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On Twenty-One Years of Marriage: Dinner and a Movie

Amy Lyles Wilson14 Comments

Twenty-one years ago, the weather in Oxford, Mississippi—where I was married—was like it is this early morning in Nashville, Tennessee—the city I call home. Clear sky and slight breeze. Not as hot as one might fear for a June wedding in the Deep South. Back then I was preparing to walk down the aisle, a forty-something goober who had convinced herself she would never know what it meant to be loved for the long haul by a man. Today I am looking forward to dinner and a movie.

We first met when I was in college, and he was just out of law school. Reconnecting some twenty years later at my father’s funeral, we married the next year in the same church in which my parents had tied the knot in 1948.

I’m always curious why people, when writing or talking about their marriages, feel the need to say, “It hasn’t always been perfect,” or “We’ve had our ups and downs.” Because, well, life. If you were to tell me you’ve never had one upset or a single challenge in your time as a couple, I wouldn’t believe—or trust—you. 

My husband and I do not have glamorous plans for this anniversary. We will not board a plane to Paris or exchange expensive gifts. He will send me roses. Tonight, we will see a movie and have dinner at a restaurant we’ve been wanting to try. It is enough. And we are grateful.

“Writing about Place”: Pilgrim Writers Workshop Summary

Amy Lyles Wilson1 Comment
North Carolina at Its Finest, photo by Amy-Lyles Wilson

I’ve been lugging around a memoir about my father’s death for some fifteen, er, twenty years now. I used to think it was in pretty good shape, but I’ve come to realize how much work it needs to go beyond being a sweet story about a middle-aged woman losing the first man she adored. The old personal-universal conundrum. I at least want it to be broader than one sad daughter surviving her grief and going on to meet another man she could adore: the one she married when she was six weeks shy of her forty-first birthday, some two years after burying her father in St. Peter’s Cemetery in Oxford, Mississippi.

Yes, it’s my first marriage.

One of the ways I’m going to rework the manuscript is by paying more attention to scene setting. Most of the action occurs throughout Mississippi, with stops in Lake Junaluska, North Carolina; Fort Morgan, Alabama; Richmond, Indiana; and Chautauqua, New York. I’m familiar enough with those particular environments that I forgot readers won’t necessarily be right alongside me. I made assumptions with abandon, glossed over facets that need to be detailed, and referred only in passing to historical happenings if I noted them at all. I tossed around neighborhoods and restaurants, street names and landmarks, without much concern for whether readers would catch on. Funny, that, as one thing that bugs me when I read British mysteries, for example, is that I sometimes feel I need a key in the back of the book to understand some of the phrasings and references.

In my writing workshops, many times I’ll focus on a theme or approach that I’m curious about myself. So, in April my Fellow Pilgrims and I read about, learned about, and wrote about place. As it was Earth Day, we also spent time trying out ways we might use nature as a character to go beyond merely noting the weather.

By the end of our time together we had written haikus about trees, relied on nature to prompt childhood memories (wait until you hear the one about my sister driving our parents’ blue Delta 88 into a magnolia tree in the backyard), and committed to going deeper when it comes to setting scenes in our work, regardless of genre. 

Here are the resources we used:

Let us know if you have other resources to recommend and/or if you’d like to share how you handle place in your writing.

Looking forward,

Amy-Lyles

MayBelle Burns It Up: A Ritual for Welcoming the New Year

Amy Lyles Wilson1 Comment

For the past several years, MayBelle and one of her dearest friends in the world have gathered on the Winter Solstice to unburden themselves of what they need to let go of from the preceding year, and offer up what they dream about for the 365 days ahead of them. Her friend, having gone to sleep-away camp many more years than MayBelle, gets a fire going in the fire pit in her backyard, and they each take turns adding twigs and small pieces of wood to keep it glowing. Throughout the year they’ve written words and phrases—maybe a few paragraphs if the topic is something especially hairy—on small bits of paper, which they can read aloud if they so choose before adding them to the flames. The two—who’ve been through a whole lot of life together—then sit in silence and inhale the smoke. Go where the Spirit takes them. They are the kind of friends who can do that, sit without speaking.

Who knows what each of them is thinking?

As for MayBelle, she was happy to let go of an awkward encounter or two and an especially regrettable misunderstanding. A few grammatically incorrect phrases. The calls she didn’t make. The notes she meant to send. For good measure, she burned up some shame, a few 2022 resolutions that never took hold, and a ream of unnecessary worry. On the upside, she’s looking forward to crafting some well-placed words, banging on her new hand drum, and helping people share their stories, her favorite thing. Reduced to ash, she trusts, are the need for approval, the cravings for carbs, and the constant questioning of enough-ness.

There is usually a poem (or two) involved in the friends’ ritual. This year they read Naomi Shihab Nye’s “Burning the Old Year.”

As they say goodbye to their worries, regrets, and burdens, they also give thanks. As they utter aloud their goals for the future, they give thanks. For what was, and what will be. There might be a few tears, and always some words of encouragement and congratulations for having made it through another year mostly intact. Always there is warmth, and wonder, and hope.

What rituals do you have for transitioning into a new year?

Burning the Old Year

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48597/burning-the-old-year

MayBelle’s Former Life

Amy Lyles Wilson2 Comments
Photo by LinkedIn Sales Solutions on Unsplash

At a social gathering over the weekend, in which MayBelle was not, by a long shot, the oldest person in the room, she was asked this question:

“What did you do in your former life?”

Granted, the questioner appeared to be younger than MayBelle, maybe even by fifteen years or so if she were to speculate. MayBelle was taken aback, which is not her favored position. Quickly she realized the woman assumed she was retired. Or capable of having past lives, maybe living in alternate universes.

“I’m still living that life,” said MayBelle, who is pretty good at thinking on her feet, even if those feet are clad in sensible, low-heeled shoes these days. MayBelle is not exactly sure what she meant by that response, but she was trying to give as good as she got. Quite frankly, she found the question well, rude. And misguided.

As MayBelle began to talk about her work in the world, what gives her life, she could see that the questioner was not really all that interested. Just as MayBelle was getting to the good stuff, the part about her belief that it’s the sharing of our stories that saves us, the woman zoned out. Maybe she was looking for someone who had a more scintillating former life.

The encounter reminded MayBelle how important it is not to make assumptions about people. She’s guilty of it herself, although she tries to be careful. More often than not, whenMayBelle has made assumptions, she’s been wrong. And MayBelle hates to be wrong.

Welcome 2022: MayBelle’s Year of “No”

Amy Lyles Wilson10 Comments

Photo by Gemma Evans on Unsplash

MayBelle has not been one, usually, to adopt the “word for a year” practice that has been prevalent on social media for several years now. She likes to avoid fads and trends and the like. But this year she’s in, and her word is “No.” (With all due respect to Shonda Rhimes and her “Year of Yes.”)

When she mentioned this to her church’s women’s group this morning, via Zoom, someone asked if she meant “know.” 

“No,” she responded, already practicing her Word for 2022. Woot! This is partly because she is, more often than not, so hungry for knowledge, so sure she can “figure things out,” that she misses the point entirely. So now she’s trying to know less and trust more. (This is not a new theme for MayBelle, so if you’ve heard it all before, please accept her apologies.)

For MayBelle, this will mean saying “No” to*: 

Buying items she doesn’t need. MayBelle sometimes use shopping as a coping mechanism when she’s feeling sad, lonely . . . insert challenging emotion here _________. (She should also add “Eating my emotions” to the list, but let’s tackle one challenge at a time, shall we?) Practice Run: “I really do have enough scarves, even if that particular shade of mauve is stunning. And Fair Trade. And on sale. And probably the only one available in the world.”

Taking on work projects that don’t suit MayBelle’s schedule or professional goals. (MayBelle is self-employed and lucky to have the luxury of choice.) Because she likes to be needed/sought after/appreciated, MayBelle has more than once signed on for a project that was much more draining than fulfilling. She realizes, of course, that not every task related to her professional life will be fun-tastic, but she’s aiming for equilibrium. (Yay for MayBelle! She’s a Four on the Enneagram and balance is sometimes a challenge for those folks.) Practice Run: “I applaud you for wanting to write a book about the history of foot powder, but I’m probably not the best editor for you.”

Hanging out with folks who don’t want to grow, develop, create, question, wonder, connect, forgive, appreciate . . . insert life-giving practice here ______________. MayBelle realizes there are times when we need to complain and wring our hands, so it’s the people who always adopt such an approach, the ones who don’t even seem to consider there might be another way, that she’s thinking of here. Practice Run: “I respect your right to be so critical, dismissive, and convinced there is only dark in the world. While you’re doing that, I’ll be over here in the sunshine.” 

Thinking she should be able to solve the problems of every single person she encounters. That sounds more grandiose than she’d like, seeing as MayBelle is actually a pretty humble sort, but she has, in the past, inserted herself where she didn’t belong–it was not hers to do, in other words– thinking she could rescue someone/mend a rift/correct an injustice. Practice Run: “I’m sorry you’re experiencing such a hard time. I hope you can find your way to a place of peace. I am happy to pray for you if you like.”

We’ll see how it goes. So far, MayBelle hasn’t bought anything she doesn’t need, eaten more than one serving, or offered to finance someone’s sketchy start up, some three days in to the New Year. It’s a start.

*This list is not meant to be exhaustive….

MayBelle Gets More than She Ordered

Amy Lyles Wilson4 Comments

It doesn’t take much for MayBelle to stop and think of her precious parents. The backdoor neighbor’s cigar smoke makes her hope, just for the tiniest moment, that her father has come for one of their long, rambling conversations that serpentined among politics, religion, books, and culture. He’s been gone for twenty years, and still she gleans from those chats. She enjoyed talking with him over anyone else in the world.

Taking some items to a local nonprofit last week channeled her mother, who seemed always to sense someone in need. Whatever you do, don’t ask MayBelle about the time she want looking for her favorite pair of jeans, the ones with the apple appliqués, only to be told they had been donated. Same goes for her middle sister, whose dolls were given away to some Methodist missionaries’ children without her permission.

“You have plenty,” their mother would say. And they did.

Just yesterday, this:

MayBelle was leaving one of her favorite Nashville lunch spots, The Picnic*, when she stopped for a car to pull into a spot. It was shiny, four-door Mercedes. Gleaming white. An older gentleman parked the car, got out, and walked around to the passenger side. He was smartly dressed, handsome. She’d swear she spotted a pocket square. He helped an older woman out of the car. Probably his wife? Also well dressed, everything matching. Sensible shoes. He placed his left hand on the small of her back and guided her toward the door. They were both elegant, slow movers. And then: A teenage boy opened the door to the restaurant and waited for them to make their way inside. Patient. Kind. In such a world as today’s where rudeness seems to prevail and manners seem almost obsolete, these tender gestures about broke MayBelle. (MayBelle apologizes if she seems a bit jaded today. A weekend trip to a crowded mall has her evaluating all of civilization.)

These two intimate interactions made MayBelle think of all the ways her parents cared for one another, with such concern and respect. And it made her think of how hard her oldest sister and brother-in-law have worked to raise their three lovely children to be thoughtful and courteous. And it especially made her want to find this picture, in which one of MayBelle’s nephews helped her mother to the car after a family lunch. MayBelle’s father was gone by this time, so a new escort was needed.

MayBelle stood for a minute or two after the couple and the boy were no longer in view, mesmerized. She’s not sure what rooted her to that spot, but what she had witnessed felt holy to her. Most days she tries to pay attention, MayBelle does, just in case a routine chicken salad run might turn into an extraordinary encounter with the Divine. In that one instance, MayBelle felt connected to her ancestors, experienced compassion for her elders, and was inspired by the next generation. Not bad for an ordinary afternoon in May.

*Best fruit tea in town.

MayBelle Goes Environmental

Amy Lyles Wilson15 Comments

MayBelle likes to think she’s pretty conscious about the environment, although it’s unlikely any of her friends would label her a “tree hugger.” She has, in her later years, come to appreciate and enjoy the outdoors much more than she did when she was younger, and anytime she can head over to Radnor Lake in Nashville or the mountains of western North Carolina, she likes to hike and explore as much as the next middle-aged goober. Nature does her soul good.

She doesn’t litter, and she tries to donate, reuse, or recycle whenever possible. She’s trying to wean herself from single-use plastic, and she’s begun using small, washable towels instead of paper towels in the kitchen.

Seeing that she’s really an even-keeled sort of gal who, for the most part, believes in “live and let live,” she was a bit surprised at her visceral reaction to the recent “spring cleaning” in her neighborhood.

Word came round that there would an opportunity, one Saturday morning, to have old papers and documents shredded and to donate any appropriate items to Goodwill. Trucks would be on site for several hours just for these purposes. The neighborhood association would also order several dumpsters to be placed throughout the neighborhood for residents to use for a week. 

“Woot!” thought MayBelle. “This will be a great way to get rid of those tax documents from 2003 and to pass along the clothes my friend said make me look like an eighty-year-old widow.”

MayBelle thought that was a tad harsh, but she could see her friend’s point. MayBelle must admit she often talks as if she’s ready for a senior-living community. Thankfully, this particular friend has pretty good taste, and now MayBelle’s closet sports more purple and blue than grey and black.

That Saturday, MayBelle could hardly contain herself, she was so excited. As the days went on, though, she noticed a lot of items being placed in dumpsters that she thought still had some life left in them. She resisted the temptation at first, really she did, but soon she could no longer stand idly by. MayBelle is nothing if not a woman of conviction. So she started skimming, just a piece at a time. Such that you’d hardly notice, unless you were Precious, or her neighbor Marshall, who said, and MayBelle quotes him here: “Hanging on to the side of the dumpster like that is not really a good look for you.” So many critics….

Before you imagine MayBelle upside down (what a sight that would be!), let the record show she did not go “dumpster diving,” for what would have required her to actually get in the dumpster and thereby earn the tongue wagging of more neighbors and the disgust of Precious. So she limited herself to what she could easily take off the top. To wit:

Two large, planter urns that she gave to a friend who was delighted;

A brand-new cream-colored lampshade, still wrapped in plastic and not a ding on it;

A framed print that doesn’t suit MayBelle but will spruce up someone’s home quite nicely;

Three more outdoor planters, all in great condition;

An unopened box of felt chair pads and assorted hooks for hanging pictures;

Two plastic storage bins (clean! with lids!);

And, the biggest score of all, a small outdoor iron table with a beautiful mosaic tile top, which now graces her front porch. She had coffee out there this morning.

MayBelle also spied a piece of art, a sweet little floral oil painting, but she couldn’t wiggle it out from under the microwave on top of it. Later, while MayBelle was bemoaning her missed opportunity, Precious came in the house and said, “I think Baxter’s dog walker is getting your painting out of the dumpster.” She was, and MayBelle hopes she enjoys it.

Leaving the neighborhood yesterday, MayBelle thought she saw a small leather footstool teetering on top of a mattress in the dumpster closest to her house. 

“I’ll check that out when I get back from my errands,” she told herself, already imagining how perfect it would be back in the den, next to the bookshelf. Just the ticket. Alas, it was gone some forty-five minutes later when she returned. Same for the small mattress spring MayBelle was going to use for an art project. Apparently MayBelle is not the only one in the neighborhood with a discerning eye.

She gets it, really she does, that some material things simply have to go to the dump in the end.  That sometimes the fabric shoe rack that hung over your closet door for years is too ripped or saggy to be useful. That maybe your kid’s plywood art table simply can’t be put back together. What irks her, though, is the waste of perfectly good items, and adding unnecessarily to the landfills. So many things that folks tossed, to her mind at least, might have helped others. This afternoon, MayBelle stopped short of grabbing two area rugs, a floor lamp, and a big wicker basket, because the backseat and trunk of her car are already full of retrieved items she’s determined to find good homes for.

MayBelle’s not saying that your trash is someone else’s treasure, necessarily. But maybe it could be someone’s “make do” or “just what I need to get me by.” It’s the principle of the thing.

The dumpsters will be taken away tomorrow. MayBelle will make a final assessment tonight as she walks Norval, and she’ll do her best to leave well enough alone. She’ll circle around several times before making a move, and she’ll make sure Marshall isn’t watching. But if that perfectly good, green plastic lawn chair is still available, you might be sitting in it the next time you come over for tea. 

MayBelle Inches Ever Closer Toward Home

Amy Lyles Wilson12 Comments

Back in 2009, when MayBelle was on a retreat in New England, she wrote this:

“I am not at home. I am far away from everything, and everyone, that I have worked so hard to mold into a representation of what home means.  In my youth, home was a ranch-style house painted blue-gray in Jackson, Mississippi. It was a mother and a father and two older sisters and a dog named Sloopy. It was jumping on the Robinsons’ trampoline, walking down to Shellie’s house, and swinging in the hammock in the backyard. Being scared of boys, learning to play the piano, and earning badges in Girl Scouts. Today home is a two-story number in Nashville, Tennessee, with a husband—the presence of whom still shocks me after seven years—a stepdaughter, and a dog named Quay. It is overstuffed bookshelves and grocery shopping and trying to be successful at self-employment. In between, home was an unremembered street name in Oxford, Mississippi; Glebe Road in Arlington, Virginia, and Deane Hill Drive in Knoxville, Tennessee. It was graduate school and career and loneliness. Now, though, it is more than stucco chimneys and supper at six. It is where I draw the deepest, most satisfying breaths of my life. The kind of inhalations that can make you woozy with gratitude, and relief, and wonder. After so many years of not wanting to ‘settle down,’ it is, in the end, the only place I really want to be, surrounded by all that mundane glory. I am not quite as at home with my calling, however, although I feel I am tantalizingly close. It is, I suspect, a destination not to be reached as an endpoint but instead a beginning and returning, over and over again until some satisfaction and fulfillment are encountered. Like pornography, or finding your soulmate: you’ll just know. It is harder to describe than the physical structure of any house. It is grief and longing and joy. A bit of pride, maybe too much at times. Spirituality and semi-colons; silence and word counts. Story and regret. ‘Both and’ instead of ‘either or.’ It is syllables on paper and whispers in the dark. I trust that soon it will feel as familiar as the front door that sticks when it rains, the grandfather’s clock from my father’s office chiming the hours, the sound of the dog’s snoring through the air vent in my studio. Any day now, my vocation will feel like home, too.”

MayBelle is happy to report that on this particular day in March 2021, she does feel more and more at home with how she makes her way in the world and what she tries to offer back to her fellow pilgrims. She understands now, more fully than ever, what Frederick Buechner said about vocation: “The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” Now MayBelle’s not meaning to say she’s meeting some great need in the world by helping people tell their stories. Just that she’s trying, and she’s content. She is, for one of the first times in her life, able to say “it is enough” and mean it.

MayBelle Gets Her Hairs Done

Amy Lyles Wilson2 Comments

MayBelle has confronted her thin hair for decades now, so it doesn’t really bother her—not too much at least—when she catches glimpses of her scalp on a sunny day when the wind is up. It’s worse when you loom over her and look down at the top of her head, so please try not to do that. According to the Harvard Health Blog, at least one-third of women have thinning hair. (Notice MayBelle does not use the phrase “suffer with.”) MayBelle’s mother (pictured here) did, and her maternal grandmother, Eunice Eula, did too.

Thankfully, MayBelle has a lovely, old-school hairdresser who is familiar with hair that is less than luxurious. And the salon itself is cozy, not intimidating. Even MayBelle feels comfortable there. You are not offered kale smoothies or wine spritzers when you arrive, although you can usually score a Diet Coke. It is not decorated with expensive chandeliers or modern art. There is a sofa, and the magazines are current. You do not have to use an app to make an appointment. Before Covid, MayBelle would often see cars from area retirement communities dropping off women for their cuts and curls.

MayBelle knew Liz was the one for her when she was not greeted with a cry of alarm, or worse, pity, at their first meeting. Liz has kept MayBelle’s hair short enough to look fuller, and worked with MayBelle to find a “magic shampoo.” And she’s even okay with MayBelle’s going gray. 

Last week MayBelle went in for a sprucing up. Just as she was getting out of the chair and putting her sensible shoes on the floor, she heard Liz say, “Stop. I need to get that hair.”

Not a strange thing to hear from your hairdresser, so MayBelle sat back down and waited for Liz to get her shears or her little neck brush. Instead, Liz came for MayBelle’s chin.

“Got it,” said Liz, smiling. “I’d noticed that earlier and wanted to get it taken care of for you.”

During her mother’s later years on this earth, MayBelle would sometimes drive her around their hometown of Jackson, Mississippi, on Sunday afternoons. They would drink iced tea from McAlister’s and talk about the old days. 

“Isn’t that where what’s her name used to live?” her mother might ask.

“Yes,” MayBelle would say. More often than not, she knew exactly which what’s her name her mother meant.

On several such occasions, just before her mother would get out of the car to return to the senior living community, MayBelle would grab her tweezers (she prefers Tweezerman), which she always keeps handy, and pluck any stray white hairs on her mother’s chin.

“Thank you,” her mother would say. “I can’t seem to take care of things like that myself anymore.”

MayBelle will most surely have her mother’s white, sparse hair one day, for hers is not only thin, but also thinning further as she ages. Down the road, as MayBelle winds it into a small bun and secures it with bobby pins before dinner at the retirement home, or while she wraps a scarf around her head before her niece comes to take her shopping, she will be reminded of the women kinfolk who have come before her. It will most likely make her self-conscious on occasion, but she’ll be fine.

Liz and MayBelle laughed about how their husbands never seem to notice their chin hairs.

“Precious told me I was beautiful one day and sent me out in the world with an inch-long white whisker poking straight out,” said MayBelle. “I’m surprised it didn’t leave a mark when he kissed me goodbye that morning.”

“My husband, too! He never seems to notice.”

Surely this makes them lucky, Liz and MayBelle, to have partners who consider them attractive regardless of how their bodies surprise them as they get older. Of course, it could mean that their husbands are not really looking at them. Or maybe, just maybe, it means they’re being seen by people who know where real beauty lies.

MayBelle Monday: On the Changing Nature of Retail Therapy

Amy Lyles Wilson7 Comments
This is not a photo of MayBelle. It’s one that popped when she searched for “contentment” themed photos. MayBelle thinks this woman does, indeed, seem content. And MayBelle, who loves a hat her own self, has always wanted red hair. (Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com)

MayBelle knows that retail therapy is not often advised by counselors or therapists. Friends sometimes suggest it, thankfully. With Covid, MayBelle has not gotten out to shop much, which is actually a good thing as MayBelle all too often has shopped (and eaten) her feelings instead of processing them. She is working on that. She has, of course, made use of online ordering during these trying times. As a matter of act, MayBelle should this very day receive a long, blue sweater–oh the richness of the color!–from Anrthopologie. (Please make note that MayBelle paid less than half of the original price.)

She’s tried to be good, though, ordering mostly only what she needs, and absolutely no more than three books and two candles a week. She’s vowed to be more conscious about where her clothing comes from and has actually found a couple of good resources for funky clothing that is sustainably sourced and appropriate for someone who is quirky and middle-aged. (Bless her calcifying heart, MayBelle still thinks she’s in midlife.)

A memory: Years after she graduated from college (MayBelle knows that line should be, technically, “after she was graduated from college,” but MayBelle thinks that sounds awfully stilted.), MayBelle ran into a friend from those days who said, “We used to gather in the cafeteria to wait for you to walk by on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings after French 101 just to see what you were wearing.” MayBelle does not know if she should be flattered or humiliated.

Anyway, MayBelle couldn’t take it any longer last week, so she hopped out for a couple of quick errands. While tooling around, a dear friend called and asked what she was up to:

“I’m out doing some retail therapy,” MayBelle said. She could taste the glee in her voice, so happy was she.

“Oh!” said the friend. “What fun places have you been to?”

MayBelle paused for a few moments, wondering if she should tell a fib and say “Victoria’s Secret and Nordstrom, with a quick stop at the Tesla dealership,” but MayBelle never has shopped at Victoria’s Secret (well, maybe that one time….) and she long ago gave up shopping for clothes at places like Nordstrom when she found herself, seemingly irreversibly, ensconced in the land of size twelve. She drives a Subaru. And, most importantly, MayBelle does not like to fib unnecessarily.

“Er,” said MayBelle. “Um…the Office Depot and the Hallmark Store.”

“Wow,” said her friend. MayBelle did not hear the glee in her friend’s voice.

“I know,” said MayBelle, “but I got this fabulous office chair on sale and they put it together for me in under an hour and it’s in the back of my car right now. Oh! And some Christmas wrapping paper at seventy-five percent off.” MayBelle was practically hyperventilating she was so excited.

“Wow,” said her friend again.

They laughed about it, MayBelle and her friend, who happens to be a tad older than MayBelle and much, much hipper. And they both, in the end, knew they would take this kind of contentment any day of the week.