Truth in the Trash

I got away from the city this weekend, away from the smog, cement, and city lights. With Shelby-girl in the passenger seat, I drove away from Nashville with the music up and windows down. As I left behind the familiar, my heart was full with the feeling that a weekend in the woods was just what I needed. I was imagining a cabin with a hot tub, sitting on a porch swing, walking through the trees, and maybe a good glass of wine. No schedule, e-mail access, or hair dryer needed. As we passed over the county line, I turned to Shelby and said, “This will be good for us, Shelbz.” She pulled her head back into the window, leaving the glass with a fresh trail of slobber (clearly, a sign of agreement). I was sure that a few days away from routine and responsibility would give me clarity. This would be a weekend of retreat really.

I wasn’t going alone. And this wasn’t my trip. My mom and her friend, Reuben, jokingly bid on the cabin during a silent auction at a St. Patrick’s Day charity event, expecting to be outbid. As the auction closed, we all giggled and planned on each of us bringing someone for the weekend. However, as we all admitted over brownies and milk in the hot tub Saturday night, none of us had anyone to invite. (Truth be told, I had invited someone and he wiggled his way out of it - the thought of which made me eat just a few more brownies than I had planned or could healthily digest).

The cabin is nicknamed the Tree House, appropriately as the house is built on a plateau surrounded by trees. Beautiful, but steep drop-offs coupled with a thriving population of s-q-u-i-r-r-e-l-s meant no walks without a leash after all. The four of us did go on one walk though, about a mile down hill toward the lake. Down, down, down – steep but easy, scenic, sunny, summery, and all very stupid. Afterall, what goes down, must come up (even in flip flops). Long (sweaty) story short – I remember sitting down half way up, my heart beating in my ears, with an inhaler in one hand and a fresh, hot bag of dog poop in the other. To climb back up to the Tree House, I called on muscles in my legs and ass that I didn’t know I had. Even Shelby laid down at some point, panting in protest of continuing the hike from hell. Needless to say, that was our first and only “nature walk.”

The first night there, we decided to sample the local cuisine. Our choices were limited. Option #1: “Grab a Hunk” pizza slices (yes, that was the actual name on the box) from a gas station that also served as a live music venue and deli. Option #2: A family-owned restaurant at the end of a boat dock, on the left just past the pontoon boats and live-cricket bait for sale. Clearly (or maybe not so much), we went for option #2. The restaurant was so noticeably slanted to one side that Reuben and I commented on it as we walked in (sideways). My mom claimed we were exaggerating until she set her glass down and it slid towards the end of the table. The fried pickles were great (as are most things fried and dipped in ranch), but I ended up sending my “fresh hand-patted” burger back. As I so eloquently found the words, “It tastes like the way wet dog smells.” The following day, we ventured out a little further, past Me-Maw’s Diner and several places that bragged of being “biker-friendly”, and were relieved to find a Pizza Hut for lunch. I think we all actually cheered as we pulled into the parking lot.

We also found the Appalachian Craft Center, the humble home and gallery of in-residence artists and students from Tennessee Tech. It was at the end of a wooded and winding road over the river, very Robert Frost-esque. Solar-power panels, sunflowers, and post-consumer art all gave it the feel of a liberal, ecofriendly, free-spirited community. I was envious of the talent and the lifestyle, wishing I had pursued my dream of being a photographer or had the courage to live so simply. Which then got me wondering again about my purpose in this world and if I was where and who I was meant to be. All leaving me to rely on drowning my doubt and regret in more brownies and Mike’s Hard Lemonade waiting back at the house – never did find any wine.

I didn’t sleep well either. Because black-haired Shelby was banned from the new tan carpet in the bedrooms, she and I slept in the living room. I slept on the denim couch and she slept on the tiled floor – which would be fine for most dogs. Not once-stray-now-spoiled Shelby-girl. She whined (and licked whatever limb of mine escaped from the cover of the blanket), begging to be freed of the torture of tile and allowed on the couch. So, I had to stay up and show her who was boss, had to put her back in her place… I rubbed her belly until she fell asleep on the floor. After I had finally fallen asleep too, I woke up because my legs were on fire. Okay, there was no actual flame – just a painful burning sensation from the 23 chigger bites on my feet and ankles (I counted).

I kept thinking that I had not escaped any of the things which I had hoped to let go of for the weekend. Somehow, even in the middle of the mountains, miles away from home, I had still managed to be reminded of my bad luck, chronic single status, extra chub, and other life woes. The only thing that had changed was that now my legs were coated in Benedryl spray, my ass was sore, and I wasn’t sure that the brownies were going to” work out” as planned.

As we were locking up the Tree House, we could not figure out what to do with the trash. There was no curb-side trash can or dumpster outside or in the area. We bagged it all up and put it in the car, thinking that if worse came to worse we would just take it home (day old dog poop, cracked eggs, and all). I remembered though that the marina had a dumpster. So, on our way back to the highway, we stopped by the boating dock. I watched my mom get out and toss the bag into the bright blue dumpster.

And there was my moment of clarity.

I realized that I have to stop carrying my worries and doubts with me. I won’t ever be able to escape from any of it until I take time to pull over and simply toss it out. I have to let go of those things I can’t change. Until then, no matter where or how far I travel, it will be right there with me, stinking up and overpowering everything else around it. It will take room from the other things I have packed in my life, the things that make me smile. I know it won’t be easy though, as some of it is compacted deep down into my soul.

My mom got back into the car, brushed her hands off, and said, “There. Much better.”

I drove away thinking, “Yep. It will be.” And smiled when I felt Shelby’s wet nose on my neck as she rested her head on my shoulder from the back seat. Clearly, another sign of agreement.