Red Rope and Road Guard’s T4T: Paradigm Shift Edition

I awoke very early the past two days, feeling as if I needed to get some things done in a hurry. I’ve been hours on the road  in Southeast Missouri filming, talking to people in the region about their concerns and what they think is going on and how to contain the panic that is sure to rise as people realize the government cannot take care of them and they failed to learn how to do that themseles.

I will share some of the film via You Tube, but I’ve not had time to upload any of it.  Perhaps, I will have time tomorrow.

Well, I finally realized it was time to go to the farm in the Bootheel.  Bootheel, or Bootyville, is what I tend to call the entire Southeast region of Missouri, though the Bootheel proper is just a small spit of land Missouri refused to let Arkansas have, so they drew the line and said fine, keep it you stubborn mules.

The Bootheel region also spit Rush Limbaugh into the public eye and created a whole new way of talking about the world.   Let’s face it, we are an ornery blabbermouthy mess down here and someone do something about us.

As you know and also don’t care, I’ve filmed a lot of driving I’ve done for the last year, taking a little coonskin to toss a few red, white and blue stones on a few graves.  The little coon has become my familiar of sorts, taking on a personality similar to Tom Hanks’ depiction of Wilson in Castaway as well as a calligrapher I knew who had a little gourd named Gosh.  He narrated her stories sometimes.  That’s another story for another day when we have more time.  Because, indeed, yesterday has come too soon and the time is nigh.

I do not visit the region for a lot of reasons, including the fact that I really do not like flatland or mosquitoes.  We have neither here.  But, I also view the region with great affection because, let’s face it folks, you can take a woman out of the Bootheel for more than forty years but when it’s time to look for a little heavenly help, there is no place to go but home if you can get there.  And, today, I went home.

I dropped off a few things for my mother, including toilet paper, then we spent a lifetime in two hours, while I gave her all her oils I’ve been blending for her from oils in storage and even ones I distilled myself.  I also handed my cousin Pam, her caregiver, a package of 500 food service gloves to wear on her hands because she will be the only interface between my mother and the world now.*  I hope and pray to return in a month to pick it all up and put it into storage again, but as I told them both, if they need to use it, do so.

I’ve heard this song all my life.  Today, I became the woman who crossed that bridge and actually did it.

And, on the way back into the hills?  I filmed the drive and the news about the 5.7 earthquake in Utah that caused the angel statue on the tabernacle to drop its trumpet. I’m not suggesting it was a sign, but, it probably was.

I’m the Queen of the Road, too!

When I was on the way back to the hills, almost a hundred miles away, I stopped at the last grocery store before leaving Flatland in Advance, Missouri.  I cleaned them out of Tri-Color Farfalle (Bow Ties) because even though I can make my own pasta, and theoretically, I can even make bow ties thanks to Nick’s mother’s patience, I don’t want to do so.

I bought every package they had. Thirteen. I’ll mail one package and a jar of homemade sauce (mine) to the Hardscrabble Farmer, because I am making it policy to send him any items associated with the number thirteen.  That seems to bring me good luck and I suspect it has him as well.  A little bird down at the farm suggested I send him a couple things from there, as well, while my mother prayed over us all.

She especially prayed for me, because I need it most, because my mind wanders.  It is probably the brain surgery.

What really surprised me, though, at the grocery store was that all of the frozen meals were gone, but not all the pasta and dry goods. There appeared low on flour and sugar, but there was plenty of oats and rice and dry beans. And all the ice cream was gone, while the frozen vegetables seemed rather untouched.

I picked up two five-pound bags of tart apples ato put up some more apple pie in a jar.  I also picked up a couple of seasoning pouches for meat, including some Mexican seasoning I can’t pronounce and don’t know how to use.  Eventually, I will either come to like it or I will barter with the Ortiz family down the road for something they’ve got that I like.

It’s how we established trade with China.  We can do it again.

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They appear to be out of toilet paper down in farm country too. However, down there, they seem to realize they might have to do more laundry, and maybe they will have to stop throwing away every scrap of paper as if it grows on trees, but they will survive and get though it as a community.  Do you know why?  Because they are a community,  not a village.  And there is a big difference.

*I’m telling the whole world right here: Pam was Granny Fannie’s favorite for good reason and if she had red hair our grandmother would not have even looked at any of the other 40-something grandchildren she had.

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