Many of you know I took on a side gig as a Folkways Reporter for the program Inside Appalachia. We had our first “radio school” retreat last month to learn how to use the equipment and deal with problem soundscapes (being outside, rooms with air conditioners, etc.). Sound is different from print, y’all. Books is easier.

Daunted but determined, I set out last weekend to the Knoxville Farmer’s Market, there to meet my informant, the indomitable Femeika Elliott. Meika won a Foodways Practitioner Fellowship and I planned to do a feature story on her work with nutrition education and self-sustainability in East Knoxville. I planned to cover her class leading newbies through the Farmers Market teaching them to navigate its mysteries.

I set the equipment up just like they taught us radio school. Donning my headphones and taking up my microphone complete with that big fuzzy wind barrier you see reporters use outdoors (it’s called a dead cat and I have nothing to say about this) we traversed the market.

You tend get your best tape at the beginning and end of an interview, when the subject is on top form, or too tired to mince words. So when Femeika paused early on before some purple cauliflower and began an elegant soliloquy on wide ranges of produce being part of a just and healthy landscape, I kept the mic in her smile zone and stood back. She was nailing it—

–and a small child darted beneath the mic and began to play a clapping game.

They didn’t cover this in radio school.

Ok, I would recreate that information with a voiceover, let’s keep walking. Femeika was already moving on. They talked meats, dairy, veggies. She began discussing the kinds of vegetables different body types could benefit from—

–and a bee landed on the dead cat. Apparently, she liked it there, because as Meika droned on, the bee began humming a cheerful little bee song to herself while attending to some self-care about the feet and antennae.

I am allergic to bees. She rode the length of the market’s bread section with us. Fortunately, not a lot of meaningful moments came from the carb section. In desperation, I finally gave the microphone a surreptitious shake. The bee shot me a reproachful look and flew away. Her feet looked great.

A timpani band played hymns in the background, mostly of a Scots-Irish background, and the fusion music was, well, cute ambiance. With the music behind her voice, Femeika said, “Most importantly you—“

–and the guy next to the timpani band blew his shofar. Tents in the market sucked in with contracted air. Mothers clutched their children. Dogs howled—at least their mouths opened; no one could hear anything else. A cop grabbed his radio.

They didn’t cover shofars in radio school, either.

I dunno guys, at least when you’re writing books, you can keep typing while the shofar blows.

As I shook hands with Femeika, dismantled my mic, and exited the market, a bee flew in front of me. She gave me the finger.

I’ve been away for one thing or another for about a week now: busy work, busy play, busy times. While I’ve been gone, roofers have been redoing its top hat.

(Yes, they are hard to find, these illusive roofers. We’ve had three drive-bys in the street stop and ask for their card.)

Today through Monday I am at home, and my house is getting a seeing to inside as well as out.

It’s interesting, the relationship women have been taught to have with our houses. They are reflections of us (we are told) so they better be clean. Is clean more important than cozy? Depends, I suppose, on how you were raised and how far you rebelled.

A Room of One’s Own is a famous essay for women writers in particular. A lot of words boil down to “Do you have space?” Mental space as well as physical. Do you look around and see a place to be while you make art, or do you see a space demanding attention from you?

My house is a sanctuary, for Jack and me, for cats. It’s our space, and during COVID that was true in a strange new way. We’re hospitable, party-oriented creatures, and we enjoy filling the place with friends. During COVID it filled with anxiety, hope, and a whole lot of writing. Two books got written and out the door.

But now, with this chance to please just get a little scrubbing done, I find myself happy. Not as an excuse to procrastinate about writing (Lord knows we’ve all played that game at some point) but about the time to settle in, streamline a couple of spaces for more efficient and pleasant use, reinvent the corners that confine the box in which we play.

So, herewith my random thoughts on one of life’s more mundane chores, one that more often than not keeps women from fulfilling their artmaking. But these next three days, before I get back to writing in all its day job, weekend word warrior, side gig, and fulfillment glory, these next three days feel as full of promise as a blank page.

Let the cleaning commence.