Upcycled Life

We carried Lila Mae out like she was a gingerbread mannequin rescued from a very personal, sparkly oven. The craft fair room smelled of hot glue and remorse. Elmira Gail clutched her pearls so tight they might have turned into a tiny crown. Miss Mabel demanded a cup of coffee as if caffeine were a medical intervention. Tommy Ray hovered, looking every bit the man who had whistled the answer out of the rafters ten minutes earlier and now regretted it. Outside, the early snow made everything look more charitable than it felt. Pine Knot’s Main Street had that neat, made-for-a-calendar look—exactly the kind of backdrop where someone with red leather loafers could stride with confidence and no sense of shame. The word “committee” sat in the middle of my chest like an itchy sweater. Who on the committee would tie up a neighbor and blame it on raccoons? “Alright,” Miss Mabel said, balancing her walker like a gavel. “We’re gonna treat this like a crime AND like a bake sale. First, ...

Miss Mabel tightened her grip on her walker as the shadow behind the fallen shelf shifted again. Not fast  more like a slow wiggle. A “help me, but also my back hurts” wiggle. Elmira Gail gasped. “Girls… that ain’t demon movement. That’s arthritis.” I stepped forward carefully, one foot at a time, aware of Elmira muttering half-Baptist, half-Mormon prayers behind me like she was rebooting a religious computer. “Hello?” I called gently. “Is somebody hurt back there?” Another wiggle. Then a muffled sound. Mabel’s eyebrows shot up. “That sounded like somebody with a mouth full of batting.” We exchanged a look. Then we lifted the fallen curtain the rest of the way and eased around the spilled glitter and crooked Santa. And there she was. Lila Mae. Tied to the metal storage pole with what looked like two mismatched extension cords, and gagged with a wad of colorful quilt batting that somehow still sparkled with last year’s craft fair glitter. Her eyes were wide, indignant, a...

Word travels faster than truth in Pine Knot County, so by the time Miss Mabel and I crept back toward the curtain, half the hall had already whispered six different theories and three of them involved demons. That’s when Elmira Gail materialized at my elbow a Chicago transplant who somehow mixed Baptist scripture with the Book of Mormon and believed firmly in the “Seven Heavens, give or take one.” “You girls ain’t going back there alone,” she whispered, clutching her lace collar like a talisman. “Not after what we heard.” “What did you hear?” I asked. Elmira widened her eyes. “A groan that ain’t in any of the seven heavens I was taught.” Before I could answer, Tommy Ray  a man who carved wooden reindeer with the same energy he used to argue with his ex-wife  joined us. “That curtain moved on its own,” he said. “And something rattled. Might’ve been a shelf. Might’ve been a body.” Elmira crossed herself in a confused, half-Mormon, half-Baptist motion. Miss Mabel snor...

The opening rush of customers at the Winter Craft Jubilee could charitably be described as “three people and a baby stroller.” But in Pine Knot County, that counted as foot traffic, and the retirees behind their tables snapped into performance mode faster than a Channel 8 weatherman during tornado season. “Morning, folks!” “Handmade ornaments — two for five!” “Don’t touch that one, it’s glued!” Everyone acted normal. Everyone pretended everything was fine. But every single vendor kept glancing toward the back curtain — that drooping, velvet-ish flap that now hung still and ominous, like it was hiding a secret nobody wanted. I tried focusing on my own display table. My crocheted scarves lay neatly arranged in rainbow rows, and my cinnamon-wax sachets gave off a sweet, homey smell. But every time my mind calmed, a little whisper rose up: Where is Lila Mae? And more importantly: What did she knock over back there? My stepfather, Henry, was already on edge. He kept nudging me w...

In Pine Knot County winters, folks smile through gritted charm, Bless-your-heart diplomacy and gossip warmed like barn. The hall lights hum their warnings, the cords all twist and scheme; Here trouble comes in denim, and power’s just a dream. Some wander halls with purpose, some wander ‘cause they’re lost; And some will guard an outlet like it’s gold they never tossed. But hush now, sugar—listen: that flicker in the glow? It means the fair’s beginning— and someone’s runnin’ low. ⭐ CHAPTER ONE — The Lights Flicker in Pine Knot County The year was 1997, though Pine Knot County hadn’t gotten the memo. Time moved differently here. Slow. Stubborn. Like a mule that refused to budge no matter how many state bonds or newscasters hollered progress. Inside the community hall  a long, low building paneled in seventies brown  the annual Winter Craft Jubilee was already wheezing to life. The air smelled of cinnamon pinecones, cigarette ghosts, spilled Kool-Aid, and that mildew ...