[ Tuesday, March 29, 2005 ]
It's been an interesting weekend, filled with heart attacks, horror, laughs, a few minor strokes & maybe even some heartbreak.
Friday I broke down & went to the doctor. I hate, hate, hate going to visit a doctor, any doctor. I'd rather be beaten severely about the neck, chest & head as to haul my ass into a doctor's office. I especially hate THE waiting room. Even more so, ANY waiting room ANYWHERE in Eastern Kentucky. It takes a great deal of self-loathing to subject one's self to that kind of torture.
And it is torture, believe me.
The smell emanating from the walls is unlike anything I've ever smelled. It's entirely encompassing and I'm assuming, has been embedded in the paneling for years, after having first taken over the carpet & all things fabric. Sour. It's the smell of sour, sour people. Hundreds, thousands, millions of sour, sour people huddled in one tiny space over the course of ten years. It's the smell of people who haven't bathed all winter, who haven't even glanced at a bar of soap in months, who've awakened each morning & put the same pair of overalls on not bothering to wash up as far as possible, down as far as possible, much less wash possible.
There are a lot of myths perpetuated about the people in eastern kentucky.
Some of them are true.
Having worked at a Family Dollar Store on the first & third of any given month, I've seen what comes rolling out of these hills shortly after government checks are distributed. And it's not a pretty sight. It will scare the gooseshit out of you. The Woodsmen. My first encounter with The Woodsmen occurred moments before I began to close up shop. I noticed an odd looking elderly fellow walk in. He purchased one item & left the store, never saying a word. Seconds later, a younger version of the old man walked in. He paid for his item, handing me a tightly wadded five, hands mangled, nails longer than any I could ever wish for & surrounded by enough dirt to grow an acre of corn. I wasn't too spooked. I figured they were together, maybe they forgot something they needed. I didn't look at the parking lot to see if they actually were together or if they had left. Seconds later, an even younger version of the old man walks in. He buys one item. A bar of soap. Pays for it. His hands are lily white. They look Palmolive soft. Nails clean & long, although the rest of him is covered in filth, including his greasy long mullet hid underneath an oily cap. He smiles an ignorant looking grin. I assume I'm the first woman he's seen in a forever. My skin crawls. I watch him walk out to the parking lot. I want to make sure he leaves. He crawls in the truck, nestled between the old man & his brother. They sit in the parking lot forever, then eventually, the truck begins to growl & they leave. I mentioned these people to my manager. I learn they're The Woodsmen. No one really knows who they are except that they live alone in the woods at Stillwater & they only do their shopping at night. From then on, The Woodsmen became my fascination. My friend Andrea & I would tail them any time we saw their truck roll through Campton. We would catch them, always around the first of the month, always after dark, making calls from a pay phone. The oldest brother, I assumed, handled all the business. The youngest, I can only guess, is in charge of meals & the wash. That's the only way I can explain his lily white hands.
This is what we have in the hills. Lots of these people. Some far far worse, than The Woodsmen could ever be. (Two of my friends used to work for the ambulance service & one sight, as they told it, was almost too much to believe. A member of the family needed transportation to the hospital. When they arrived in the ambulance, they witnessed a man chained to a porch post with a log chain. He was wild & growling & pulling at the chain, trying to get to M & W. Inside, they recovered the patient after almost being stabbed by a wild sibling, & transported her to the hospital where nurses tried to remove her bra only to find that it was embedded in her skin & had to be surgically removed.)
So some stories are not myths. They're sadly true. And you can bet that one of the places these people visit while making their rounds, besides the grocery store & dollar store, is a doctor's office. Now imagine the smell. ( I half expected to turn around and see some boy playing the banjo, with his legs crossed & a smile spread from ear to ear. If I'd heard anything that even sounded like 'You sure do got a purty mouth', I would've pooped on myself & ran screaming to the truck. )
Imagine having to sit in that waiting room two hours, surrounded by the worst dye jobs you've ever seen, knowing you have a sinus infection & bronchitis. Knowing that you need antibiotics to clear it up. Imagine sitting in that waiting room two hours, finally hearing your name, sitting in another holding cell 45 minutes only to have a physician's assistant walk in, ask you what's wrong, listen to your lungs, then say "You have sinus infection & a touch of bronchitis. Antibiotics & cough syrup ought to clear that right up." I could have saved our time & just told someone at the window what I needed.
My Friday was hell. Eastern Kentucky hell. But finished off nicely with a good dose of medicine & a win against Utah.
Saturday, Dave & I went to Marcy's for dinner & an Easter egg hunt. I was pretty excited, wanting to watch Cody find eggs. This is his second Easter & now the little thing can run all over the place. He found plenty of eggs, although it took a while for me & Lisa to convince him to actually pick them up. He would walk over to one, point. Then walk on to the next. Finally he got the hang of it & started pulling them off tree limbs. He's learned so many new words, one of them being 'shit'. He dropped that one Saturday & was scolded immediately. It's hard to keep a straight face when he whips that out. And especially when he uses it in context. When he's trying to open something up or drops a toy & says 'shit'. I hold it in & then laugh when his back is turned. We sat on the porch forever Saturday, telling stories, laughing, making plans to hit the beach this summer & just had a really great time.
Sunday, we hung some paintings (the one posted below, The Dreaming Tree) above the bed, suspended by fishing line & Dave (did I mention he's a good cook?) made ham, potato salad & baked beans & his mom & sister came over for dinner.
We watched the Kentucky/Michigan State game. Had the first heart attack of the weekend when Patrick Sparks took a three point shot (after two failed attempts) with 1.2 seconds left on the clock. Dave let out a whoop & did a little dance when the ball went in. We went to overtime. Then double overtime. Ended up losing to Michigan. Nobody was happy.
Sunday night was also the season finale of Carnivale on HBO.
My fascination with it began a little late. I didn't watch any of it last season. And had only seen a couple of season 2 episodes. Thank God for TiVo. Dave had them all & one Friday began my obsession with the goodness that is Carnivale. It is absolutely the best show I've seen in a forever. The battle between good & evil, light & dark, surrounded by the most interesting group of characters. It's still up in the air whether or not it will be brought back for a 3rd season. Last night's episode just left so many questions lingering though. I felt like I needed to watch it again. Shortly after it ended, we checked the message boards to see if any discussion was going on. We found a Carnivale chatroom (I think that means we're officially dorks.) & several of the actors were in there to take questions although it was impossible to keep the crowd that swarmed under control. It was just crazy & filled with mods who spent the night typing "Shut up. Let them answer. This isn't how it works." "SHUT UP." It's a great little show though, and if you haven't watched it, you should. It's clever & interesting.
I hate to see it go.
~ Rebecca 12:36 AM [+]
