Category Archives: Little Bookstore of Big Stone Gap

HELLO AGAIN!

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All right, it was a wee break but I’m back now. Hello, how have you been?

So here is what happened, in a nutshell. Jack got sick end of May. It was touch and go for a day or so, and then three stable days before they let him come home. Short version of what caused it: smoking.

So Jack has not had a cigarette since, and I’ll tell you a funny story about that in a minute.

Right now, I’m sitting in Glenariff, at my friend Liz Weir’s camping barn, enjoying a cuppa tea and some lovely Irish breakfast bread with Damson jelly. Jack has been ensconced at his sister’s house in Stonehaven (very near Aberdeen) and will be staying the winter. I’ll be going back and forth while attending to some contractual obligations here: to whit, writing a book about Hurricane Helene with co-author Roxy Toddy, and running a few conferences.

Glen Ariff from Liz’s camping barn kitchen

People naturally have a lot of questions: how soon will you move to Scotland, is Jack coming back, will you sell your house? To all we give the same answer: we don’t know; ask us again in the Spring. Right now, we are glad Jack is alive, grateful for the National Health Service in Scotland offering free and quality care, and taking things as they come.

I am setting up my “retirement” jobs of editing, copy writing, indexing, and the rest. Probably get that onto this blog’s host site over the winter. Running around with Liz telling stories has reminded me how much fun it is, and how demanding physically. Sitting at Liz’s giant table enjoying my third cuppa tea, I’m reminded how many demands there are on my time in the US that keep me from writing, and how easy it would be to slip back into that on my return stateside. The Helene book is contracted, and is a project of the heart. What comes after, more bits and bibs or a return to the world of words, spoken and written?

We shall see. Meanwhile, I promised you a funny story about Jack’s hospital release:

Anthony was the respiratory therapist assigned to turn the assortment of machines, tubes and wires Jack was sent home with into something we knew how to use. He went through everything twice, patiently, until I felt I had it. Life was going to be different: no candles, no open flames, no cooking for Jack until he got the hang of trailing wires and all that.

Anthony turned to where Jack lay in the hospital bed. Fixing Jack with his steely blue eyes, Anthony said, “People set themselves on fire, lighting up while on oxygen. We had one yesterday we couldn’t save. Woman crisped herself.”

Jack nodded, looking something between calm and exasperated. Near death experiences have a way of taking the drama out of drama.

From behind Anthony, I piped up. “If Jack ever smokes again, I’ll set him on fire myself.”

Anthony choked back a laugh, then reached for a form. “Right, this is the release. We’ve covered everything, except–” he glanced over his shoulder at me, then back at Jack. “Well, the last question before we can release you.” He looked at me again, then spoke to Jack. “Do you feel safe in your own home?”

Jack signed. We went home. He hasn’t smoked since, and the equipment went back to its makers about a month before we left for the UK. We will keep you posted on journeys from here, both physical and emotional.

Oh, and if you smoke, quit now.

Here’s a link to Liz’s ceilidh barn: https://www.ballyeamonbarn.com/

A Month off Facebook

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After a month off Facebook, here’s what I’ve missed and not missed.

I miss:

People I barely knew being involved in my life. Because I’m an author, a lot of people I had never met but who read my books friended me. We kept up casually, oh so casually. There would be an occasional comment on a cat picture, a like for something I’d crocheted or canned, a laugh at the picture of me falling in mud. I miss the casual camaraderie of people I only knew because they read my books and decided they liked me.

Getting advice. I know a thousand people who are smart and savvy experts at something, often something obscure. I miss hopping online to ask “Is it okay to do the stitches backwards when you’re edging the blanket” or “what columns should a household budget have” or even “does this look like poison ivy to you?”  While there is a website response to every query put into a search engine, I miss the voices of people familiar to me, ones I trust not to steer me astray. That little blue star appearing in query responses now gives me the heebeejeebies. Its advice is just flat WRONG half the time, and in some cases that could result in blowing one’s house up (clearing a gas line; how long to pressure can meat). Ain’t listening to the little blue star; I miss those thousand or so smart, sensible friends.

Ironically, I also miss GIVING advice. I’m good at some specific things, but here in Wytheville where we know hardly anyone, people don’t ask me about radio reporting/storytelling/writing/canning/crocheting/swimming/foraging/homesteading/cats.

Where’s Wendy? I thought this was a dumb game I played because travel took me so many places where there were pretty pictures to be taken. Turns out, it grounded me back to my home base. When I traveled, it made me feel like people cared where I was; plus it was silly clean fun. A lot of weight for a small game, but there it is. I miss that.

I do not miss:

What I’m eating pictures. Most of my friends are foodies. Sometimes I got good ideas from them. Mostly I just had greens envy.

Feet pictures. For some reason, every time someone gets hurt, they post these pics online. It stands to reason we injure our feet more than other parts of us, given their suboptimal working conditions and general lack of care in our society. But yeesh. I don’t want to see your naked feet unless I’m teaching you to swim, kay, thanks. Now you know.

People talking politics in punchlines. I love a good political debate with a well-informed friend who challenges my thinking. I have a fair few friends who fall into this category, and I look forward to seeing them in person more now, because my ears are not full of the white noise from online memes and punditry. Savoring a good conversation has become an art form, but it’s almost weird to ask friends to Zoom with you just to see each other because, hey, you know, we have social media for that. We don’t have to be intentional. Do we?

People I barely know getting involved in my life. Yes, I know. While I miss the casual, friendly reader who decided they liked me, I don’t miss the friends of friends who showed up to yell that I am part of the Great Evil because a) I don’t attend an evangelical church (we are Quakers) b) I don’t agree with all the parts of all the scripts of the political party I align with (“BUT HOW CAN YOU DENY THE RIGHTS OF…”) I do not miss the virtue signalers convinced that dismantling unjust systems means only those who deserve to will get hurt. Ha.

Reels. You suck, Zuck. Great timewasters of unsafe viewing; some of those “animal rescue” videos are pure evil.

Doomscrolling. I’m astonished, absolutely astonished, at having enough time to learn a new pattern, write the notes for the last chapter, try a new recipe, learn why carrots and cauliflower should be planted near each other, research writing grants at the end of the day. I always told myself I was too tired, too emotionally and intellectually drained to start something new after dinner. Ha. New life, new fun, new ideas, new ways to pursue old interests. The time I’ve gotten back is indescribable, and I don’t want to sound like someone who is encouraging others. We all make our own decisions. Just, don’t let anyone tell you the time is not real, when you get it back. It’s amazing. And fun.

More things to talk about later, but here it is a month in: no regrets. Not even the advice. :]