Month: September 2023

Searching For My Generation Gap

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“Each generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it.” – George Orwell

I’m a Boomer and I don’t say that with much pride these days. I have joined a few Facebook sites touting Sixties and Seventies music, fashion, lifestyle, culture, etc. The “free love” Sixties are not immune from inflamed politics or the lamentation for “the good old days.” What happened to the “first” “Me Generation?”

Why have we, the Boomers, become so judgmental, so jaded? What did we do to become the end all adjudicators for societal judgement? I mean, we invented the term “generation gap.” What happened?

We once put a premium on thinking outside of the box. We were the epitome of non-conformity. We were going to go out and change the world and we did. Boomers did some amazing things…and then sat back on their laurels and bitched and moaned, “What happened to our youth, no manners, no work ethic, yada, yada, yada?”

We allowed the world to beat us down, turning us into our parents, and now we want to make sure our future generations get beaten down too by pointing out all their failures when we are the ones who raised them. I hope these new generations will save us from ourselves or will at least save themselves from us. We need a little Sixties-style nonconformity.

Am I looking through rose-colored glasses at the past? Newberry College in 1968-1973 was not a liberal baston of “wokeness” despite being a “liberal arts” college. I mean it was in South Carolina, a conservative baston and a champion of the “Lost Cause”.

I remember plenty of folk who did not toe the expected line. We weren’t all about panty raids, Purple Jesus, and singing “Dixie” or “Hail to the Redskins” at football games. (The Newberry College mascot was once “The Indians” and not “The Wolves.”)

I remember people who not only colored outside of the box but tore the box up and used it for kindling to start a fire in one of the outside entrances to Brokaw Hall. It wasn’t willful destruction. They picked the safest place to start a fire so they could broadcast the “Fish Cheer” from their dorm windows to the powers that were gathered outside. I’m not sure the Dean of Men ever recovered. I know, there were bigger war protests at certain “left” coast institutions of higher learning, but we did have them and only had a student body of eight hundred or so.

What happened to us? We came of age during a decade of protests, primarily centering on an unjust civil right of segregation and an unjust war fought in Viet Nam. Church, state, and parents were all called into question and found wanting by us…and now we have become them…or at least the most vocal have.

My research has given me some insight. The Boomers are not monolithic, nor are the Generation Xers or Millennials we raised. Those Boomers who were born closer to the end of WW II tend to be more liberal than those born in the later period. Interesting but I digress.

We utter the same battle cry our parents did. “That’s socialism” or “that’s Marxism” anytime anything is done to try and help people other than those at the top of the food chain. Helping those on the lower end of the food chain is not socialism. Socialism is, “a political and economic theory of social organization which advocates that the means of production, distribution, and exchange should be owned or regulated by the community as a whole.”

The last time I looked, “the means of production, distribution, and exchange” is still in the hands of the owners of said means of production, distribution, and exchange; ergo, not socialism.

The fact is we “sold out” during the 1980s and became part of the materialist, consumer culture. We became members of Reagan’s “moral majority” which was anything but moral as far as treatment of people. Remember the beginning of the AIDS epidemic? It was “hurrah for me and the hell with everyone else.” “Trickle down” only happens with rain…or “the man” pissing on our heads.

For those of us who might have championed capitalism we should have learned how corrosive capitalism can be when unaccompanied by a counterbalancing belief of moral restraint. When did our 1968 idealism turn into materialism? When did we become so pontificated against the generations that we raised?

We judge the new generations as being lazy, without morals, or taste. We had the best fashion, the best cars, the best music, we say. We forget about the class struggles, the war, and civil rights assassinations and riots. This fictional world is no longer our oyster…nor is it Generation Xers. We taught you too well to be just like us.

One of the tasks for those who succeed the Baby Boomers, Gen Xers, and Millennials is to restore some good old fashioned, 1968 idealism. The great challenge of this moment is the crisis of isolation and fragmentation, the need to rebind the fabric of a society that has been torn by selfishness, cynicism, distrust, and autocracy created by my generation. Good luck. You have a huge job ahead of you.

Please follow Don Miller at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

“Quare” Birds

/ cigarman501 / 17 Comments

“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”

― Attributed to Morticia Addams, it is a quote by Charles Addams, creator of the characters who became The Addams Family. I guess Morticia could be considered his daughter since he created her.

Once Southerners knew how to deal with folks who were a half bubble off plumb. Most were viewed humorously and talked about with a twinkle in one’s eye. They were “quare which simply meant they were a little crazy, giddy, or off kilter when compared to accepted societal norms. Many were gifted in ways we don’t understand as well but as I have grown to understand, normal doesn’t exist.

Designing Women’s Julia Sugarbaker summed it up this way, “We, here in the South, don’t hide our crazy relatives up in the attic; we bring them downstairs and show them off.” We even had cute ways to refer to them, “their cornbread ain’t quite done in the middle.”

It seems we have recently created more chaos for us flies by labeling anything or anyone we disagree with as being “not” normal if not downright abnormal to the point of criminality. This is a disservice to those of us who have not stepped over the line to wearing tin foil hats but are a bit odd…the fruitcakes Jimmy Buffett sang about. The weird, the odd, those with a screw loose.

“Fruitcakes in the kitchen, fruitcakes on the street. Struttin’ naked through the crosswalk in the middle of the week. Half-baked cookies in the oven, half-baked people on the bus. There’s a little bit of fruitcake left in every one of us.”

I’ve written about normal before, “Normal is Just a Setting but the Knob on my Dryer is Broken”. See https://cigarman501.com/2023/03/19/normal-is-just-a-setting-but-the-knob-on-my-dryer-is-broken/ if you are a mind to.  

I used the Addams quote in that previous post but saw it again this week and for some reason, it was if I’d never seen it before.

Now there are limits to not being normal. I’m not talking about people who are dangerous to themselves and others. I’m thinking about special people, who here in the southern Appalachian, would be called “quare.” “Old Jeb, now he was a quare bird” kind of people. Just a little eccentric, a bubble or a couple of bubbles off plume but for the most part, harmless and yet special.

Special? Those people with unique gifts, sometimes subtle, sometimes supernatural in addition to being eccentric.

When we needed a new well drilled, the company brought what was described by the company as a water savant. The statement was further qualified, “He’s a little out there…you know, in left field out there. Don’t mind him none, and don’t be surprised if he doesn’t speak to you.” He didn’t but after pointing to a spot on the ground, the drillers struck water at sixty feet, so I didn’t care. The man was a dowser and came from a lengthy line of dowsers…some five generation.

Dowsers are also called Water Witches…how special.

My mother’s friend was one of those special people. She didn’t dress like women in the Sixties were supposed to, she dressed like a man in denim pants and shirts and kept her hair cut short. She was loud and boisterous with a deep and ready laugh. Despite being married and with children there were whispers. “Old Gracie was a quare bird.”

One of her gifts was that she was a kind woman, always willing to help and bring joy where she could. She brought much happiness to my ailing mother. I found out she also had a hidden talent that brought her specialness into better focus.

One day shelling beans with my mother and regaling her with humorous stories, she saw me rubbing a nasty wart on my wedding ring finger as I prepared to head to high school football practice.

“Donnie, I kin get riddah that wart if you want me to.” She carried a knife, and I had a bloody vision.

Instead of reaching for her knife, she reached into the bowl of butter beans that had been shelled and pulled one out.

“I can talk it off. I learned from my daddy. He passed it down to me and his daddy to him.”

Taking my hand in hers she began to rub the bean on that old wart and mumbled words that made no sense. The old “mumbo jumbo” I guess.

After a bit she stopped and said, “Donnie, mark my words. That wart will be gone fore the sun goes down. I just talked it off.”

I was not a believer until Al Stevenson stepped on my hand during practice and made a right turn, a cleat from his shoe on top of that wart. I still bear the scar but true to her words, “That wart will be gone fore the sun goes down,” and it was. Coincidence? I think not.

We don’t seem to abide special people who “dance to the beat of a different drum” as we once did. People who dress differently or pray to different gods or swing differently. In some cultures, they were held in reverence, as our Native American brothers and sisters did. Now we just call them names it seems and it ain’t just “quare.” If the Bible is to be believed, Jesus was special. I wonder if we would welcome him now or try to hide him in the attic. I think he would be proud to be called a “quare bird.”

Update

Linda Gail is a bit of a quare bird. She has taken to dressing like a gipsy woman who likes purple and I’m not complaining. She always had a special gift for people. She is kind and caring, children and old people seem to search her out…as do animals. A person with the special gift of empathy.

She has a spirituality about herself that she doesn’t manage very well, dropping anything she is doing to help both the young and the old. The problem is now she can’t, and it weighs heavily upon her.

It has been a rough week following Linda’s chemo treatment and as I write this, it is only Tuesday. A friend of mine recently passed from the ravages of cancer. She opted to discontinue chemo when the path it followed became too rutted to travel. I thought she was a little selfish. I don’t feel that way anymore.

Follow Don Miller at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

A Little Piece of Heaven

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“Is it possible for home to be a person and not a place?” ― Stephanie Perkins, Anna and the French Kiss

“Home isn’t where you’re from, it’s where you find light when all grows dark.” ― Pierce Brown, Golden Son

“Outside the Front Gate”

We were separated from our “little piece of heaven” in the foothills of the Blue Ridge in the late summer of 1987 by a chain link fence and a locked gate with a puppy dog emblem on top. To ensure we didn’t venture in was a huge, bearlike dog. He was quiet but eyeing us warily from what I assumed was a garage but could have been the Blue Ridge’s largest doghouse. We didn’t know at the time that this would be our little piece of heaven but there was a sign on the driveway saying, “For Sale.”

“Sometimes you don’t know you are lost until you are found.”

We were out making memories as we did back then. Driving unknown roads hoping to get lost on some winding pig trail. Gas was cheaper and our car a steed to find adventure. It would be the beginning of many such adventures but none as important as this one.

We talked about the need to move into something larger. Something rundown we could renovate…a couple of acres of land to surround it. Somewhere we could spread out a bit. Something better for two people and three puppy dogs than a condominium. Somewhere to make memories. This was it we just didn’t know it at the time.

My bride exclaimed, “This is perfect.” “Not so fast” my Lee Corso voice said in my head. That’s not true, I didn’t know much about Lee Corso thirty-six years ago and don’t think ESPN’s Game Day existed. What was true was that there would be many pig trails and switch backs before it became “our little piece of heaven.”

 “Not so fast!”

My bride made the phone call as soon as we got home. When she gets something in her head, she takes the bit in her teeth and will not be turned even if it means galloping over a cliff. The realtor was nice but told us a couple was signing a contract on the property the following week. My bride was deflated. I wasn’t sure what I was.

He told us 3300 Highway 11 was an old farmhouse sitting on the front right corner on eighty-seven acres fronting Highway 11. We found later it was populated with eighty-seven acres of pines, oaks, mountain laurel, black walnuts, and hemlocks. It was cut by seven streams with the scattered remains of moonshine stills littering their banks. Some foggy mornings the smell of sour mash still permeates the air.

Old as in built in 1890. It was described as gently rolling but that was a lie. It was cut with streams that left deep ravines to be navigated. Significantly more land than we needed, and I took the realtor’s word as law and immediately forgot about the eighty-seven acres and the old two-story farmhouse.

A phone call later in the week brought it back to the forefront of my pea head. The realtor let us know, “The owner, Mr. Copeland, would like to meet you and would be willing to take you on a tour.”

Linda immediately jumped at the opportunity and the rest is history. After a day of being walked into the ground by a seventy-seven-year-old retired Methodist minister, Mr. Copeland walked out of the scheduled closing simply saying, “I like them better than you.”

“Through the Front Gate”

I don’t know how many times I’ve walked through our front gate but I’m always glad to be back. I feel like this is where I want to be…need to be. It is where that special person is and where darkness always turns to light.

Despite the trials and tribulations of the past thirty-seven years, this is home. Despite the concerns of getting too old to keep up with the place, no matter how run down or overgrown, this is home. This is home because Linda Gail is there along with the ghosts of people and puppies now gone.

Weekly Update

Linda had her second treatment. She is a little “wired” from the steroids but was able to get some sleep the night after. Two days removed from the chemo she looks like she sat too long in the sun and her bruises are more apparent due to the blood thinner she is on. She is weak as a kitten.

Earlier bloodwork indicates positive results so we are hopeful that the chemotherapy will put her into remission. Her hair is falling out and it has been a bitter pill but Linda being Linda has added colorful scarves, one her grandmother wore, and a floppy purple hat.

She was also gifted a beautiful wig. Thanks for all the prayers, cards of concern and good Ju Ju, and support. Special thanks to Kristen Coward for the beautiful, knitted throw and Christin Bennett for the beautiful wig.

The blog image is at the front gate looking in through Japanese Honeysuckle. It also served as a cover photo of the book, “Through the Front Gate.” It and other books and novels can be purchased at https://l.facebook.com/l.php?u=http%3A%2F%2Famazon.com%2Fauthor%2Fcigarman501%3Ffbclid%3DIwAR0G8ELuHBR-zAMdiSZ_Z9GoeW5Psc0S14PJw504LpXFf52Jks6KPrEQaRQ&h=AT2IgW5Kbd1ZtAc4wst-zIreyxAHAKtKLouaz6WV3uU4HpYHAY8ein7iMLZ1tAGtutYNPRNJ-Osf6jiN7_6o5okZBWh-zAESJSSmXOdrud3JDHqu2HYvwGecM2OtWP_wdYT_QI-qUUsXgW1B-_qdtw

With a Little Bit of Love and Luck

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“Everybody needs a little good luck charm
A little gris-gris keeps you safe from harm
Rub yours on me and I’ll rub mine on you
Luckiest couple on the avenue” Jimmy Buffett, Love and Luck

I’m trying not to focus on bad luck. I’m waiting on Linda to ready herself for an unexpected trip to the hospital for an ultrasound. Her foot and leg are swollen and while swelling can be a byproduct of chemotherapy, the oncologist is sending us just in case. Don’t need a nasty blood clot…sometimes you get what you don’t need.

It would be easy to wallow in self-pity and rue the hand Linda and I have been dealt. It is hard to go with the flow when you worry the flow might be circling the toilet. As I question the direction of my flow a lyric from a Jimmy Buffett tune plays from my earbuds, “Mysteries, don’t ever try to solve them. We’re just players in this game and no one’s keepin’ score.“

Life is mysterious and not only is no one keeping score, no one knows the rules of the game.

Buffett left for “one particular harbor” Friday, luckily his music is still around to provide soothing anodynes when needed. He wasn’t the best singer or guitar player but there always seemed to be a message that rang loudly…even if it was a party tune. When not singing sea stories, or party songs, he shared his poetic philosophy set to his music. I felt profoundly uplifted when Love and Luck came up on my play list and it has been playing in my head for the last few days.

The first time that I heard of Buffett was from the juke box in a “ne’er-do-well”, hole in the wall bar in the mid-Seventies. It was a perfect Buffett venue. Low lights, a small bandstand, and the smell of beer and cigarettes…maybe “funny” cigarettes hung in the air. We were loud, at best tipsy, and laughed at Let’s Get Drunk and Screw.

Still, he didn’t speak to me until I was walking past a now closed record store in a now closed shopping mall. I had no intention of purchasing an album but after standing and listening to A Woman Gone Crazy on Caroline Street followed by My Head Hurts, My Feet Stink, and I Don’t Love Jesus being piped through the speakers, I was hooked and walked out with the album Havana Daydreaming. Several more albums followed.

“Better days are in the cards I feel, I feel it in the changing winds, I feel it when I fly. So, talk to me, I’ll listen to your story, I’ve been around enough to know there’s more than meets the eye.”

Linda has had a hard week and I’m trying to believe there will be better days. I really am. I’m trying to believe we’ll get to act like the crazy teenagers we never got to be once we get this craziness under control. Even if it is just in our heads. Boat Drinks and Gumbo in New Orleans again…but my knees won’t let me chase the street cars or fast dance to Freeway of Love. Walks along Fort Walton Beach…any beach. Any little seacoast town will do, the seedier the better.

So many sweet memories embrace me…am I retreating into the past too much with the ghost of Buffett riding as my navigator? We’ve had a good life. Am I wrong to want more?

“So have your fun, go ahead and tell your story. Find yourself a lover who will glue you to the floor.”

Life is a mystery and the near future even more so. There must be time for a story or two and a little bit of fun, a little bit of luck, a little bit of love.

I’ve found my lover but at my age, I’m not sure I could get up off the floor, glued or not.

Update

Monday’s ultrasound found a “nonoccluded” blood clot. Nonoccluded means that it is not obstructing blood flow but is still concerning. Linda received a shot of anticoagulant and we both received instructions on how to give the shot which must be administered daily, in the stomach, for a yet to be determined period. So far, I have administered two of them.

Tuesday, we had a surgical biopsy that we probably won’t know the outcome of until Wednesday.

Another battery of labs is scheduled for Thursday. We began the week with only the biopsy scheduled but that fell apart quickly.

Next week we have our second round of chemo.

My bride is still in good spirits through it all…well most of the time. I must remind myself that my fear is only surpassed by hers and sometimes frustrations get the best of us both. I’ll do my best to remember:

“With a little love and luck, you will get by
With a little love and luck, we’ll take the sky
In this megalo-modern world, you’ve got to try
Try a little love and luck and you’ll get by”

This post was written before the news of Jimmy Buffett’s passing on Friday September 1. It had to undergo some verb changes. I feel I have lost an old and dear friend. Jimmy has accompanied me on many long runs and walks, on trips, during backyard cookouts, and a party or five. His “drunken Caribbean rock and roll” coming to me through earbuds or speakers. So glad I got to see him in concert. His spirit and philosophy will continue to live on. “But there’s one particular harbor/ So far yet so near/ Where I see the days as they fade away/ And finally disappear.”

Image of Buffett from the New York Post September 14, 2018. https://nypost.com/2018/09/14/jimmy-buffett-went-surfing-just-before-hurricane-florence/

Love and Luck by Jimmy Buffett
Track eleven on Boats Beaches Bars & Ballads produced by Michael Utley & Russ Kunkel

Don Miller writes at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true