Author: Catherine

The other day, I was sitting at a red light waiting to turn left when a car pulled up on my right side. We both were waiting for a green light.

The man driving the car next to me rolled down his window, blew his horn, and started waving at me to roll down my window. I looked at him, looked the other way, looked back at him, and he was flapping his arm like there was no tomorrow.

Seriously, he was starting to scare me, but I rolled down the window thinking he was going to tell me something was wrong with my car.

“Jesus Loves You,” is what he said to me.

“Jesus Loves You,” once again.

I sat there thinking this man is going to whip out a gun and shoot me, so I waved, rolled up the window, and prayed like you know what that the light would change right away (which it didn’t). He kept staring at me as if he expected me to carry on a conversation with him. It was very strange.

So, yesterday morning I was driving home from the doctor’s office, and some man in front of me had his window rolled down, and he was waving at each car that passed by. No joke! Each on-coming car got a big ol’ wave from his big ol’ hand.

I was thinking, “This can’t be the same man, can it?” and slowed down a bit.

He turned left. I went straight.

End of story.

© Catherine Evermore. All rights reserved.

Way back in the day … I mean before some of you were even born … I moved to in a small southern town that supported dirt track auto racing. The women were way too pretty for their own good, and the men always had a wad of tobacco tucked in their cheeks and talked like they had marbles in their mouths.

Did I mention the men wore tight jeans?

I was the new girl in town. It was a small town and word got around fast.

“Hey! Did you meet the new girl in town? I hear she’s from the big city.”

Anyway, it was a friendly little town, and people were always inviting me here and there to meet other friendly people. That’s how I ended up at the dirt track.

Dirt track auto racing was a big Saturday night event, and half the town showed up to cheer for their favorite driver. People would come from miles away on dirt track racing night. As it turned out, there were other dirt tracks sprinkled throughout the neighboring towns. Once, we ventured as far away as Valdosta, Georgia.

The brother of a new friend had two friends who owned a dirt track race car. We were in high cotton because we got to watch the race from the back of a pickup truck down in the pits.

Being much younger back then, hopping on and off the tailgate of the truck was easy. Once, I almost caught the hem of my jeans on a something or other, which would have put me face down in the dirt. There’s an art to hopping off the tailgate of a pickup truck.

After each Saturday night race, we would head on down to the all-night diner for breakfast. I think the only time the diner stayed open all night was on dirt track racing night.

Did I mention how dirty everyone was after the race?

Being a squeaky clean kind of gal, I soon learned that a little dirt (or mud) on my face wasn’t the worst thing in the world. By then, I had learned to dress appropriately for race night: jeans, boots or thick sneakers, a long t-shirt with the number of my favorite dirt track race car on the back, a ball cap with my hair twisted up under the cap, and a bit more than usual makeup.

You had to be there to appreciate the look.

Two years later, I moved back to the big city. After a few road trips to visit my friends in Small Town, USA, we all moved on, some moved away, and a few passed away. My dirt track auto racing days had come to an end.

Last I heard, they torn down the all-night diner to make way for a four lane road that goes right through the middle of town.

© Catherine Evermore. All rights reserved.

The Grisham’s are stacked over there on top of a nightstand, and the alphabet series is spread out over three bookcases. Ms. Cornwell is here and there, and if you won’t laugh, I have a section on erotica somewhere in the closet. A few Janet Evanovich books have been added to my collection, and they are stacked on a ladder-back chair in the dining area. She’s new to me, so I’m saving her for a rainy day.

My father’s and grandfather’s Oz books by L. Frank Baum and later Ruth Plumly Thompson date back to 1915 (there are three different books). There is Tennyson’s Poems that must have belonged to my great-grandmother (dated 1896), and let’s not forget The Blue Book of Social and Friendly Correspondence (dated 1922). I have several other books that belonged to my parents and grandparents, as well as books for children that my siblings and I enjoyed when we were young.

Through the years, I have collected a few Bibles, but none is more beautiful than our family Bible, which dates back to 1873. Actually, there are two family Bibles, and my sister has the other one. I should ask her about the date.

For some reason, I have a collection of dictionaries. The same is true for cookbooks that came from my mother’s kitchen. I’m a card-carrying member of the world’s worst cooks organization. Okay, there probably isn’t such an organization, but the title fits.

Dad’s Carrier Cruise Annual (1950-51) is displayed quite nicely, as is a model of one of the aircraft he flew. My uncle sent me his three volumes of Lee’s Lieutenants by Douglas Southall Freeman (dated 1943 and 1944). I’ve yet to read them.

I have slim books and fat books, hard covered books and soft covered books, paperbacks that have yellowed with age and books that are begging to be read. Mysteries, poetry, history, art, travel, and the old self-help books all grace my bookcases, table tops, and various other places. A few classics are thrown in for good measure.

Books, books, books … and now they come in LARGE print. No more squinting at small print found in paperback books. Soft covered books and hard covered books in LARGE print is a true blessing to these old, tired eyes.

Well, I could go on and on, but I won’t …

Have a nice day!

© Catherine Evermore. All rights reserved.

We do this bit by bit. We let others into our lives … our private nooks and crannies and secret places. We trust that they are who they purport to be, just as we are honest about ourselves. Then it begins.

We share our deepest thoughts and feelings. We allow others to see our good and funny and thoughtful and sad and intelligent and grumpy and vulnerable sides. We are multi-faceted, I suppose.

We share phone numbers and addresses and emails and screen names and birthdays. We discuss family and friends, as if we all lived in the same neighborhood. We share photographs and Web cams and voice chats and phone calls … things meant to bring each other into focus … into our real world.

We trust. We love. We give. We take. We get angry. We misunderstand. We get hurt, and then we give it one more try hoping to make things better.

We cry for ourselves because we feel stupid and silly and cheap and used and tossed aside as if we never existed, and we wonder if we will ever trust again.

We do and so it begins as if it never ended. We forgive and move forward; oftentimes, we forget. We are, after all, just human beings.

© Catherine Evermore. All rights reserved.

My friend asked me how I am doing in my new role as a cancer survivor. Good question. Thankful and grateful certainly comes to mind.

Each day is different. There are days when I feel full of energy that might last through the morning. On these days, I do early morning errands and return home before noon. I rarely go out in the afternoon.

There are days when I have no energy at all, so I stay inside and watch old TV shows, movies, or read a book. Sometimes I take a nap.

Yesterday, I weighted myself and I’ve lost 35 lbs. since March (when I started chemo). Because I don’t exercise on a daily basis, on the days that I make it to Target I do a few laps around the store. It’s been too hot to walk outside as I have to wear something on my head, long sleeves and pants. I refuse to wear socks now that I’m no longer going for chemo.

I’m still using a cane for balance.

Food is of little interest. I’m a terrible cook. Seriously. I am. Some foods still have no taste while other foods are tolerable. For the longest time everything tasted like metal. Now it just tastes blah.

I’m alive. I have the normal fears that the cancer might return. Today, I have a sore throat, so I’m constantly checking for swelling on the side of my neck. That’s how I found out I had cancer. A lump.

My hair is trying to come back but it looks more like baby hair than anything else. I wonder what it will look like when it completely grows out? It doesn’t look like I’m going to be a redhead (not that I ever was).

So, that’s where I am today. Alive. Cancer free. Thankful. Loving and loved.

~Catherine

© Catherine Evermore. All rights reserved.