privilege we have to live out our best life– every day in technicolor. All this.  

When I was a child there was a man in our community who walked the road to and from town. His name was Clarence, and he was missing an ear. In preparation for this essay, I asked my brother what happened to Mr. Clarence’s ear, and he said he was either born without it or lost it in a goat roping rodeo incident.

Brothers think they are so funny. Sigh.

Mr. Clarence waved at my family and our car, and I waved back. One day my dad noticed this exchange and told me to stop waving at him. “Next thing, he’ll be asking us for a ride and that will lead to him wanting to borrow money.” I knew that we didn’t have money for loans to Mr. Clarence, so in future passings I stopped returning his wave.

On a frosty January morning, my mom and I headed into town and Mr. Clarence was shuffling along looking cold. My mom passed by, then slowed, pulled off the road, and shifted to reverse, telling me to roll down the passenger window.

“Where you headed?”

He responded with a point toward Carthage.

“Get on in. You can ride with us, it’s freezing.”

Since we were in daddy’s truck, I scooted over to the middle of the bench seat and Mr. Clarence crawled in beside me. I was hoping for a good look at the spot where the ear used to be, but he was protecting his head from the cold with a worn toboggin.

When my mama let him out near the city limits, he nodded a thank you at her and left a peppermint candy on the seat. Maybe it fell out of his pocket or maybe it was payment for the ride or maybe it was an act of kindness toward a little girl who once waved to him. All.