Just one more reason

I attended a funeral yesterday that would have blown the mind of the many people not living in the South.

Well I've lived in the South my whole life and I was still shocked, but then again I didn't grow up going to a crazy baptist church either. It was Matt's great aunt's funeral, a lady I'd never met, and it was held in a small, no-air conditioned church out in the middle of the valley.

Matt and I were crammed in at the end of a pew and had to endure an hour and a half of preaching, not funeral preaching but fire and brimstone preaching.

The first pastor was fine, he spoke briefly about typical funeral topics, memories, better places and faith in Jesus. The second paster, who I think must have been her preacher for many years or at least he acted like it, went on for probably 45 minutes. It was about 5 minutes into this 400-pound man's sermon he began yelling at the top of his lungs and walking around the pews and wiping his sweaty forehead.

It was then I realized I was in a southern twilight zone hell! It was no longer about trying to comfort the church-full of people who just lost a loved one. It was about scaring people into getting saved and walking with Jesus for eternity. (How is that theory any more comforting than being dead in the ground?)

I wish I had my recorder, better yet a camcorder. It was better than that documentary "Jesus Camp." Every word had an A on the end of it, God was apparently talking to us through this man and he was speaking in tongues. When he finally stopped, I thought the worst was behind us.

Let me back up a minute, Matt has some distant relative that likes to speak at every family funeral. He's a born again and while the big guy was preaching he constantly interjected with amens, thank you Jesus' and praise the lords. It was funny at first but he even interjected when people were singing and playing banjo and guitar (the only good part of the funeral.)

He spoke a little about the lady we were there to honor but then he just talked about himself for 30 minutes. It was painful. He even sang every verse of "Jesus Loves Me." He said it was sinful to have long hair, and to show your "nakedness" to your family. By this he meant he couldn't be seen in swimming trunks in front of his family. That was a new one for me.

It was just one more reason to get the hell out of here. I'd rather be in hell than spend eternity with those crazies. 

Dreaming of a Life

I feel like the last two weeks have been a whirlwind of questions, mistakes and uncertainty. I don't understand how contentment in life can all of a sudden turn into extreme displeasure and a need for immediate change.

It might just be restlessness or the fact that little mistakes at work, some not within my control, are heavily weighing on my shoulders, or it may be some of the stupidity I deal with on a daily basis. 

It might be the frustration of never having enough money or not living with my husband and not having what I imagine to be the typical "honeymoon" period that my other newlywed friends get to experience (while also having a secure, well-paid job and purchasing a new house.) I don't expect a fairy-tale life and I don't even want a house! So what the hell is wrong with me?

I asked my mother, "What am I going to do with my life?!" to which she replied, "I don't know, whatever you want to do." And that's the problem, I don't know anymore. I've wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. Since third grade I've been filling up pages of journals with stories, poems and day to day life. 

Journalism seemed to be the logical choice when I went to college. What could be better than writing stories for a living. And that was the extent of my media knowledge when I took my first reporting class. It was even more assuring to discover that the principles of journalism, the first amendment, the fourth estate, the gatekeeper, was something I truly believed in.

My college mentor taught me a lot of things and had me excited about a career in print. Perhaps one thing he failed to mention or that I failed to pick up on was journalism is not a career, its your life. I go to bed thinking of story ideas, mistakes from the last edition, who I dread calling tomorrow and some days the work day doesn't end until 9 or 10 p.m. (and I'm just a weekly reporter.) Imagine the life of a daily metro editor.

It's not all bad. I meet interesting people, I know just about everything going on and occasionally I get to cover something fun or important. But I'm not sure I want the life of a daily journalist, and I can't afford to be a weekly reporter (or editor) the rest of my life. Which is another good point. Why is one of the most important institutions in the world one of the most underpaid? Everyone complains about the credibility of the media but realistically what can you expect from reporters making about $25,000 a year?

OK, this has become a bitch-fest and that was not my intention. I should be happy that I was able to get a job in my preferred field within six months of graduating and to work at a respectable newspaper with three other experienced journalists who value the importance of accuracy, consistency and honesty.

I just feel like I'm not progressing fast enough. It seems every way I look there is no where to go. I concentrated in public relations for two years and minored in sociology. I would love to do PR for a small college or nonprofit and I think I would enjoy teaching journalism or advising a college newspaper. But do I really want to encourage other naive students to pursue an uncertain path? Who knows where journalism will be in another 1o years.

Why can't I just write and publish want I want? What do I need to do to start my own magazine? I need a master's degree in something that will help this dream along. In the meantime, I need to keep working on my book. I also need to keep my aspirations in perspective. I'm almost 25 and I've only been out of school for two years. I'm doing OK, I just always want something better.

Fourth of July festivities

Since my weeks run from Wednesdays to Tuesdays, I can say it has been a very long week. And even though I had to work some over the Fourth of July weekend, I tried to make the most of it. I got up at 6 a.m. Saturday and headed out to the lake to take pictures of the Rabun Ramble. The lake is always beautiful in the morning as the sun is coming up and cooler as well. 

Then I took Matt with me up to Sky Valley to take pictures of the parade, which was full of snobby, but cute, dogs and scary clowns. We didn't want to waste a trip up the mountain so we made our way over to Highlands, N.C., afterward and walked around downtown. It's a cute little town, and I found a clothing store I would like if I had money. The shirts that did fit my budget did not fit my boobs. Very disappointing.

We also ate very well over the weekend. I made country-style ribs in the crock pot one night and then we ate at dad's house sunday for lunch. I made my squash casserole and dad made fried okra and steak burgers ...yum.

Sunday night was especially lovely. Dinner with some of the best chicks in the world! It was nice to bitch and gossip with my girlfriends while having my usual jager bombs at the pub in Helen. I got to catch up with my friend Ansley who recently got divorced and just got a new job. Amy and I discussed her soon to be second wedding. (Maybe this one will last). I think these  marriage issues may soon to be another blog in itself.

Not that Matt appreciated the estrogen overload, but he socialized a little with the other boyfriends. He was a trooper considering he had to be in Cumming the next morning at 7 a.m.

The company was great, but the fireworks were weak. I don't know if it just isn't as exciting as it is when you're a kid or if the city just doesn't have the money anymore. Besides having to go to work early the next morning, it was a great Fourth of July weekend.

Here is the cutest puppy from the parade Saturday.

"Where Spring Spends the Summer"

I think we need to change Rabun County's tag line because it's July and spring abandoned us a long time ago.

Last summer I don't remember having to turn on my air conditioning on until late June, but this year I've had it running steadily since early May. I live in a cabin that was built in 1909 so of course all I have is a couple of fans and a ac window unit. Luckily the huge oak trees keep it shaded most of the day but it's the humidity that's killing me.

I can't walk outside for one minute without being covered in sweat... I hate sweating. I constantly have to wear sunscreen, my hair is getting blonder by the minute and my freckles are getting darker. 

I take cold showers in the morning, have two fans blowing on me and occasionally have to stick my head in the freezer while getting ready in the morning so I can stop sweating long enough to put my makeup on and dry my hair.

Even poor Ginger can't take the heat for more than 30 minutes before she gives up and plops down on the ground. Early in the morning is the only time I can stand to take her for a long walk. You would think all the rain we've had would cool things off but it it only adds to the hot stickiness!

Anyway, my point is I'm sick of living in the South. I want out! While the Pacific Northwest would be ideal, right now I'd be happy to move North 2 hours to Asheville. I would love to say we only have two more months to suffer through but I bet it won't cool down here until late September.

"Rabun County, where summer spends the year." 

"Rabun County, where summer kicks spring's ass." 

"Rabun County, only the devil thinks it's cooler here." 

I'll keep working on it.