Goodbye Comfort Zone

As some of you already know, I recently became unemployed for the first time since 2011, so Robbie and I have begun content creating. (He’s more part of the content, and I, the creator.)

In May 2024, we became Rob & Teresa in Appalachia.

I’m not a pro at it. Heck, I’m not even great at it yet—especially the videography part. Interestingly, I lack in the promo part, too. This is odd, because for the past 4 years, this is what I’ve done—either teaching marketing or doing it; however, I’ve never done it for myself.

Honestly, it feels odd.

But if I want our endeavor to grow, I’m gonna hafta.

Wow, This Takes Time

Content creation can be monetized (I’m hoping that ours will supplement my staying at home and being available for Britni 100% of the time), but for it to start earning money, we need subscribers, followers, likes, comments, watch hours, etc. For instance, on YouTube, we need 1,000 subscribers and 4000 valid public watch hours in the last 12 months. Yes, that’s a lot. But not impossible.

Content creation takes time. First, you have to get the video (which, for us, happens after weeks of planning to get to the place where the videos are shot—we have to coordinate Britni’s care with my parents and Baxter’s stay at the resort). I get home with at least a few hours of raw (unedited) content. This is when the real work starts.

Did you know that on average, editing takes about 1 to 1.5 hours per minute of video. My most recent fifteen-minute video on Cool Cruisin’ Nights took about 30 hours to edit. Now, the more I do it, the better and quicker I’ll get, but even professionals would have taken about 15 to 22 hours to edit it. I worked during the early hours of the morning before Britni woke up, and a couple times had some creativity left in me at night after she went to bed to eke out a few more edits. Video editing requires—for me, at least—an unbroken stream of thought. Big chunks. Four or five hour stretches. I’m more of a “morning & earlier in the day” creative person anyway.

None of this is said with resentment or disdain. I love doing this. I’m just sharing what the editing part involves. Mad props to those content creators who are making a living from it—you are definitely earning it! Other places I can monetize are my blog and through my Amazon Associate store. When you order from an Amazon link I post, I earn a small commission on eligible purchases.

Doing What I Love

In 2019, I finally earned my BS in Communications with an emphasis in Public Relations, Persuasion, and Advocacy from ODU (go, Monarchs!) I’m tapping into that degree now…. using what I went to school for…and looking at every avenue for potential income supplements.

When I love something, I want to share it with everyone–I get passionate about it. Whether it’s

Cooking

Great shopping finds

Fishing

Gardening

Advocating for individuals who have exceptional needs

Music

Cars

Appalachia

Our beloved West Virginia

Our amazing Queen Britni…

And doing it—sharing & promoting—takes a bit more fancy footwork for us than your average folk. Besides Robbie & me, my Mom & Dad are Britni’s only caregivers, and they live an hour away. Britni doesn’t travel well without them with us, so when we make our short trips, she stays with them. For a two-night getaway, we must first ensure they’re available to care for her, then make sure there’s availability for Baxter to stay at Goin’ to the Dogs Pet Resort, then check for accommodations at our destination. As newbies, our outgo is more than our income because we have to spend money to get the content, from which we’ll eventually see a return (you see how I’m thinking positively?).

Makes Me Nervous!

Put $ out to bring $ in? This is way outside of my comfort zone.

But I’m 53.

It’s time.

Plus, the higher the risk, the greater the reward.

And since I’m already out of that comfort zone, I figured I’d go ahead and ask.

Would you like to show your support, and do it at zero cost to you? All it takes is a click or two. A tap on a screen. Perhaps a comment and a thumbs up (I’m not forcing a “like”, but those are much preferred over the ol’ thumbs down). And shares. When you share, it helps us reach people we never would otherwise.

Here’s How

Helping with our YouTube channel is easy. Subscribe, like, comment…and when you set notifications to all, you’ll get an email letting you know when we posted another video. (You can see how to do it here.) The time watched, too, is counted, which goes toward our being eligible for the YouTube Partner Program. Like I said, 4000 watch hours and 1000 subscribers in 12 months is a lot, but it’s not impossible.

Facebook—like the page, like and comment on posts, share on your page. Instagram—leave us a comment, hit that heart.

Just engage.

When you do, it shows these platforms we’re relevant, and they’ll keep pushing our content out there for more people to see. Your engagement doesn’t happen in a silo…it creates a ripple effect. And it is much appreciated. Not only does it help us, we love hearing from you! We love learning what others’ likes and opinions are just as much as we love sharing ours.

If you’re trying to get your business, or your content out there for the masses, feel free to share this information with your audience. Let them know how important these small, quick, and free actions are to you. Things that are too simple often seem like they don’t matter.

But they do.

And for each of you who has read through to this part, and subscribed, liked, shared, and/or commented, we are eternally grateful.

Robbie, Britni, and I thank you!

My Favorite Place in the House!

My Space!

This year brought with it a career change. You may have already seen on my site here that Robbie and I are venturing out into content creation as “Rob and Teresa in Appalachia,” replete with a YouTube channel, Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest. Content creators have lots of equipment (more than I ever realized!), and said equipment needs space to be used and stored.

So.

I had a corner in our bedroom that needed something done with it. We had a new closet built some years ago, and it created this cute “cubby hole” right by a window that sat blank, unused, and undecorated. Matter of fact, it was a catch-all while I was cleaning out closets and dressers and bookshelves…

The job change was my motivation.

I Love Color

The area is only 50 inches wide, and 40.5 inches deep. I needed scaled down versions of a desk, chair, and lamp, and I wanted it to feel fresh, bright, and inspire creativity. I started with the paint. Twenty-nine ounces of paint took care of both walls—HGTV Home by Sherwin Williams is the brand, Parsley Sprig is the color, and I got it in a satin finish. Even though it says one coat perfection, I went ahead & used all of it and put two coats on.

And Light

I found a small, white desk with fabric drawers that fits perfectly in my new office space. It was very easy to put together, too, and I love that it has ribbon lights under the upper shelf. I can change the colors, the brightness, set it to different modes. The drawers hold all of my zip drives, memory cards, charging cords, wireless microphones, mini-tripods, and selfie lights–with room to spare! I hang my gimbal on the side of the desk on one of the two hooks. My larger tripods (not in the photos) can be stored in neatly, propped up in the corner in their cases.

Comfortable Seating & Sounds

For my chair I needed something comfortable, armless, and I wanted white, and this one did not disappoint! It was extremely simple to put together, it swivels, rolls, and the height is adjustable. With the furniture bought, I began placing the accessories/necessities.

Though I’m “tucked away”, so to speak, away from our common living area, I wanted a keyboard that is nearly silent—none of that annoying clickety-clacking. This one has a good feel/response, a rubber keyboard cover, which I leave on while using it, and has an accompanying mouse (it’s also nearly silent). Both are charged via USB, and the charge lasts for months.

The floor lamp fits in with my retro-style and is not overwhelming. For creature comforts, I have a handheld, rechargeable fan that fits nicely on the shelf (and is amazing for this fifty-something’s hot flashes!) And since I’m an audiophile, as well as a Bose junkie, I have the Bose Soundlink Flex, and Bose QuietComfort Ultra Wireless Noise Cancelling Headphones. Sometimes earbuds are irritating and uncomfortable–these headphones are soft as butter. I was blown away by the sound quality, too, whether it’s a phone conversation or music. 10/10 for me.

In all, the desk, chair, lamp, and paint totaled less than $400.

Let’s Add Some Whimsy

Finishing touches included plants, a clock, serotonin and dopamine molecules & West Virginia’s area code cut out of wood and painted a high-gloss navy, and the Lasso of Truth hanging on one of the hooks on the side of the desk. Because. Wonder Woman.

I love getting inspiration from other workspaces. If you have an area you’ve transformed, send a photo! You can email it to robandteresa.wv@gmail.com In a future blog post, I’ll be sharing readers’ transformations—perhaps yours will inspire someone! Don’t forget to follow us on Facebook, Instagram, and Pinterest, and subscribe to our YouTube, too. We’re just getting started but are looking forward to sharing our adventures. And now that I have an awesome creativity corner, the work won’t really be work.

Thanks for reading. Until next time!

Rob & Teresa in Appalachia

Look Who Joined Me!

At the Duke’s Mayo Bowl in Charlotte, NC, December 2023. WVU 30-UNC 10

Robbie and I have ventured out into uncharted territory–we started a YouTube channel. We also have Facebook and Instagram.

Why?

Well, we love Appalachia and we have a lot of fun. Whether it’s family antics, travel, fishing, hunting, gardening, cooking, or cheering on our Mountaineers, we want to share it with you. We’ve watched and enjoyed YouTube creators for a few years now and we often say, “We could do that!”

So….we did.

This year (2024), I was replaced at my job where I worked three days at home and two days in-office, because remote work was no longer an option. I couldn’t be there five days a week, of course, because I care for Britni–this is what made us finally jump in with both feet & create our channel. I’m finally able to exercise my creative abilities!

I’m the tech person, but I have a lot to learn. A lot. But I’ll get there. So, I hope you’ll subscribe and follow along on our journey. We love engagement and will reply to every comment. We’re also looking for recommendations on places to travel. If you have somewhere you’d like for us to go and document for YouTube, let us know where and why. If we go there, we’ll credit you with the recommendation!

Onward & upward. Thank you for being a part of it!

Montani Semper Liberi

@robandteresa #robandteresa

Lip Gloss & Cup Holders

I found this in old files…a recap of Britni’s 16th birthday party in 2008. I can’t believe so much time has passed since then, as I remember this day so vividly.

Lip Gloss and Cup Holders

Ahh…another good day. Britni’s party was haphazardly thrown together, which is so out of the ordinary for me. I’m usually planning and shopping six months in advance for Britni’s birthday parties, but because of some recent life-changing events, this one was “planned” in less than a week.

And a good one it turned out to be.

Her cake was yellow with buttercream frosting–green with yellow trim and a monkey on it. I had them write beside the monkey, “Goin’ Bananas!! Britni is 16!” (I love silly cakes…her 10th birthday she was hooked on the song “Old MacDonald’s Farm” so I had them put ‘E-I-E-I-O my! Britni is 10!’) The banana idea is because…well…she loves bananas! And of the few words she can kind of say, “Banana” is one of them, only she leaves off the “b”.

What did she get?

Ready for summer and ice cream!

She now has $151 and $26 in Dairy Queen bucks. I bought her a too cute tankini in orange and yellow that has orange slices all over it–it even has a sarong. From others she received a life jacket, a monkey beach towel, some bath gel in “Cherry Kiwi” scent, shampoo in coconut scent, a personal, handheld fan w/foam blades to use while she lounges by her pool, bathtub markers, sassy pjs in pink and black leopard print, and some much needed t-shirts. So happy about the DQ bucks…she knows where every Dairy Queen is within a thirty mile radius. We pass one of them after church on Sundays, and yes, more often than not, she gets an ice cream cone–vanilla, dipped in chocolate.

So much activity in my living room and kitchen for about four hours–kids playing with balloons, party horns being blown, squeals of laughter and inquiries for more cake and ice cream. In the midst of it all I looked over to the couch and saw Briana and Britni sitting together. Briana is nine…she told me last year that when Britni grows up, she and her friend Jordon were going to take care of her. “She is going to live with US because she can’t have a boy taking care of her!” Briana proudly announced.

BFFs

I noticed Briana taking the lid off Brit’s new sparkly lip gloss. I thought she would swipe some on her lips, but instead, she said, “Turn around here Britni, let me put some lip gloss on you.” Of course Britni did. Seeing that 9 year old putting lip gloss on my 16 year old’s lips warmed my heart more than one could ever know. While boys roughhoused in the floor bonking each other in the head with balloons and girls sat prissily on the couches, I was making sure guests had plenty to drink and had had all the cake and ice cream they wanted. Britni always seemed to have a friend sitting on either side of her, sometimes they were hugged up and showing off huge smiles while flashes from cameras illuminated the room.

A couple times I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Where is Britni’s drink?” one of her little girlfriends would ask. I’d hunt it down and hand it to them and they’d carry it to her and hold it while she sipped. (Britni can hold her own cup, but I didn’t want to deny them the opportunity to feel so needed by telling them she can do it herself. And to be honest, I think Britni herself allows others to help her that way because she knows it’s helping THEM feel important.)

Different, but wonderful

Her sweet sixteen. If she was a “typical” child she’d be talking about learner’s permits and cars and dates and dances at school and thoughts on where to apply to college next year. Some wonder, “Don’t you miss seeing her do all that?” In a word–no. I can’t miss what I’ve never experienced. My witnessing moments like I did today–the lip gloss on her lips, the cup-holding for her, the green, plastic bead necklace that she chose to wear with her black and white blouse with red patent leather belt–those things more than make up for it.

Yes…another good day.

You can read more about Britni here.

We’re All a Bunch of Logophiles

Proud daughter here.

Mom just had her second book published– My Endearing Appalachia–Memoirs of Southern West Virginia Coalfield Life. Even though I am quite familiar with Appalachia & West Virginia coalfields, and know most of the stories shared in her book, I felt I was learning it all for the first time when I read it. The way she weaves the stories puts you right there with her…in those mountains…hearing those trains in the distance…

Book cover titled My Endearing Appalachia — My Endearing Appalachia

Perhaps some Appalachian stereotypes will be erased after reading Phylenia French’s memoirs. Perhaps some confirmed. Regardless, stepping into that culture and those times through her words on the pages creates a nostalgia. It’s strange to comprehend that an era could simultaneously be difficult and simple, lean and rich.

Mom’s first book–Homespun Yarns; Tales to be Told from the Front Porch Swing–is a sequel of sorts. She shares ~~embarrassing~~ funny anecdotes from adulthood, from learning how to cook to navigating rearing teenagers. It’s not currently in print, but her latest book has resurrected the demand for the first. Hopefully, she can get a second printing!

In Her Own Voice

Radio, too! Ten years ago, Mom was also on West Virginia Public Radio with her Fond Memories of a Mountain Childhood in Appalachia. (I can’t tell you how many friends who aren’t from Appalachia/the south say they love her accent–I don’t hear it, of course.) The next medium for her is television. I’ll talk to her about that.

Even Dad

Yes, my Dad also writes. His story My First Night in the Mines was published in Goldenseal in 1999. You can read a snippet here (just renewed my subscription to the magazine!). He, his dad, and his dad’s dad all worked in the mines in Gary, West Virginia, with the latter having been killed in the mines in the 1930s. In addition to numerous short, historically based stories, Dad wrote So Long, Charlie, about his dad as a young man, and his horse. It hasn’t been mass printed, but it should be!

Passed it Down

Times are changing and time is passing so quickly–I’m so blessed that I have much of their histories written for posterity. Not only did they pass down to me the love of words and writing and storytelling, they passed down to me our history, shared our roots, and have given me a great appreciation of who they are and from where we came. I’m a proud daughter of Appalachia, and a proud daughter of the Frenches.

Thanks, Mom & Dad.

Mrs. B & Me

I couldn’t feel my fingers or toes.

But that was ok. I was on a mission.

christmas golden ornament on artificial coniferous garland with lights — Photo by Uriel Mont on Pexels.com

It was the day Santa was visiting. He’d be at my market pavilion that evening at 5:00PM, and I was preparing for his arrival. Kids were coming and the cookies were ready, and that morning at work, I had the nice surprise of finding extra lights in my storage area. (Our public works team had hung a few hundred feet of icicle lights on the farmers market pavilion the days prior.) Apparently, I, being spatially challenged, had ordered a couple hundred feet extra.

“We’re gonna make this Santa-space twinkly!”

Suddenly, I was Clark Griswold. I envisioned myself singing “Joy to the World” when I flipped the switch. I was working with a blank canvas in a new structure, knowing that no matter how many lights I found a space for, the festive part in my brain would be screaming, “More! More!”

But today…. the task at hand…was to get these lights up.

Interruptions

I was three hours in and the icicle lights were done. Now, lighted garland was being hung in six-foot increments. The sparkly star was up (not in its originally planned place—the wind was too fierce for it. The wind was. a. beast. Brutal, I say!) While I was squinting, standing back, and making sure the lights on the garland were spaced correctly, my Bose speaker belted out Brenda Lee.

About halfway into decking the rails, I noticed a work vehicle pull into the lot. The area isn’t public parking, and this vehicle parked perpendicular to the pavilion. My brain went into overdrive…”wonder what they’re doing”…”hope there’s no tomfoolery”…”am I going to have to ask them to move the truck”…”I’ve never heard of that business….”

The engine is cut off.

Burl Ives is in the background reminding me to have a holly jolly Christmas.

And I begin keeping a side-eye on them as they sit there.

My decorating finally took me to an area that required my facing them. I could keep an eye on them without gawking and I could see what they were up to. Suspicious activity requires that, you know.

I turned, and in the front seat I saw the driver eating something, and a tiny, older lady on the passenger side. “They’re just eating lunch,” I thought with relief.

Four minutes pass, and the passenger door opens. The gentleman comes around, assists the lady out of the truck, she straightens her peacoat, and begins walking in my direction.

“I need to walk around…my legs get stiff,” she said, as she made her way to where I was.

The man had already returned to the truck.

“I understand that!” I replied, as she made her way to me.

“I have issues with the arteries in my legs,” she continued. The doctor said I wouldn’t be walking in three years. That was six years ago. So, I make sure to get up & walk when I can.”

By now, she’d reached the area where I was decorating.

“Well, it looks like you’ve defied the odds—you’re getting around beautifully!”

A hearty laugh seemed to prompt the pointing of her cane. “My son is in that truck. I don’t let him know these things because I don’t want to worry him. He invited me to ride with him today for his work. First time I’ve done this!”

Our conversation seemed to just flow after that. I learned that…

…her bridge “didn’t fit right”

…she worked for an attorney without any formal training when she was 19 years old

… she worked for the railroad after that

…she lived in the very county where I’d previously lived almost 20 years

…she thought my daughter is beautiful (of course I showed her photos!)

…she was shocked I’m old enough to have a 31-year-old child (like I’m going to omit that tidbit…BOOYAH, FATHER TIME!)

…she believed in “divine appointments”

As she kept apologizing for taking me from my decorating, I kept telling her it was quite alright—she’s not taking me from anything.

Elegance & Grace

figurines of christmas trees and skiing reindeer — Photo by Ilo Frey on Pexels.com

I found myself smiling largely the entire time she spoke. Her red lipstick matched her pillbox hat perfectly, and her eyes twinkled more than the thousands of lights I’d just strung. Her white hair reminded me of the soft, fluffy stuff we used for snow in our mini Christmas villages in the 1970s. Like cotton.

“Well, you sure have done a beautiful job,” she said.

(It was just lights, a star, and garland…..)

She told me her name…. but to maintain her privacy, I’ll call her “Mrs. B.”

She told me her age.

Eighty-nine.

Mrs. B used to travel “these parts” with her husband, who had passed some years ago. She’d not been here in a while, and as a matter of fact, she and her son were headed to another town about 30 minutes north of us, but they wanted to stop for lunch.

My town it was.

In a non-parking lot.

Beside my Santa space.

Forty-five minutes had passed, and the feeling in my fingers and toes had returned. I walked her to the truck where her son stood waiting for her, and invited her to come back in the summer for our farmers market.

“Ain’t nothin’ like a homegrown tomato, and we have some of the best!” I told her. “I would love to see you one Thursday during our market season.”

“I may just do that!” she said, as her son helped her into the truck. “You sure have made me want to visit again….thank you!”

I stood, contemplative, as the truck disappeared over the hill. The wind blustered around me.

I pivoted and noticed the lights of Santa’s space. Heard the joyful sounds of Bing Crosby. Felt the tips of my fingers and toes. And noticed I was still wearing a smile.

My mind…my body…my heart….needed this pause…needed this reminder.

Thank you, Mrs. B. I believe in divine appointments, too.

We. Aren’t. Cat. People.

The power that cats have is surprising. I’ve discovered that no one owns a cat. Cats own them!

We are not cat people.

At least, that’s what we’ve said for more than a decade.

But somehow…we always seem to have members of the feline family claim us. We’ve cared for 18 strays since 2009—fed them, had them neutered/spayed, found them homes. We never bring any in to live because, well, we are not cat people.

However.

Our most recent pounce of cats was a litter of five from a momma we called “Loretta.” She was definitely feral—we’d seen her in the neighborhood for a couple years, could never catch her, she stayed a safe distance from us, then one day…. she came waddling to our back yard, belly hanging low while she sniffed for food. We knew what that meant.

Her coat was dull and her eyes matte-looking. No shine anywhere. She was malnourished. Pitiful. Even though I’m not a cat person, I began setting out cans of salmon, tuna, sardines, and kitten food. I caught her eating only at night, when she’d emerge from the woods behind us and eat like someone was going to take it from her. This went on a week or two then we didn’t see her for a month. I wondered if she’d been hit by a car, taken in by someone, or had chosen another house to frequent for her meals.

But then, from my laundry room window one sunny spring day, I see Loretta emerging from the woods…with five kittens in tow. I immediately thought, “Oooh, no.”

Keep in mind, we’d been taking care of The Jerk (a.k.a. “Wally”) for almost a year. Black Bombay who gladly ate the food we gave him while despising our very presence. We’d put his food out on the wall (hence the name) and he’d come hiss at us, then eat. He was a butthead. We didn’t need another cat, much less five of them—or six if Loretta hung around.

So it begins.

Those babies were helpless. Tiny. Mewing. And adorable. The closest I could get was 10 yards, but I watched them intently through Robbie’s binoculars. I supplied their food & water daily for about three weeks, watched them grow, and noticed Loretta staying to the side…a “hmph” look on her face, combined with a “I will cut you if you get any closer” glare. I made sure they never went without. No animal will be hungry if I have anything to do with it. Even cats.

But one day, they weren’t there anymore. I went out there, yelled for them, and saw no activity. I fretted. Worried a coyote had gotten them, or they’d been run over, or…or….

For three days I continued their feeding routine—food was eaten nightly, but I assumed it was a raccoon or our possum Edgar XV (again, another post) that had enjoyed the meal. On the fourth day, as I walked back to the house from their eat-on-feet delivery, I noticed activity by the butterfly bush at the garage. There they were, little orange, white, and grey balls of fluff, Loretta sitting on the wall watching them. She was bringing them to us because she trusted us. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

But dang. A litter. And we’re not cat people.

They took up residence in our garage, and I’ll admit, we made for a cushy experience. Except for Loretta, we had them all trapped, neutered/spayed, and released (thank you, Sarah & Twin County Humane Society!) Loretta was just too elusive, and I hate we couldn’t get her, too, bless her heart.

Fast forward about nine months. The three orange tabbies had long since left/disappeared/found a home. Mr. Big Stuff and Blanca remain, along with Wally and Mr. Higgins (he’s a Ragamuffin and deserves his own post). I should add that Mr. Big Stuff is now Byg Stuph because we discovered she’s a girl and wanted to give her a fancy-dancy name.

She earned her name because she was the first who would approach us. The first to come out of the garage. The first to eat when food was placed out. I said, “Well, isn’t he a Mr. Big Stuff?” (cue Heavy D!…..I digress).

Her personality has developed and become very evident. She. Loves. Attention. And lovin’s & scrubbin’s. She also loves popcorn and fighting with Blanca. They fight like, well, siblings (Blanca can hold her own and I have photos to prove it. If interested, let me know in the comments).

Anyway.

The door was open last night and in she came–jumped on the couch with me and started rooting around for a comfy spot. I let her do what she was wanting to do just so I could see what she was wanting to do. She sat beside me awkwardly for about five minutes until she stepped up on my lap, curled up, and snoozed. Her motor was going 90% of the time. She was warm and rumbly. I decided to leave her be.

Byg Stuph the Lover

I started getting cold & asked Robbie if he thought she’d be disturbed if he put a blanket over me.

She wasn’t.

Her purrs emanated a Roush-like quality, and I found myself adjusting my breathing with hers. She snuggled…warmed my lap…and purrrrrred. I started to relax with her.

cat lying beside woman — Easing her way in….

Over the course of 90 minutes, Byg Stuph napped like she’d probably never napped before. I could run my thumb over her nose, hold her paw in my hand, play with her toes, and she continued to snooze. I never thought cats did this. I never considered them snuggle bugs. But here she was, relishing it all, belly-to-belly with me, and it hit me that she knew I could be trusted–my thick, Mac & Bob’s sweatshirt adding to her comfort. Not only that, she liked my company.

cat sleeping — Every breath was a purr….

Pretty huge stinkin’ feat for a cat.

And for me.

Her sister Blanca crouched at the open door, watching the whole time. Delusions of grandeur overtook and I imagined both of them, snuggled and purring on me. They’re a bonded pair (of course) and I so want her to experience the same affection her sister receives. I called for her, but she gave me the cat-finger and turned her butt toward me.

One step at a time.

Had it not been bedtime and I had to get up from the couch, I think Byg Stuph would have stayed there until morning. We have a thing, she & I (Blanca & I will, too—I promise). If Loretta ever visits again, I want to tell her I am honored that she trusted us with her babies. We gotcha, Loretta. Your babies are safe, warm, fixed, inoculated, and loved with us…even though we’re not cat people.

Thank you, sweetheart. We hope that you’ve found a safe place of your own. Byg Stuph & Blanca will be sure to have a long, cushy life together, and we’ll forever mention you as “that momma” who gave them to us.

*Looking for a way to keep kitties warm without worrying about electricity? This microwavable warming disk works great, and the heat lasts through most of a night. https://amzn.to/490bcUv

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Significance

If my eyes were closed, I’d feel like I was on my side porch in the summer, listening to the rain, the swing gently swaying front…back…front…back…

And as I watched her, I think she was thinking the same.

The Queen has had a few weeks of absolute astuteness (is there such a word?) She’s been awesome in letting me know what she needs & wants. Fuzzy socks. Her sunglasses cleaned. The car window down because she smells a dead skunk.

No worries, chinquapin, we rollin’ all four down!

She’s also seemed wired up, as I say. Full speed ahead. Rare form. Active.

Not bad things, mind you. Just “on” things.

So, I accommodate.

Night time routines

This evening, I readied her for bed. I collected her pj’s, a fresh towel, washcloth, and changed her bed sheet, while she sat on the potty reading a 13-month-old edition of my Harvard Business Review.

It was bath time.

Every time for the past few decades, I’ve had two methods of bath time: let the water run to warm, lift her into the tub, and remove the wand to rinse her while she sits in the tub; or fill the tub, add Epsom salt, baking soda, and lavender oil, and hold my arms under her to give her buoyancy to aid in the relaxation, then rinse accordingly.

But tonight…tonight I was going to let her experience something new.

A shower.

I stood her and stepped her over into the tub, the shower head spraying a rainstorm (that’s the setting) into the tub. Instead of sitting her down, I let her stand. Back to the spray. Water pitterpatterpitterpattering on her, warm water running down her head, to her back, shoulders, to her arms, and exiting out of her fingers that positioned themselves in front of her, tip-to-tip on each hand, as if instructing the droplets where to go.

Stillness.

She tilted her head slightly back and closed her eyes. I just knew she was relishing the feeling of the water cascading down her shoulders to the tips of her fingers. She stood silent. Motionless.

And I let her relish.

I was, too.

The power of water

We stood for 3 minutes. Then 5. Then 8. I worried that the water would turn cold. Or my arms would grow weak. Or her legs would give out. The water seemed to turn into tiny, rubber beads that bounced off her now caramel-colored hair. They ricocheted in unison. A cadence formed as we stood, her with her eyes closed, hands out with palms facing toward her, my hands and arms holding her weight…so she could experience what we all (at least most) have. I noticed her eyes closed, and a contented smile on her face as she soaked in her standing-shower experience. And I….became lost in the moment…my shirt soaked…my jeans now stuck to my legs.

It was bedtime.

I turned her, sat her down, and bathed her like I’ve done the past three decades. She was pliable, mellow, smiling, and what I perceived as happy for enjoying her first shower. Once finished, I stepped her over the side of the tub, dried her, lotioned and powdered her, combed her hair, sprayed it with Pravana (how’d she become so bougie??) and donned her in her cozy pjs—a combo of a t-shirt/sweatshirt and long-johns/fuzzy pants. And fuzzy socks. Have to have fuzzy socks.

To bed she goes. Teeth brushed. Drink of water. Monkey bear presented. Prayers said. Kisses given. Obligatory photos & videos…

“Yes, you’re beautiful,” I tell her. She feels prissy, and fresh, and relaxed and calm and Zen-like.

And I’m all emotional.

Thirty-one and-a-half years and she has her first shower. I’m thankful that He shows me the “little” things that can make a huge difference. The “little” things that bring huge joy.

I know I’ll never see mine the same….

Thank you, God, for making the seemingly insignificant so significant. It really does matter.

Sunsets and Serendipity–West Virginia

It happened again.

A chance encounter with a fellow sunset-photographer reminded me of one of the reasons I love West Virginia.

Robbie and I had gone to Pipestem, WV for a birthday celebration weekend. Saturday afternoon brought downpours, lightning, thunder—and while it did shorten our fishing excursion at the lake, it didn’t lessen our enjoyment. As a matter of fact, it added to it. There’s something about thunderstorms and cabins in the woods….

As the rain turned into a drizzle and the sun began pushing her way through the retreating storm clouds, the quickly changing light told us there’s a beautiful sunset to be seen, so we drove to the nearest overlook behind McKeever Lodge. Another lady stood there, phone in the air, taking photos of the continually changing scene. Seeing us drive in like an Andretti, she turned & said with a laugh, “You better hurry up, it’s changing so much.”

I took my place beside her and began capturing the breathtaking scene that changed from fog to fog and mountain to sun to bursts of orange and red to fog and mountain and sun and….

It was like a sky kaleidoscope.

Sunset Fog — The breathtaking view on a March evening in Pipestem, WV

After about three minutes of silence and reverent appreciation of the scene that lay before us, my photog partner turned & said “I live just down the road.” She gave us her general area, to which Robbie told her that his cousins live there, too, and told her their names.

“Oh, yes! I go to church with them!” We all laughed and agreed what a small world it is. Robbie told her his full name and said, “Tell them you met me.” The lady—even more surprised—said, “I used to work with a man with the same name!”

The world just got even smaller. She worked with my father-in-law 30+ years ago.

In true, West Virginia fashion, we quickly added one another on social media and are now friends.

I love my home state—and this is one of the many reasons. We instantly connect with and are drawn to other West Virginians. No matter how long you’ve been transplanted somewhere else.

Rewind to Friday

We arrived on Friday before check-in time, so we drove to every overlook to take photos. We drove through the campground where I used to stay with my parents & brother in the 70’s & 80’s when we borrowed Pop-Aw’s camper. I pointed out “our spot”, showed Robbie the stretch of pavement where I skated in the rain and finally learned how to turn a bike around while riding it (turning terrified me), the place where—at about four years old–I stepped in a pile of horse poo while wearing flip-flops, and how the smell of toast and the sound of crows always remind me of camping in Pipestem.

I showed him the shelter where we had a huge family picnic one year. Adjacent to the overlook where I captured the sunset photos, this shelter had giant rocks in the woods that we kids (a slew of us cousins) played on. When you’re five years old and you’re standing on a giant rock, you feel you can conquer the world. The smell of charcoal and moss, the sound of a radio playing AM Gold (think Captain & Tennille, Maxine Nightingale, England Dan & John Ford Coley), skinned knees, bottles of pop (glass bottles at that!) and terrycloth tank tops…. all made for a perfect day at Pipestem with family and friends.

The shelter to the right, the “giant” rocks in the center and to the left. Hard to believe it was 45 years ago that I played in those woods.

Back to 2021……

Check-in time arrived. Even though the young lady who checked us in was wearing a mask, I could see she smiled warmly the whole time. Her eyes crinkled. She had that West Virginia accent that has become even more obvious to me the longer I’ve lived away. “If y’all need anything at all, just dial zero from the phone in the cabin and that will connect you with us. We want y’all to have a wonderful stay with us here at Pipestem.”

Welcome to The Neighborhood

We drove the quarter mile to the cabin. Robbie had never stayed at or seen the inside of these cabins, (I have quite a few times), so I was eager for him to see it. When we walked in, he immediately felt at home and was ready to build a roaring fire in the stone fireplace.

It was 72 degrees outside, so I asked him to wait until it was actually cool. He was somewhat disappointed, but agreed.

We had 2 bedrooms, living room, full kitchen, bathroom, deck that overlooked the woods, and my favorite…crank out windows. I immediately cranked every. single. one. out so we could hear the outside and feel the mountain breezes.

I unpacked refrigerated items and began preparing for 4 guests that evening. After that, we took a walk through our weekend neighborhood. The cabin-dwellers to the left of us were unpacking their truck and threw up their hand and shouted a hearty “Hello!” We returned the greeting, to which they replied, “No better place to welcome in Spring, is there? Isn’t this wonderful?” Of course, we agreed. I looked at their tags—Ohio. Welcome to West Virginia, I thought.

Fast-forward 7 hours. We sat on the deck in the darkness, bellies full from a great dinner and roasted marshmallows, and listened to the night sounds. At that moment in time, there was no place I would rather have been.

Saturday morning was sunny. We loaded up the fishing poles and made the hike down to the lake. West Virginia Gold Rush was happening, so I was eager to slay some trout. I was prepared to be exhausted and sore from all the fish I would be reeling in, but I knew it was a small price to pay if I’m going to be a master fisherwoman. Plus, I had Super Duper and Power Bait. It was ON. (You can learn more about WV Gold Rush here.)

The walk down to the lake was much easier than the walk back.

An hour later, not even a nibble. (In my defense, they hadn’t stocked that lake yet.) Didn’t matter though. I still spent an hour on the lake. In West Virginia. With my husband.

And I even bought the sweatshirt.

The clouds gathered and we knew rain was coming. We rode the back way to Hinton (I do NOT recommend it for those not familiar with driving narrow, curvy, partially washed out, on the side of a mountain roads). Hinton is adorable. I want to make another trip just to walk the sidewalks, get photos of the old architecture and brick streets, and eat at one of the locally owned restaurants there. But I digress…

After Hinton, to Athens we went—Moe’s specifically—I needed a pizza pie.

On the way back to Pipestem, hot pie on my lap, the rain poured down. I was eager to get back, listen to the rain in the woods, and Robbie would finally get to build that fire.

The next 4 hours saw pizza, a roaring fire replete with the crackle and pop and hiss, 4 games of poker, one game of Spades, and a fox sighting by Robbie (I always miss the wildlife!). We decided to head to The Black Bear Café, where we had more pizza (those who know me are not surprised) and wings. But first, the serendipitous trip to photograph God’s artwork with the gorge, the mountains, the sun, and the fog.

That night, we climbed into bed at 10:30. We knew more storms were coming in, and eagerly anticipated hearing the rumble of the thunder and the pattering of the rain on the roof. The storms didn’t disappoint. At 3:30 a.m., we were awakened when the thunder shook the cabin. While frightening to some, to me it was a melodic mountain lullaby. What a glorious ending to a magnificent weekend.

West Virginia will always have my heart. It was there where my roots were formed, roots that stretch deep into the coal-seamed dirt, the roots that developed our hill-folk accents, attachment to pots of pinto beans & cornbread, and instant familial connection to anyone else who calls her home. Just like the lady we met at sunset.

The most comfortable bed you’ll ever sleep on

Until we meet again…Wild…Wonderful…Almost Heaven…
West Virginia.

Interested in more? You can read author Phylenia French’s Pipestem perspective here.

Canine Connections–Cuddles and Chessney

The Pug on my lap snored. Seventeen pounds of pugloaf created a numbness in my feet, and even though the wait to see the vet for her urinary tract infection was long, I loved seeing all the other wonderful pets coming in and out. The sassy Schnauzer to my left was summoned back about twenty minutes after I’d sat down. During our wait, I made friends with the silky white gal, and her mom showed me photos of her sister (another Schnauzer) and two brothers (Boston Terriers). The lady to the right of me held her tiny Yorkie who was in for a steroid shot. She laughed as she told about all the boys in her family—sons and grandsons—and even the handsome fella on her lap was a boy. “Is yours a girl?” She asked. “Yes, and a diva at that!” I answered. We both laughed. Chessney kept snoring.

The bell on the door jingled and I turned to see who would be joining us in the crowded waiting room.

A beautiful old gal with a rust-colored coat and eyes wide from cataracts waddled in behind a tall lady and in front of a woman carrying a baby in a carrier—her entourage had obviously accompanied her. She panted and appeared to check out everyone in the waiting room—perhaps searching faces to see if she recognized anyone. Perhaps curious about the furballs on laps or lying on the floor by their owners’ feet.

Her name was Cuddles. I heard the Tall Lady tell the receptionist in the back that she’d not been to this vet in a while, and her address had probably changed from the one they had on file. The receptionist called out the one on file. “No, that’s my old one…” she said, then proceeded to give her the new one.

Cuddles walked as far as her lead would allow on the other side of the room. Sniffing. Greeting. Slowly exploring her environment. I heard the receptionist ask, “Do you want her ashes?”

My throat constricted. Don’t look at Cuddles! Don’t get attached to her! Look away! Don’t let that first tear fall! I felt sucked into a vortex, stuck between wanting to offer condolences and support and wanting to run around back where I saw goats in a pin and bawl like a baby–no one would see me there.

I didn’t hear the Tall Lady’s answer.

The woman with the baby looked around the Tall Lady’s shoulder and said, “I will be in there with her.”

The receptionist comes over with a paper to sign, and it was then that the Tall Lady let the tears flow. I heard hushed communication between the worker and her, an “I’m sorry” and an “I know it’s hard,”—I was thankful for the obvious compassion.

The Tall Lady sits beside me and takes the baby in the carrier onto her lap, and hands the lead to who I learned is her daughter. She immediately goes into “Mimi” mode and her tears are turned to smiles. The infant with the giant blue eyes was her grandbaby—full of smiles and the cutest dimples you ever saw. The Yorkie Mom and I focused on the baby and spoke of her sweetness. To be honest, I was thankful for the distraction. We asked the baby’s age. Her name. How many grandbabies the Tall Lady has.

Cuddles was on the other side, still checking out the other patients. Two snapped at her. Everyone laughed because both irritable pooches were fewer than 10 pounds. One reprimanded their tiny pooch, “She [referring to Cuddles] will eat you alive!”

I was doing okay redirecting my thoughts. Not ruminating on what was to come for the sweet old girl. Then here she came, waddling over between the Tall Lady and me. She approached the still-sleeping Pug, and the Tall Lady said, “Cuddles, she’ll snap at you, too!” I laughed. “She doesn’t know how to do that—no worries—she will love Cuddles.” More laughter.

Chessney awakened from the touch of Cuddles’ nose to hers. Her snoring stopped. She just sat still…barely touching noses with her new acquaintance. Cuddles panting paused, they locked eyes, and I reached down to stroke her soft, fluffy head. “You’re a sweet girl, yes, you are,” I said. The Tall Lady told us she had been such a wonderful companion, and she’d just reached that point….kidney failure, unreliable legs….

She wiped her tears. I stifled mine.

I ran the back of my hand against Cuddles’ muzzle. Chessney leaned in and touched noses with her one more time and lingered just a second longer, right before a lady came out of the door and called Chessney’s name. I stood, shook my feet a bit to get the feeling back in them, and headed to the exam room, petting Cuddles one more time as I went….

I don’t pretend to know what dogs think. I choose to believe they know things on a level that we don’t–I’ll believe that until the day I take my last breath. And if there was any doubt about it before, this interaction in the waiting room made me believe it even more.

Cuddles and Chessney connected on a canine level, and I was privy to see it, to be a part of it. I was able to be a part of Cuddles’ life—albeit in a tiny way—prior to her transition. I was able to show her love, and admiration, and bring her comfort through the stroking of her mane and the sharing of my flat-faced diva. Where I at first was terrified of connecting with Cuddles because of the sadness I would feel and the empathy that washed over me for her family, I’m so thankful that she chose to introduce herself to Chessney, and give me the honor of meeting her, too.

Rest well, sweet Cuddles, until your family sees you again…..

“I think God will have prepared everything for our perfect happiness. If it takes my dog being there in Heaven, I believe he’ll be there.“ Rev. Billy Graham