Dear Amy ;

I wish I could have been friends with you. I wish that you and I could have talked. I wish that your story wouldn’t have ended.

Perhaps we could have put an exclamation point right after that semi-colon.

I hadn’t read about your life until today, I didn’t know about your heartache. I didn’t know about your pain.  I want you to know that your legacy is one of triumph and you have made a difference in our world even in your life ending. You made a difference! You mattered!

You started a beautiful movement that gave hope to a generation of humans. You gave a simple grammar mark a purpose for mankind. You gave mankind a reminder. LIVE! Remember, LIVE and love and carry on!

I too have struggled throughout my lifetime.

In my youth, I have ridden hard.

Many years ago, I found myself in a hotel room in Houma, Louisianna. I was alone with a bible and a gun. I had no car. I stared at the ceiling fan wondering what to do. I stood up and grabbed my green duffel bag and walked out of that hotel room. I threw the gun into the big ole trash container ( after taking it apart, thank God). I then took a Grayhound bus into New Orleans. I chose to live! I walked through fat Tuesday in 2000 and into my new life. I was terrified, but, I did it. Trust that the following bus ride on into Ohio was much harder.

Oh, and by the way Amy? The gun? I was scared shitless. A girl, traveling. Alone. But, don’t tell anyone. I have a rep to protect.

Be blessed sister. Be proud of the work you have done. Your work here was beautiful. Love, another soul sister.

xo ; !





Love and my people

I have been thinking all morning about love. What is it?

What does the word even mean? Love.


It’s so complex. I love a whole bunch of things. I LOVE my freedom. I’ve learned that very quickly. I suppose that is truly not a “thing”. Hm.

As I was pondering I reflected back to my parents and to my past as I always do.

I am a haunted human. I have been diagnosed with C=PTSD. However, I can reflect and learn. This is good.

Love. My parents.

Throughout their lives, my mother always worked so hard to earn my father’s love. My mind was perpetually blown by this because she was amazing to me! She was beautiful and smart. In her youth, she had been an excellent student. She excelled in music and had been a church-going woman. I saw every single pin and saw every certificate. So, what in the sweet hell was she doing?!
I was baffled as a little girl. Dumbfounded.

As for my father, He was handsome and funny and brilliant. A masterminded genius mechanically who could mathematically solve any problem placed in front of him. Unfortunately, he was born poor and his father had been a soldier in the first World War and had come home with PTSD and a nasty drinking problem. My father chose a life of drinking as well. By the time I was born he was on trial for involuntary manslaughter.

I often just tell people that my mother and father are the epitome of Sandra Dee and James Dean. I loved them more than the sun and the moon.

Carrying on.

I once ask my father why he couldn’t give my mother the love that she craved. Why he was so damn mean. Yes, I said those words because, I was trying to understand love, even then. My father explained “Neat, I fell in love once, in Germany, I loved her and she didn’t want to leave her home and I can never love the same again. I love your mom but, it’s just different. love is complex. We are all different. We give what we can. Go do your homework and breathe a little. Relax”
That’s what he left me with. Bud Nunley wisdom at it’s best.

We love different people different ways. We give different people different pieces of ourselves. We give different friends different pieces of ourselves. This doesn’t mean we are chameleons or that we are liars or fake. It means that we are more comfortable talking about certain pieces of our soul with other souls. We get one life. One.

Find the soul you want to love and spend the most time with and go live your time with that one if they want to spend the most time with you. If they don’t? Be prepared to go it alone. That’s ok too.

Love and be love.

That is my goal.

Peace Love and Chicken grease. xo

Love, Neat xo


That Purse

That Purse my mother carried was black. She filled it with quarters. I’ll never forget it. I always wondered why she filled it with quarters. Rolls and rolls of quarters.

I was standing in the bathroom watching her put on her mascara that day in the bathroom and we were listening to Diana Ross sing “Aint no mountain high enough” and my dad walked in and said, “Why in the hell are you putting all that makeup on to go to work?” Wash it off! Now!  Then, he threw a washcloth at her and started toward her like he was going to hit her. and like a flash she pushed me behind her and swung that purse at him like wonder woman.

She knocked him out quicker than Mike Tyson knocked out whoever he was fighting that year. ( or whoever was the fighter that year lol.)

My mom had finally won the damn war of her life.

Dad? Was in the bathtub. Out. Cold.

We walked straight out of that room like queens. We didn’t give two shits what he was doing. We didn’t care if he was cold. We were fine.

That is where I am today.

I love but, I’m tired. I shaved my damn head. lol.

Christ. Women are crazy.

wow. Just WOW.

That is all.

Red Clay in a Pie Pan

As a little girl, my grandma was my caretaker. She never cursed and she never drank alcohol. She baked and she always wore a house dress. Her name was Addie Nunley and you could never ask for a better role model.

My grandma taught me to clean the window sills with soapy water in the spring and to spray the pothos with dish soap to keep out the spider mites when I was done.

She taught me to lay down newspaper on the kitchen floor when we were baking all day to keep up all of the flour so it wasn’t so hard to sweep up at the end of the day.

She taught me that we could use old books that we had read ten trillion times by putting notebook paper in them and writing recipes on the paper.

This was my life on the avenue and I wouldn’t trade that life for a million dollars. No thank you.

My name was Renita Nunley back then and I used to love making mud pies in old pie pans. The mud always baked in the sunshine. It baked into a red clay.

Ohio dirt is mostly clay down in Ross County. Well, it’s a good balance. It’s either pure black gold dirt, which is great for growing some great sweet corn, or it’s wonderful for some red clay pies. Either way it’s a Buckeye Win!

This is why I love Ohio. 🙂

Happy Thursday. ❤


Hey you

Hey, You. Yes, you! Mr. Postman. Thank you for always being nice to me when you deliver my mail. I look forward to seeing you every day because you are one of the people that I can count on to smile at me without needing me to do something for you.

I am a woman. A mother, a daughter, a sister and a lady that has walked many miles in darkness alone hoping someone would dare to come out of the shadows to attack.

Hey, You. Yep, you. Mrs. PTA mom. Thank you for making my children’s classroom parties nice the years I couldn’t even manage to sign the paperwork because I was so mentally tired.

I am the mom that decorated fences for the baseball team. I am the mom that painted faces for the cheerleaders. I am the mom that created the gift bags for the parties that year, but, these past few years I have just been too damn tired.

Hello there, Cashier. I always remember you. You were the nice lady that saved me when I was lost in that big old chain store the first time I tried to walk through it alone without mom there with me. I was so afraid. I’d never been afraid of anything in my life and I was so embarrassed. You knew that feeling and understood what was happening to me even when I did not. Thank you. I won’t forget you. Ever.

Soon after my mother died I experienced something I had never experienced. I walked into a store and the walls closed in. Literally. My mother had talked about such a thing and I had shaken my head and imaged that she was making it up and being a “drama queen”. I had thought that she was just trying to get attention.

I was wrong.

I remember standing in the coffee aisle and thinking “shit” I’m going to tear down this aisle. Instead, I gritted my teeth and started making my way toward the front of the store.

I thought I could mentally will myself through the experience because I had always powered through every other mental challenged in my life. However, this was not to be.

I literally almost dropped. I stopped in my tracks.

I had no idea that this was a classic panic attack. This was my introduction to them. A cashier saved me that day. She was paid under $9 to save me.

Angels among us.
I’ll never forget her.

She said “Just breathe”

So I did.
Be Blessed my friends.

Never ever look down on anyone. You never know who can save you.

Happy Tuesday.



What is your real?

A walk through the forest or the news at night?

I need to hear the water as it hits the rocks I need to be able to move and feel the wind hitting my face. I need to be able to release the day and forget that the world hurts. Don’t you?

More often than not when I am in my right state of mind you will find me walking through a cemetery. I love cemeteries. Let’s set the record straight. Cemeteries are absolutely not creepy. Cemeteries are where your ancestors are buried. Where your ancestors are to be honored.

There I can read. I can look at beautiful art and carry my mind away and walk. I can forget that I have troubles and worries and doubt. I can travel back to 1799 and wonder if Susan Trevor looked like me and wonder what her life was like. I can ponder what her child lived like. I can compare lives and think about the comparisons of how we can change our world for the better.

History matters. History repeats. I walk through cemeteries not because I mourn and cry. I walk through cemeteries because I am a thinker. I am a genealogist. I am a recorder. I also sometimes am lucky enough to see a wandering spirit or two.  I feel honored on those days.

Nature is important to me. Real is important to me. I’d forgotten for a long time and I’m finally getting back to myself. I hope you’ll join me.