Last But Not Least

My best friends. Mushroom ramble, circa summer ’14

A handful of readers have recently asked to hear more from Penny, and that’s real sweet. Truth is, though, it’s probably not gonna happen; as I’ve mentioned previously, Penny is not drawn to the computer for anything but what she considers essential tasks. And I do mean “essential:” Back when we were working on the forthcoming tome (and it just now occurs to me that if you really want to hear from her, you should just buy the book, ’cause it’s in large part hers), she actually wrote her contributions by hand, generally on scraps of paper liberated from the recycling bin in the pantry.

As you might imagine, this was enormously frustrating for me, since it meant that I had to transcribe literally tens of thousands of her words over the year or so we spent writing the book. If there’s a price to pay for love, I suppose this was mine, though we’re fairly young yet: Who knows what she’ll spring on me next?

Still and all, I loved working on that book with her, I really did. And I think it’s a testament to our relationship that we were able to pull it off with only the occasional passing irritation (and the black eye I sported for awhile? I, um, walked into a door… yeah, that’s it). We’ve always been good at working together; maybe not perfect, but good. We have a very different approach at the outset of projects – putting it mildly, Penny’s more detail oriented than I am – but once we’re into the nitty gritty, we’re both bull n’ jammers. Believe you me, we’re flawed a dozen ways to Sunday, but one aspect of our collective character I take some small pride in is our ability to git ‘r dun. Somewhere we have a picture of Penny hanging drywall when she was 9 months preggers with Fin. I’d post it, but one black eye per year is already one more than enough.

For a variety of reasons that will be revealed over the coming weeks and months, we’re going to be relying on our git ‘r dun ability pretty heavily over the coming year. I don’t mean to sound too opaque; it’s just that it’s sometimes a little tricky balancing the private and public spheres of our life. Honestly, I never imagined this blog would attract even half the reach it has, and while I try very hard to not self-censor based on the breadth of my readership, I can’t say I’m entirely unaffected by it.

Anyway. For those who have expressed interest in hearing more from Penny, I have two thoughts. First, by the book. And not just because I want/need you to buy it (though would that not be reason enough? I think it would), but because of the 120,000 or so words, I bet a third or more are hers, not to mention the 200 or so pictures she contributed, only some of which have appeared on this blog. Second, realize that even though I’m the one writing in this space, my life and ideas (and by extension, the bits and pieces of my life and ideas I share here) have been irrevocably shaped by my wife. Only those of you who know us personally can fully appreciate how fortunate I am to have this be so.

And finally, last but not least:

Miss Mama

Miss Mama is 32 years old. She is short and stout and far prettier than she believes herself to be. She lives outside Peoria, Illinois with her 7 year-old son, Horace. By day, Miss Mama works as a librarian in a local elementary school. Two nights per week, she pole dances at The Jug Factory, a so-called “gentleman’s club” (for my mid-western readers, she works Thursdays and Saturdays, and usually goes on around 9:25. Just sayin’). Miss Mama takes pride in her dancing, which she took up in the aftermath of her husband Franklin’s untimely death and the concurrent loss of his income (there was no life insurance policy).

Franklin was a storm chaser who disappeared in 2012 when the tornado he was filming veered off course. Miss Mama grieves his passing most acutely in the winter nights after she returns from her shift at the Jug Factory. She lies in bed until dawn, listening to Franklin’s voice in the wind as it slaps against the thin walls of her single-story home. He tells her that he is ok. He tells her to to try and remain grateful for the years they had together. But it is not easy. 

Miss Mama’s favorite band is Blackberry Smoke. She particularly likes this song. She does not know it yet, but sometime in the second quarter of 2015, the owner of the Jug Factory, whose earnest charm and general kindness toward all creatures great and small bely the stereotype suggested by his career path, will ask for her hand in marriage. Franklin’s voice in the wind will give his blessing and she will accept.

And in the third quarter, Miss Mama will win the Illinois state lotto.