It’s not nice to make light of people who are trapped in the awfulness of a Long-Term Care Facility, but here’s a funny story. The last of the Roanoke stories, quite maybe. Continue reading Checkmate
I was working in Aunt B’s basement yesterday, and she followed me down the stairs and began rummaging through some boxes, looking at old pictures. The more that I looked, the more that I was amazed. Continue reading Aunt B’s Pictures
Back before the days of OSHA, on a 32-foot extension ladder far, far away, a young man took his first steps up the ladder for a short career as a house painter.
I was in-between jobs, to the point of being desperate for gas money. Not Mad Max desperate, but pretty close. A friend told me of a friend who had his own little painting business and that he was looking for some temporary help during the summertime. Continue reading House Painter for Hire
I was sitting at a bar one afternoon, hanging out with the regulars, just sipping on a beer and shooting the breeze. I hadn’t been born or raised in the area, but had morphed into a bar fly through osmosis, averaging four or five visits a week, and talking a good game while possessing the ability to drink to an unhealthy level while still working a job for 60 hours a week. That made you normal, just one of the guys. Continue reading Self Medication
I wrote a very short story yesterday entitled You Know You’re in a Small Town if… which naturally had me reminiscing and dreaming about those days up on the mountain. Some of us constantly need people around. Some are happier being alone. And somewhere in the middle is a really nice place to live. Continue reading Life on the Mountainside
This is to be read at a Henny Youngman/Groucho Marx tempo.
So my Mom’s living in South Carolina and buys a retirement home up in the hills of the Appalachian Mountains of Virginia. As is often the case, I’m not working and volunteer to live in the house while freeloading as I paint and remodel the new home.
Mom sends me a book to be delivered at the local Post Office. She has a small P.O. Box at the office, but it’s not big enough to hold a book.
I walk in for the first time ever.
“Hi. Yeeeah. My Mom sent a book for me from South Carolina”
The lone Post Office employee tells me to wait for a moment and surveys a pile of packages behind her. Then she grabs one.
“Here you go!”
I went back to my car with the package, strapped-up with my seat belt, and started the engine. And then it dawned on me. I never mentioned my name or my Mom’s. Never a P.O. number. Just that my Mom had sent me a packaged book.
And it was the right package!
You know you’re in a small town if…
A good number of years ago, family and friends had gathered together at Mt. Airy Farms, just South of Mount Jackson, to watch the biannual steeplechase horse races. Continue reading A Perfect Day