Rabbit Holes on Mother’s Day

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“I love you every day. And now I will miss you every day.”

― Mitch Albom, For One More Day

It is Mother’s Day weekend and of course my mother and grandmother are on my mind. Why wouldn’t they be? They were and are two of the greatest influences on my life. The memories were numerous and led me down another rabbit hole involving my wife and daughter.

Linda Gail was never a mother in that she never actually gave birth to a child. On the other hand, anyone who knew her will tell you that she was a mother to thousands of children and young people as a teacher and a coach. Others will tell you she was a mother to many who were well into their autumn years. It was just who she was. She had to dote on someone, including…most of the time, me and Ashley.

Which brings me to my daughter, my lovely, darling Ashley. Wife, mother, nurse, administrator, caregiver to her mother. I don’t know how she juggles so many plates, but she does. She has help, a good support system. People who love her because she is easy to love.

Hard working, I’m sure some plates still find their way to the floor. I am also sure there are two things that never find their way to the floor, her daughter Miller Kate and son Nolan. Knowing Ashley, she will probably disagree with me, but she is the perfectionist that I am not.

I could talk about how loving and hard-working Justin, the husband, is. How supportive…but this is Mother’s Day weekend. I must say, however, the system would not work without him being all in with the process.

Listening to a liberal, woke, newscast, I went down another rabbit hole. A feminist liberal woman was maligning the culture wars now including a division of sorts, career moms versus tradwives. Depending on the person’s opinion and political leanings, neither is complimentary and I honestly don’t know if the knowledgeable speaker was a feminist liberal or not. I was just trying to stir up trouble.

In the aftermath, I chewed hard on what I had heard. Questions followed long after I had switched channels to Jimmy Buffett and Margaritaville.

Why do we make it so hard to be a working mom like my daughter?  Why is there a certain stigma against working moms? Why are there stigmas for women who choose careers over motherhood? Why does the normal workday run until five or later, but the mothers begin to gather at the elementary or middle school car line at two thirty or three?

We make it hard in other ways. Primarily, childcare. The national average for two children in childcare is over thirteen thousand dollars. If I made 130,000 dollars a year, which I don’t, it would account for ten percent of my income…before taxes.

Okay, maybe I should try to climb out of that rabbit hole.

Just like Ashley and Justin, both of my parents worked…most everyone I grew up with both parents worked. What has changed? Granted, we certainly placed stigmas upon other folk but I think traditional roles were viewed differently then and not at all the malignant evil social media manufactures to stir up the masses.

I knew no mothers who were a June Cleaver or Margaret Anderson. Most were more likely to climb on a spaceship ala Maureen Robinson…or onto a tractor or follow behind a plow and a mulel. Enough! (If you don’t know who my examples were, Google is your friend.)

If you are lucky enough to have your mother or the wife of your children, take time to celebrate them. A special card and flowers at the very least and make sure your children celebrate with their mothers. I know Linda cherished the hand made cards little Ashley made for her.

I don’t have the luxury of cards. Three of the four most important women in my life are gone from the physical earth. I must celebrate in other ways. Memories of fishing with my grandmother, a memory of my mother teaching me to tie a weaver’s knot in a cotton mill weave room just popped into my head, and Linda flitting around making sure everyone had the most beautiful card to go with the most beautiful flowers she was giving for Mother’s Day.

Linda got a card too, usually of puppy dogs telling her how much they loved their mom. I’m going down another rabbit hole, a comfortable and warm one.

If you enjoyed this consider Pig Trails and Rabbit Holes by Don Miller. It can be purchased in paperback or downloaded at Pig Trails and Rabbit Holes: More Musings of a Mad Southerner: Miller, Don: 9798476572046: Amazon.com: Books

My Love, In Spite of Myself

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“Romantic love is mental illness. But it’s a pleasurable one.”

–Fran Lebowitz

I don’t know why I’m thinking so much about Valentine’s Day. I was never very good with Valentine’s Day. I think I tried too hard. I wanted everything to be perfect. Why not, Linda Gail was perfect. It has been almost two years since she transitioned into the brightest star in the heavens and I miss disappointment on February 14th.

Linda let me know early in our relationship she wasn’t a cut flower and candy kind of girl. She did love her chocolate but that was an everyday, 365 days a year love. Her love for flowers was the same, but she wanted potted or planted flowers she could kill herself.  

Our first Valentine’s Day in the foothills of the Blue Ridge was particularly challenging. Since it was our first, I felt the pressure to make the manufactured celebration of love extra special, and made reservations at a nearby rustic inn with mountain views. A special meal for a special lady with all the ambiance Linda deserved.

It snowed. I believed my reservation was in jeopardy until a phone call told me the inn was open. No electric power but open and large fireplaces to keep us toasty, candles for ambiance, and wood fired ovens for a meal. All we had to do was get there.

We made it. For three hours it was wonderful and then it wasn’t.

The setting was perfect with the mountains in the background, a waitress attending to our every need, a bottle of fine wine, and the food…I don’t remember except for the mushrooms stuffed with duck pâté en terrine. The pâté ended up on the side of the road with the rest of the majorly expensive meal, explosively expelled on the way home. I think they used poisonous mushrooms. Not really but for my bride they might as well have.

We stopped twice on the way home to allow her to lose her cookies and then spent a sleepless night praying to the porcelain throne. Oh, how romantic. To make it even more disastrous, I didn’t get sick.

This was the worst of a series of Valentine’s Day misfortunes. We finally just gave up and simply exchanged sweet cards. I remember her telling me she didn’t need Valentine’s Day celebrations to celebrate our special love; we celebrated every day.

To be fair. Linda and I had many wonderful, very romantic excursions. They just didn’t happen on Valentine’s Day. Like our love, our adventures tended to be unplanned and out of the clear blue. That is what I miss most.

We still celebrate our love. She shines from above like Venus in September and I fall into my memories from here at home. My memories are very important to me. I still miss you terribly and love you dearly. Happy Valentine’s Day, my love. You are loved and missed. Keep shining from above.

Standing on My Head

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“Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously and accepting both of them.”

― George Orwell, 1984

I don’t know what to do. Obviously, I can’t believe anything I see and therefore am incapable of doublethink. I must have a brain tumor, I’m unable to analyze and come to my own conclusions. What I’m seeing is not what I’m hearing.

I’ve watched the video evidence squinting with my head tilted to the left and tilted to the right. I’ve wondered if I should get my glasses changed. Maybe if I watch it standing on my head I’ll see what I’m told I’m seeing. I’ve resisted standing on my head fearing I might do physical damage and become another casualty in this ridiculous battle we are waging.

I’ve watched the video a dozen times or more. I’m sure you know which video. Social media has provided videos from differing angles as has most mainstream media. The angles are different but show the same thing. No matter how many times I see it, a woman dies that didn’t have to die.

I knew what I saw, I was one hundred percent sure…until high ranking members of my countries’ administration (the party) told me what I saw was not what I saw. Later, people I know, some I’m known all my adult life, joined the fray, telling me the same thing. What I saw was not what I saw.

A thought. Maybe I should go to the sites they frequently tune into. I did, watching it again. Listening to their media sources’ talking heads as they analyzed the video, telling me what I should be seeing but was not. The only thing the different sites could agree on was that a woman died.

Maybe if I twist myself into a pretzel the video will come into better focus. No, that would guarantee I would become another casualty.

Am I so biased that I am lost in my own cognitive dissonance? I guess questioning is a good thing but I am reminded of other videos I’ve watched. Videos from January 6, 2021. The same people are telling me I didn’t see what I saw then either.  

What I saw that day was from the beginning, as it happened, live and in living color. Now I am being told what I thought I saw was nothing more than a peaceful visit by tourist to our Capital.

I have a memory from May 4, 1970. A young Kent State coed kneeling over a dead student, arms spread wide as she screams why. Crosby, Stiles, Nash, and Young’s “Ohio” plays in my head. I need to check and see if I’m remembering what I really saw.

I think I quote George Orwell too much. Maybe I should quote him even more. “The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” George Orwell, 1984.

The party, our administration, is telling us to reject what we hear and what we see. The party is telling us that only they know what is best and that the end justifies the means. If what I see is actually true, I fear their means will end us all.

***

For a lighter read, try Pigtrails and Rabbit Holes or Food For Thought. Both can be found at https://author.amazon.com/home?authorId=amzn1.amazonauthor.author.v1.va7gjnpr6ccslobr6eec3vbdag

Coffee is Better with a Friend

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Coffee is Better with a Friend

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art…. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”

― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Many years ago, my best friend and I would meet on Fridays before the sun rose and walk and jog the Swamp Rabbit trail while attempting to solve all the world’s ills. Many heated discussions occurred but after many years we agree our efforts have come for naught.

We are an unlikely pair. He, the staunch Christian conservative and I, the left leaning, possible agnostic, ordained Dudeist priest. I will let you look up Dudeism on your own.

While staunch, he isn’t MAGA or Christian Nationalist. He cares little for politics or any kind. He would best be described as an old timey Christian singing “Give Me That Old Time Religion” but is more a Reagan Republican than an Eisenhower Republican. While we sit on different sides of the center, we find more to agree on than disagree.

Just off the Swamp Rabbit is a small coffee and art café, The Tree House. Originally it was Leopard Forrest before changing owners along with its name and we stumbled upon it one very cold winter’s morning. We decided to warm ourselves with a cup of coffee and continue to discuss and debate.

The Tree House is cheerful, welcoming and adorned with colorful artwork. The aroma of coffee greets you at the door, and the owners and their working staff greet you inside. They have become the family everyone wishes to have. My brother and cousins should not take offense; they would fit right in with the dysfunctional group we have assembled.

Over the years our duo has grown into a small group. One of the owners, the artist, sat down with us one day, striking up a conversation. Instead of running her off we were introduced to her friends, an English lady who was born during The Blitz, literally born in a bomb shelter. She sits farther to the left than I. Her husband, retired military, sits farther right than my friend. They are an unlikely duo but have managed to make it work for sixty-eight years. She calls us her Muppet men, the grouchy old Muppets that sit in the balcony. Grouchy but just as humorous.

This is the core group, but we welcome nearby diners, attracted by our loud stories and even louder laughter. There are others who are part-time members. We welcome all comers and their contributions. We are a woke, equal opportunity group.

I look forward to Fridays. It is as if the ills of the world that we cannot erase are somehow washed clean. For a bit of time, I don’t worry about what is happening in Washington or Columbia. We don’t worry if we are a red state or if New York has elected a Muslim. All the divisiveness ends. It is fun stories and laughter. It is learning about different backgrounds. Laughter is truly good for the heart as are friends. Friends do make survival worth it. It certainly brings value to mine.

Like Don Miller’s stories? Try “Pig Trails and Rabbit Holes.” Download or purchase from Amazon at https://tinyurl.com/5n8uzuwp

Oh, the Horror…Happy Halloween

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“At three in the morning the blood runs slow and thick, and slumber is heavy. The soul either sleeps in blessed ignorance of such an hour or gazes about itself in utter despair. There is no middle ground.”

― Stephen King, ‘Salem’s Lot

It is the morning of Halloween, and I am awake. For some reason, threeish seems to be the hour that I awake. Sometimes I fall back to sleep but often I do not. This is an often I do not morning. Known as “the Witching Hour,” I certainly seem to be under a spell.

Three AM is referred to as the witching hour due to the belief that it is a time when supernatural forces, such as witches, demons, and ghosts, are at their most powerful. This association stems from the idea that witches cast their spells in the darkness of night when they can go undetected, and it is thought to be when the veil between life and death is at its weakest.

The phrase “witching hour” use began at least as early as 1762, when it appeared in Elizabeth Carolina Keene’s Miscellaneous Poems. It alludes to Hamlet’s line “Tis now the very witching time of night, When Churchyards yawne, and hell it selfe breakes out Contagion to this world.” Thank you, Wikipedia.

Further thanks to Swedish director, Ingamar Bergman. He coined the phrase “The Hour of the Wolf” due to his 1968 thriller with the same name. In his own words, the hour of the wolf is

“The hour between night and dawn … when most people die, sleep is deepest, nightmares are most real. It is the hour when the sleepless are haunted by their worst anguish, when ghosts and demons are most powerful. The hour of the wolf is also the hour when most babies are born.”

I don’t know why he included babies, I hope it is simply a fact, although Rosemary’s Baby came out in the same year. A movie based on the spawn of a human woman and the devil himself, I know some babies that cry like their father might have been Satan.

In the dim light of my computer screen, I wonder if I am haunted. There are certainly memories that haunt me. My old farmhouse creaks and moans when the wind is just right, sometime there is the patter of little mice feet or a shadow that I had not noticed before. All seem to make me feel haunted. I can see my puppies, asleep on the couch, twitching in their sleep as if they are chasing a dream involving rabbits or squirrels. Haunted? Probably.

I am unsure when I first became interested in horror. I remember reading Mary Shelly, Bram Stoker, and Edgar Allen Poe when I was in high school. Horror greats from another age along with black and white, midnight horror fests that included reruns of Boris Karloff as “the monster” and Bela Lugosi, not the first vampire character but certainly the coolest Count Dracula.

On the small screen there was Thriller’s “Pigeons from Hell”hosted by Karloff, The Twilight Zone with Rod Serling hosting Captain Kirk’s “Terror at 20000 Feet” and Alfred Hitchcock Present’s  “Lamb to the Slaughter.” I wonder if we taste like chicken.

In college I remember going to the old Ritz Theater in Newberry with a group of fraternity bros. The Oblong Box starring Vincent Price was playing.  A movie about premature burial and Voodoo, a scene of a hand reaching out of a casket is all I can remember. It may be blasphemy, but I was never a Vincent Price fan and had to research what the movie was about.

I may not know when I became a horror enthusiast, but I know when it became solidified, along with science fiction, as my go to genres. Whether on a printed page or on a screen, it is Stephen King.

I have told this story before and will probably tell it again. My first King book was “’Salem’s Lot.” A story about the infestation of small-town Maine by vampires. According to King’s own words, “it is Peyton Place meets Dracula.” Whatever it was, it scared me to death, scared to death in a good way.

I remember reading it late on an early spring Saturday night. I was alone, propped up on my bed, which itself is horror for an unattached young adult male. My windows were open to a welcoming breeze, the drapes fluttering occasionally.  A thunderstorm was rumbling in the distance.

As I read a passage that explained that vampires had to be invited into your home and were sneaky enough to hypnotize you into doing so, I heard a faint tapping on my second-floor apartment window.

“Tap, tap, tap!” I pause and listen. I heard it again. The same tap, tap, tap. There was no way I was going to walk over to that window. Instead, I did what any sane person would do. I left the light on and pulled the bed cover over my head.

The next morning, in the light of day, I found the tapping was caused by a tree limb that had grown too close to my window. Sure, that was it.

I have the newest remake of ‘Salem’s Lot ready to be watched. I have been saving it for this Halloween night. I hope it is at least as good as the late Seventies miniseries although it may be impossible for anyone to replace James Mason as the vampire’s main minion, Richard Straker. If it isn’t, I can reread the book. I still have my original copy.

However you celebrate Halloween, I hope you have a ghoulishly, good night. Here are happy “boos” to you.

If you like fiction, try Thunder Along the Copperhead. Not Gothic horror, it is a historical romance with plenty of history of the depression year of 1933. An almost destitute farm woman, a damaged World War One veteran who moonshines on the side are the primary characters. Please help a struggling author by downloading or purchasing it in paperback. Thanks, I know you will.

Protest and Dissent

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“We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty. We must remember always that accusation is not proof and that conviction depends upon evidence and due process of law. We will not walk in fear, one of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason, if we dig deep in our history and our doctrine, and remember that we are not descended from fearful men – not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate, and to defend causes that were, for the moment, unpopular” ― Edward R. Murrow, 1953(?)

I’m waiting for the sun to show its presence. Something has my puppies all “ah twitter.” Something has me the same way but at least I’m not outside barking into the darkness. Instead, I am sitting in the dark here pondering the upcoming No Kings Protest.

I’ve spent too much time on social media reading about “the battle lines being drawn.” Name calling from both sides. Motivations being dissected. No, I’m not getting paid. Soros has offered me nothing, I protest to support our democracy for free. I’m not a Marxist, a communist, or an anarchist. I’m not a terrorist. I’m just worried.

I can’t believe I feel motivated to protest. A balding, achy kneed, seventy-five-year-old considering making a sign and joining the protest. I’m a “Boomer” and according to social media, I should be supporting the other side.

My brother is questioning my sanity, I am sure. He believes the present turmoil and concerns about a dictatorship is “much to do with nothing.”  According to him, we have too many checks in our system. I hope he is correct but believe we can take nothing for granted, especially our democracy.

I am a product of a period of protest. Born in 1950, I was unaware of the social change that Bob Dylan sang about in 1962, and I guess my answers are still blowing in the wind. The protests of the Sixties and Seventies shaped me in ways I was unaware of until my later adult life.

Despite calls for nonviolent protests, the Sixties and Seventies were fraught with a fire that even fire hoses couldn’t extinguish. I hope the protests from this Saturday are not violent, but I fear there will be agitators from both sides. I fear one side has begun to stoke the fire to oppose and hopes it will lead to confrontation. We must avoid our base instincts to retaliate while we defend our democracy.

I don’t hate America. I’m not willing to “move to those countries” more in line with my beliefs as more conservative “friends” have suggested. My beliefs align with what is written in our Constitution and its Amendments and not with a tinpot, want-to-be autocrat.

Portland frogs, naked bike riders, and serenading ICE facilities with jazz bands dressed in animal costumes have brought a breath of creativity to the protests in cities invaded by ICE and National Guard. Unfortunately, there has been enough violence to make large-scale protest worrisome.

I have been accused of not caring about crime in blue cities. This is not true. I care about crime anywhere and quite deeply.

I care about hastily trained ICE agents using undue force and friends who support it and attempt to justify it with the ends justify the means. You cannot justify women and children being drug from cars, beaten, even shot.

I care about National Guard troops who are not properly trained in policing. I remember “four killed in Ohio.” I worry that they will be forced to be trained in domestic urban warfare and ordered to use their training.

We, as a nation, have a rich history in dissent and protest. We were born, as a nation, from dissent and protest, some quite violent. The Revolutionary War, sometimes referred to as our first civil war, was quite violent and began due to protest and dissent.

There were people then, as there are now, who believed our dissent and protest was unintelligent and ignorant. They believe it is misplaced. I guess there are always two sides to any protest.

I worry that we are sliding down a slope toward dictatorship and oligarchy…or have hit the rock bottom and are already there. It seems that I face people who are okay with, if not welcoming, a change in our system of government and willing to accept an autocrat.

Our legislative branch seems to have surrendered as well as a third of our voting population. I am not willing. I’m not against change but I am not for illegally circumventing the checks put into place by the authors of our Constitution.

I trust our President, not at all. Nor do I trust his advisors, his cabinet members, the Supreme Court, and our Legislative branch. It hurts me to say it, I don’t trust those who voted for him, including family and friends.

I worry too, that for every person who thinks as I do, there are good folks…well intentioned folks, who believe otherwise. Folks who want change for the sake of change. Folks who will pay for that change, as will I. I don’t hate them. I feel sorry for them and worry about what they are willing to do to me and my family.

There is plenty wrong with our leaders, not our system of government. Our leaders are the problem. We have leaders who are dedicated to the people and leaders who are only dedicated to themselves and their party. It appears one side, the wrong side, has taken control.

Protest seems to be the only avenue available. “There comes a time when one must take the position that is neither safe nor politic nor popular, but he must do it because conscience tells him it is right.” ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

I believe I have come to that time.