From someone who would have to plead guilty. via The Message Of A Touch
Author: cigarman501
Looking Toward Spring
As I reached an age of wonder, I often wondered what my grandmother was looking toward as she gazed out of her window at her world. During the gray days of winter, once her chores were completed, she often sat by the window in her bedroom looking out over her rock garden. The garden was gray and brown…and bare. No hollyhocks, iris or lilies…no butterflies. Just the remnants of last year’s spring, summer, and fall. Like her plants, my grandmother seemed to wilt and turn gray herself in the winter only to be reborn again in the spring.
Many winter afternoons were spent with a patchwork quilt, sewing quietly with WBT AM playing softly in the background…until some thought of spring crossed her mind and, once again, she would peer out of her window. Other days she might sit with her Bible, a crossword puzzle or the latest Readers Digest condensed anthology. She would read, gaze out, read some more and repeat like the seasons. Nannie would begin her rebirth as soon as the seed catalogs began to arrive RFD.
Later in life, she sat with her easel in a sunroom that had become her bedroom, surrounded by her plants and books, and would apply acrylic paint to a canvas board. She created colorful remembrances based on memories of springs and summers past. Flowers and birds were favorites…as were the ponds and lakes she fished in.
I understand why she looked toward spring. I look toward spring myself when the blues and purples of crocus, periwinkle, and violets add color to the browns of winter. Their blues and purples replacing the blues and purples clouding my own mind.
Looking toward spring until the reddish blossoms of a redbud tree and the pinks, oranges, and reds of azaleas replace bareness, brown and gray. Till the yellows of buttercups and forsythia mimic the brightness of the sun. Till the dogwood celebrates the blessings of Easter. I look toward spring.
The birds bring color too. Redbirds and woodpeckers have been active all winter as have robins and tanagers, battling the squirrels for the sunflower seeds I put out. They’ve been joined by gold and purple finches. Their colors growing bolder as the days grow longer and their need to mate becomes stronger.
A pair of nuthatches are working hard to hatch their clutch and they wait, upside down, as I load the feeder near the house I fashioned for them from a hollow log. I didn’t know I was fashioning it for them but they have taken it over for the past few years. Returning like the spring.
Mourning doves coo softly and despite their name, I smile, not finding their call to be sad at all. They are waiting until I leave before feeding on the seeds that have fallen upon the ground.
It won’t be long before the coos, chirps, and calls will be joined nightly by the lament of the whippoorwill or the “hoot, hoot, hoot” of owls on the far hillside. They add their own color to the darkest night.
It was still cool this morning as I walked my familiar route. The signs of spring were everywhere…yellow pollen fell from the trees onto the greening grass and swirled in the light breeze. I worried about my bear friend I sometimes see on this rarely traveled road. He’s more scared of me than I am of him…right?
A single turkey flushed from a thicket, climbed high, higher, highest to the crest of a hill. Later, on the way back, a blue heron wading in the nearby the stream took to the air. So sorry, I wouldn’t dare hurt you. Huge wings gaining altitude into a cobalt blue sky. The majestic bird only visits in the spring, so spring must really be here.
Soon butterflies will add their color to the wildflowers and plants I put out. Yellow, red or blue and black wings will light upon blues, pinks, and whites as the season of rebirth moves on to the season of growth.
I know what my grandmother was looking toward and my heart smiles. I am glad spring is here and the memories of her it brings.
Visit Don Miller’s author’s page at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
Privet… Oh, How I hate Thee!
Right up there with Kudzu. After weed whackin’, choppin’, and pullin’ for five hours I got my first patch knocked down. I liberated some bear plant, a couple of nandinas, a large patch of tiger lilies and iris and what I think is wild almond. A lot of honeysuckles and wild blackberries came out too. Sorry for droppin’ my gees but I do that when I’m tired… I’m very tired. I’ve still got two patches to go… did I mention I’m sore? Oh, my everloving back!
Some fool decided to introduce privet to the US from Asia in the 1700s. It’s called a hedge, but I find it to be a very un-hedge like hedge. It’s not thick like a hedge I would want or I’m not growing it correctly. Privet roots creep underground and send up shoots when it senses sunlight and creeps along some more and sends out more shoots, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera until you have a patch the size of Rhode Island.
Folks from the US must not be very bright… nothing political there… much. After Asian privet… why would we think Asian kudzu was a good idea? I’m a dumb American, I followed up with Asian honeysuckle…not that it is a problem… oh yes, it is! Pretty, aromatic and a problem… except on an early summer’s night when the scent reaches me, carried through my open windows by a gentle breeze.
Privet…a problem at best. I normally cut down my privet two or three times a year… along with the kudzu, honeysuckle, and blackberry that tangles themselves with it. I had some health issues last summer and I think I must have missed a whackin’ or two. Between privet, kudzu, blackberry and the local variety of honeysuckle I probably could stay busy with twelve-hour days during the summer. I just try to stay a little behind. It helps that my wife won’t let me touch the Asian honeysuckle under threat of a frying pan upside my head.
Privet does put off some white blossoms in the spring… and poisonous, blue-black berries in the summer. Don’t believe the privet blossoms have a scent but I know if I don’t get the plant down before it blooms, my bride won’t let me touch it.
I didn’t always hate privet. Right outside my grandmother’s backdoor was a patch of privet…patch? More like a …a forest of privet. Way tall privet, not hedge-like at all. She had allowed it to grow redwood style and then hollowed out the center of the patch to create an outdoor room. Protected from the harsh summer sun, she kept the running roots clipped when they poked their little heads out of the ground. Kept the dirt swept clean with a twig broom. It was OUR hidden retreat from the summer sun, a bountiful garden that grew a child’s imaginative games. Good memories!
I remember chasin’ lightning bugs through the canopy created by the privet or making mud pies using the dark soil as a primary ingredient. I remember singin’, “Doodlebug, Doodlebug, fly away home, your house is on fire and your kids are all gone” over a hole in the ground not knowin’ what a doodlebug was or why his house was on fire.
I remember jaybirds fighting over the cracked corn my grandmother put out on her feeders. Their chatter was loud and raucous. Sitting and listening to bird calls while my grandmother broke beans or cut corn. Hearing her say, “Listen chile, that’s a catbird” or a mocking bird or whatever.
I remember hoppin’ on a wide flat rock and havin’ it walk off with me standing on it. Dang big turtle…course I wasn’t very old or big. Had soup that night, too. Yum.
Yeah, that privet wasn’t too bad. I must raise bad privet…at least bad privet rekindled a few memories.
Don Miller’s author’s page can be found at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM. Stop by and like.
Skeeter Killin’ Season
Got my first one of the season! March 26, 2019. A little after nine in the p.m. Little bastard flew in front of my computer screen and I squished him flatter than a toad frog on a four-lane. I had to clean him off the screen, but the screen needed cleaning anyway and I got him before he got me. Let the war begin.
I am eccentric for many reasons, one of which is, I welcome Skeeter Killin’ Season with a smile on my face. I celebrate Skeeter Killin’ Season like Christmas. I drink toasts with Myers dark rum and tonic while doing a happy dance in honor of Skeeter Killin’ Season despite living in a target rich environment. Not as rich as our coastal regions but still, very rich.
I live in the foothills of South Carolina and for most of three seasons we have the little bastards along with gnats, no see ums but you feel em, deer flies, horse flies, chiggers, ticks, hornets, wasps and yellow jackets. All bite, sting or fly up your nose and at their best are just annoying. At their worst, they are damn painful.
Why then, am I doing a happy dance? A better question might be, why do I try to dance? My dance resembles Joe Cocker holding on to a live battery cable and gets worse as I continue to toast the season with my adult beverage.
Skeeter Killin’ Season coincides with the sun rising higher and higher in the sky and staying there for longer periods of the day. Yes, it coincides with rising temperatures and humidity. I don’t care…happy dance, happy dance, happy dance!
Never will I gripe about the heat. I have found over the years I tolerate heat and humidity much better than the short, gray days and the cold temperatures of winter. If this country boy has Deep Woods OFF, he will survive…and an air conditioner he can escape to.
I can’t escape the short days of winter. I can’t escape the cold seeping into my bones and the depression quashing my will to survive. There will still be the occasional depressing day but the sun, high in the sky, will beckon and the melancholy will be as short-lived as a late afternoon thunderstorm.
It is the season of rebirth, blooming colors of white, yellow, gold, pink, orange and purple. Green leaves, green grass, green mold, and green mucous discharges.
It is the season of planting and playing in the dirt while anxiously awaiting tomato sandwiches running in Duke’s Mayonnaise, garden fresh corn on the cob and fried okra. It is the season for rising spirits despite the stinging insects, heat, humidity, and allergies.
I still must deal with the skeeters and have tried about everything except a Bug Zapper…homemade traps, bombs, and sprays, lanterns with the smell of citronella wafting through the evening air…mixing with an aroma of OFF. All with limited success or to no avail.
When the bloodsuckers are thicker than a cold bowl of cheese grits, I try to forget a winter drive along the coast when I battled both the low winter sun AND the little sucking bastards. On a lonely highway through black water swamps and pine forests, I felt the call of nature and pulled off onto a double track dirt road leading through a turpentine camp to relieve myself. Damn, little bastards tried to take off with my man part while my wife laughed and laughed and laughed.
Further musings and a book or eight can be found at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
A Game… Under a Psychedelic Sun in a Tangerine Sky: An Excerpt
I felt my heart rate and respiration jump. At least I hadn’t screamed. I need to get up…wait, “What the….” In the morning light escaping around the pulled blinds, I saw nothing that looked familiar. I was in a king-sized bed in what appeared to be in an old-fashioned bedroom complete with a patchwork quilt, wainscoted walls, a dry sink with pitcher and bowl. Heavily stuffed chairs resembled prehistoric animals gazing at me from the corners. Glancing at the other side of the bed, I saw it had not been slept in…”What the f….”
“Okay I get it, it’s a dream within a dream. I only think I’m awake. The scene is too real. If this is a dream within a dream, why do I feel the urge to pee?”
As I stood over the urinal, I noticed something was wrong…well…different. The lower body I looked at didn’t resemble mine in the least nor did the dragon I was draining. Short, thick legs were now long and slender, bowling ball sized calves replaced with long, supple, athletic ones. The “over Sixty” paunch I worked so hard and failed to eliminate was gone, replaced by toned abs and a chest covered in dark, curly hair.
Turning on the light at the bathroom sink, the mirror reflected a face and upper body that wasn’t mine. Looking back at me, mimicking my every move was Tom Selleck. Not the Blue Bloods or Jesse Stone Tom Selleck, the Magnum P.I. Tom Selleck. The shaggy dark hair and matching mustache, dimples that deepened like the Grand Canyon when I smiled Tom Selleck. “Man, what a dream.” Dipping my head a bit and angling it to the side, my face became the winking Tom Selleck’s.
The body didn’t feel like mine either. I usually groaned when I got out of bed. The body I looked at in the mirror didn’t ache at all. Locking my knees, I bent and reached toward my toes…“Man, what a dream.”
Looking around the room, my gaze fell on the armoire that housed a television set above its pullout drawers. A folded notecard made from expensive stock sat to one side of the TV, a remote to the other. Picking up the notecard, I felt chills chase themselves up and down my spine, ‘Welcome to Pearly Gates Bed and Breakfast,’ was embossed in gold on the front. The inside also etched in gold, welcomed me. ‘We hope to make your transition enjoyable and stress-free.’ It was signed, Petra Saint, Proprietor. I pondered…”I’m missing something.”
A gentle knock to my door brought me back to the here and now, where ever the here and now was.
***
Through the peephole, I saw a shapely petite woman with a clear, coffee and cream complexion and short blue-black hair. She tapped a pen against a clipboard before placing it under her arm and straightening her clothes. The woman had an “all business” look on her a pretty face. A familiar silhouette stood on shapely, well-formed legs, displayed in a black leather skirt. Black moderately heeled pumps made her calf muscles stand out. A matching leather jacket covered a blazing white blouse with a moderate neckline covered in frills.
I recognized her. I had watched her on TV the night before as I fell asleep, Tamron Hall on the ID Channel. I kept the TV on to blot out the sounds buzzing in my ears…except my ears were no longer buzzing.
An excerpt from the short story
The short story A Game… Under a Psychedelic Sun in a Tangerine Sky may be downloaded at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07Q18P2NQ
Don Miller’s Author’s page may be accessed at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
Trippin’ Over a Root Revisited
I love days like today. Spring ain’t quite here but it is close enough to see. Jonquils and have popped up and shown their yellow heads, turkeys are active as are the red tail hawks, a pair of nuthatches are building their nest in the same box for the third year in a row. A beautiful day. Just the kind of day to fall flat on your ass. I saw four Canadian geese and was reminded of a similar day two years ago when I fell flat on my ass and my front side too. Enjoy the rewritten post from this time two years ago.
At exactly one point eight-three miles into my workout, according to my GPS app, I kicked a freakin’ root. I wasn’t paying attention to the rock and root strewed path…I was paying attention to a half-dozen Canadian geese who were stopping by from…Canada? When they landed, I watched and tripped over the root banging my arthritic toe. The geese didn’t stay long, instead, they took off to another part of the lake. It might have been the loud cursing erupting from my mouth.
As I hobbled on and gazed heavenward contemplating my pain and the distance my expletives might have traveled, I kicked another root. Same foot, same big toe…the big toe I’m trying put off surgery on until winter comes around again and I am worthless…ah, more worthless.
The second kick was even more solid than the first. Mortar Forker! This time I bent over, hands on knees, in agony and stood still, waiting for the pain exploding from my toe to ebb along with the tears the pain it had brought. I’m still waiting…sorta. The neurons responsible for pain have abated from the torrent exiting through the top of my head to a trickle of electrical charges radiating outward and surrounding my forefoot. Four hours later, the pain is still there letting me know…it is still there!
Did I mention, it’s cold. Late March, less than a week from Easter. A moist, northeastern wind makes it seem colder…not tongue stuck to a flagpole cold but it’s not helping the throbbing in my toe or the way I’m reacting to it. No, I am not going to put an ice pack on it. I just shivered.
Earlier in the story, just after I had kicked the second root, I finally straightened up and again looked heavenward. I found myself peering, jaw slack and agape, at a hornet’s nest the size of a medium watermelon less than three feet from my face. You might guess where this is going and it ain’t a good trip.
Despite knowing it was too cold for hornets, I backed up quickly…tripping over the initial root I had banged my toe on. This time I went down hard on my butt, jarring my teeth, and decided to stay there. As I sat, I contemplated…how badly was I injured and “Help I’ve Fallen, and I Can’t Get Up!” briefly ran through my mind.
Mainly, I contemplated, how had the nest survived the winter and how had I not seen it? What? I’ve walked this trail a hundred times since last spring…why am I just now seeing this thing? It’s hugeeeeeee!
I pondered on the pain the little suckers could have wreaked…and the providence that kept them from causing pain to me or the hundreds of kids attending the camp at Lookup Lodge. Maybe I should have paid more attention to the name of the camp instead of looking down at my feet…then that hadn’t worked out well when I watched the geese. My thoughts didn’t help the pain in my foot but did take me down a pig trail memory.
On a very cool, late fall day during my early teaching career, I was startled when an entire class exited their room as if the devil himself were after them. Kids yelling and screaming, slapping at themselves and each other. Seems a “Little Johnny” had found a hornet’s nest and brought it to school for show and tell. Probably should have waited until the hornets died. As the room heated up so did the little bastards. Ouch. Some students were treated for stings, others for bruises caused by over exuberant classmates. I laughed and laughed and laughed…until my toe reminded me of why I was sitting on my butt having the memory. Fother Muck!
Image from http://goalorientedrunner.blogspot.com/2017/02/blog-post.html
For more of Musings from a Mad Southerner https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
Boy those Yankee fans sure are nice….Said no one ever. — Reflections Of A Gasbag
One of the greatest phrases in the English language to me is, “Pitchers and catchers will be reporting in two weeks.” Number One, it tells me that spring is just around the corner, and it also tells me the Bravos are getting ready for camp and that in a matter of months my heart will […]
via Boy those Yankee fans sure are nice….Said no one ever. — Reflections Of A Gasbag
Psychedelic Baseball under Tangerine Skies…
A tangerine sky had been painted above an old textile baseball field. Above the bleachers and avocado green grandstand, a child’s hand-drawn clouds chased each other around a hippie-inspired sun of brilliant yellows and oranges. Old Sol featured a smiling, female face with almond shaped, green-blue eyes.
A stiff breeze blew out to right field but clouds seemed to move in any direction they wished. The US flag, in vivid colors I didn’t recognize, and pennants in mauve, purple and gold, snapped and popped as the wind swirled. A pink, blue and green, paisley print flamingo soared above the thermals, riding the wind…high, higher, highest.
Wooden bleachers built when Methuselah was a child, were weathered to a gray patina, the boards rough, warped and twisted. The roof of the old grandstand was rotted with jagged holes allowing bright sunshine to leak through, highlighting men in white dress shirts, sleeves rolled up above their elbows, their fedoras pushed back on their heads. I saw them in black, white and gray, as if from an old newsreel.
The one women I saw was surrounded by pastel colors from a Monet painting as she strolled on boardwalks that shouldn’t have been in a ballpark. Twirling her parasol, she strolled by in a long-sleeved and high necked dress. The hem of the ethereal gown, lacy in pinkish beige, swept the old boards of the esplanade.
Her gaze was distant and pensive under hair piled high and restrained by a straw boater. The flat brimmed hat was pushed forward at a jaunty angle to accommodate her dark brown tresses but her stare was anything but gleeful.
Watching from my vantage point in my head I wondered how she could sit wearing such a large bustle and how she could stand the corset that made her waist so small.
The field was of dark green, perfectly maintained grass…grass marred with red clay and sand baselines and infield cutout. Sharp white lines were arrow straight and ran toward the infinity of the outfield foul posts. Sack bases gleamed in the technicolor sunshine as a ground crew finished the field with earth movers and bulldozers.
It wasn’t an LSD trip, just a dream…a dream that featured a heavenly figure dressed in Yankee pinstripes and a Satan in tie-dye. God was a midget who looked like Yogi Berra, Satan could be no one else other than Billy Martin. Martin glared at me from behind dark sunglasses his cigarette smoke twisting and turning, rising into the tangerine sky. He held up a martini glass in an empty salute…as empty as the glass itself.
I was playing right field…I think it was me. I looked like Tom Selleck in Mr. Baseball and I openly wondered why Babe Ruth or Roger Maris wasn’t available. Yogi said Maris was on a mountain top contemplating the asterisk after the number sixty-one in the “Good Book”. Ruth was holding court in street clothes, smoking a cigar while drinking a beer and eating a hotdog. A high school chum was there too but he looked more like Thurmond Munson than the friend I remembered from fifty years ago.
I don’t normally dream so vividly. I blame it on a sinus infection, the drugs that treat it and the left-over quesadillas my wife brought me after her luncheon with a friend. There is something about cilantro that sometimes fuels my more psychedelic dreams. Cheaper and less dangerous than peyote or hallucinogenic mushrooms, not that I really know.
I had died in my dream, the casualty of a falling treetop and found myself in a heaven of my own creation. No blazing white mansions or streets of gold. No old, bearded white men in long gowns, No call to a warm and embracing light. Just a perfectly laid out baseball field and hot dogs to die for, an all-star team of dead Yankees playing an all-star team of devil’s minions. Both teams cheered on by men in a black and white newsreel and a woman in pastels. The call was to the Big Leagues not into the light.
It seemed I had awakened from one dream into another, my death from being shish kebabed by a treetop to a heavenly baseball game. Speaking in cliches, Yogi told me the game was being played for all the marbles, good versus evil, winner takes all. As I jogged to right field he growled, “Don’t forget! It gets late early out there.”
Though I desperately tried to stay asleep, my dream ended before the game was decided. With the game tied and a runner on second in the ninth, Ty Cobb stepped to the plate, or a devil’s imp appearing to be Ty Cobb. Depending on whose history you read, in real life, he might have been the devil incarnate. Razor sharp cleats glinted in the tangerine light as he taped the dirt off them with his bat. Watching him step into the batter’s box, I awoke as a puppy dog pawed me, blind eyes saying “Open the door, I need to potty.”
I don’t normally remember dreams but this one was just too vivid, just too real…just too troubling This one I want to remember despite the fear I felt in the pit of my stomach. It’s too good of a subject for a short story and I can end it any way I wish.
I need to remember it today because my plans were to cut down the dead tree that killed the dream me. I think I will let Mother Nature do her part and cut it up after it falls.
The image I used is TANGERINE SKY by Fran Slade. It may be purchased at https://artpublish.glopal.com
Books by Don Miller may be purchased at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
As the Word Turns…
“A facility for quotation covers the absence of original thought.” Dorothy Sayers, Gaudy Night
I don’t think I’ve ever had an original thought, well there was a quote in the local newspaper after a state championship victory, “I was tighter than a tick on a fat dog.” Don’t know where my quote came from, I’m sure it wasn’t original even though I created it on the spot. Later I heard someone say they were “as tight as a flea’s ass over a rain barrel.”
I had been a bit tense before the game, as in “You couldn’t have slammed a twenty-one gauge needle up my ass with a sledgehammer” tense. Somewhat graphic but you do get the point. Ouch!
I have taken to sharing daily quotes on social media. Quotes that I find uplifting or thought-provoking. Quotes made by other people, smart people, creative people. Everything I am not.
Like many things I do, these quotes lead to other thoughts, down rabbit holes and pig trails, the piling on effect. My meanderings led me to the distinct language we Southerners have created from what was once English. Our slang and sayings we have created from the “King’s English.”
Good Southerner writers seem to have the capacity to turn a word or phrase that means one thing into something else entirely and because I am incapable of original thought, I’ve used many phrases and idioms created by someone else.
I am not only Southern but as “country as a cow patty”. I grew up “over yonder on the edge of nothin’” and moved to a place that is not quite “the end of the world but you can sure see it from there.” I tend to “drop my gees” when I talk and sometimes when I write.
“I was as happy as a dead pig in sunshine” might be my favorite saying and I’ve used it often to describe my first true love. Unfortunately, I was not the little blonde’s first true love…seems she had many true loves, some simultaneously. “You couldn’t stir ’em with a stick.” Despite her somewhat crowded pool of suitors, when she finally gave me “the time of day”, I found myself as happy as a “dead pig in sunshine” for most of our relationship.
If a pig were to die and is left in the sunshine for any length of time the skin will dry out…and it will “smell to high heaven”. As the skin dries, the lips tend to pull away from the pig’s teeth giving the little, porcine feller a smile as if he is quite happy to be dead. In other words, blissful ignorance of reality…yep that was me, blissfully ignorant she was going to crush my heart flatter than “a toad frog on a country highway”. Come to think of it I was blissfully ignorant during most of my romantic episodes.
During many occasions chasing true love, I was as “stubborn as an old mud cooter.” First, the use of the word cooter has nothing to do with its modern-day slang meaning; a woman’s “holiest of holies.” Cooter is a West African word we Southerners appropriated to describe a water turtle.
If you have ever been unlucky enough to hook a snapping turtle while fishing, you will quickly find out how stubborn they are. The old mossy back will head to the bottom and dig in. If they’re big enough you won’t get them off the bottom until they run out of oxygen and come up for air. If you are willing to wait until that happens and land him without losing a body part, there is the possibility of eating cooter stew, not really “eating high on the hog” but delicious none the less. If not, you just have to cut your line and move on. When it came to love, I never really knew how to cut my line…or my loses. That has nothing to do with “fish or cut bait”, cus it ain’t Southern.
“A blind hog can find an acorn” or “capture lightning in a bottle” as I did when I met Miss Linda thirty-five years ago. She and I do get “catawampus” on occasion, but mostly I’ve been “sugar in her hand.” Yep, I have been “sh@#ing in high cotton” nigh on to thirty-two years of matrimony. Maybe you can make “silk purses out of sow’s ears” after all.
“Bless your (his/her) heart” is a bit more diverse and complicated. It is a phrase that can be used as sarcasm while gossiping about some unfortunate, “Well bless her heart. If her brains were gunpowder she couldn’t blow her nose” or face to face, speaking in a slow drawl to a friend, “Bless your heart you are ’bout as smart as a sack of rocks.” It is rumored to be the Southern Baptist lady’s equivalent of f@#$ you…rumored now, I don’t know for sure.
A major problem with “bless your heart” is it can also be used in a loving and sincere manner. “Oh, I heard you lost your pet goldfish. Bless your heart can I bring you a casserole or some potato salad?” It’s all about inflection and yes, I have heard it directed toward me using every inflection possible. Being Southern I’ve eaten a lot of casseroles and potato salad too.
“The phrase ‘bless your heart’ is like chicken and waffles. It can be sweet. It can be spicy and it’s perfect for any situation.” It’s A Southern Thing https://www.southernthing.com/bless-your-heart-is-all-about-the-tone-2581652582.html?rebelltitem=2#rebelltitem2
For more musings or a book or five, https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
The image is from Amazon.com
“If the Earth is Flat, Why is My Life Going Downhill Consistently?”
No, I don’t believe the Earth is flat but at my age, I need all the gravitational help I can get just to motivate myself…that might have been more figurative than physical…or not.
I saw the title on a stupid meme in and amongst other stupid memes I read today. I was perusing them due to lack of gravitational motivation as I waited for a friend to load and haul away my tractor. The tractor must be a product of flat earth science. For some reason, the meme resonated and sent me down a pig trail in my mind.
Did I just accuse Flat Earthers of being stupid? No, I just don’t agree with their particular brand of science. The meme did seem more of an attempt at humor…unlike others I’ve seen recently. I’ve got to where I can’t recognize humor anymore. Many people are posting propaganda so bizarre it should be humor. I find their beliefs so sad. Biggly so. Don’t you people ever do any research?
People are posting memes as truth that appears to have come from the Weekly World News. What a severed leg didn’t hop its way into a hospital emergency room? Duck hunters didn’t shoot down an angel? I did see an old headline that gave me pause, “Face of Satan Seen Over US Capitol.” Yeah, that one had me wondering but didn’t he land in Viet Nam? It did say over and not in.
I called someone on an untruth. A derogatory meme directed at a millennial. I posted, with citing, how untrue it was. My time spent at research didn’t matter and my attempt to win friends and influence enemies went for naught. His mind was made up and didn’t want to be confused with the facts. His logic, “If she didn’t say what was attributed, she had said something else equally as stupid.” My belief is she is everything my friend fears; a strong female, educated, and brown.
I saw a quote further pushing me down my pig trail…I thought about my children and grandchildren and generations to come. I recognized it wasn’t humor. A quote by Cicero, the Roman statesmen just before he was assassinated in 43 BCE or for those of you who think there is some cabal attempting to eliminate Christianity, 43 BC. Anyway, his quote was made the same year as his death, “Times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents, and everyone is writing a book.” My thought was that two thousand and sixty-three years later I could make the same quote. I won’t because a small part of me believes there might be a correlation between the quote and his assassination…and I’m writing another book.
I can’t deny that “some” children seem rude and disrespectful. They seem to be the only ones we focus on. We don’t seem to want to focus on all the young folks that are doing wonderful things. They don’t seem to be worthy of our time nor do they fit our discordance.
“Well, there aren’t any are there?” Good kids I mean. After all, the youth of today are liberally educated (another term for stupid I guess), unmotivated, lazy, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, ad nauseum.” No, I don’t believe that. I believe there is youth, in great numbers, who are educated, motivated, with a great work ethic…and damn your damnation of liberal education. Their sin is they do it differently than we did. They must do it differently, the world of today is different and despite your best efforts, will continue to change…as it always has.
The loudest shouts seem to be coming from my own generation. The same late baby boomers who thought go go boots and granny glasses were cool. As children, chased after trucks emitting fumes to kill mosquitoes. We broke our ankles wearing platform shoes as teens and college students, played with sea monkeys while bouncing super balls to the light of a Lava lamp. Should I leave out dropping acid and smoking weed while making love, not war? Say nothing Gen Xers, two words, “The Mullet.”
It’s almost as if the Boomers and Gen Xers think the world is going to hell as soon as we cross over to wherever we cross over too. The world will probably end not due to the present generation but due to our own blindness and stupidity…and our greed.
Before the sun sets for the last time on humanity and if the present generation is so stupid, who are you going to get to program your next phone, remote or computer software?
Today’s generation is different…the same way we were different than the previous one. Our parents thought we were headed for nothing, but they pushed and prodded. They instilled a belief we could be better than they were and some of us were. It seems to me that many of my generation and the next have forgotten that, choosing instead to malign and accuse rather than build. We sit back on our ivory thrones and shake our heads and point fingers. We discount different as stupid, that thinking outside of the box is somehow a communist plot. To have a different thought is to commit treason. We view a mistake as impossible to overcome and return repeatedly to point it out, picking at it until it bleeds. I remember how we going to change the world. We did, but I’m not sure if it was for the good of future generations.
I’m not going use a paintbrush and broadly stroke anyone, but the complaints seem to be coming from one group and it is not the Flat Earthers. They are friends desperately attempting to hold on to what is comfortable, the status quo, or attempting to return to the perceived good old days, “those thrilling days of yesteryear.” Embracing an Earth that is all sharp angles instead of rounded corners.
For more foolishness go to Don Miller’s author’s page at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM
The title “If the Earth is Flat, Why is My Life Going Downhill Consistently?” came from a meme at https://www.pinterest.ca/alfiepancakezz/
Title Image http://trn.trains.com/railroads/2013/07/lustig-movie-review
3rd. Image https://www.scoopnest.com/tag/WeeklyWorldNews/
4th. Image https://www.diylol.com
5th. Image https://www.pinterest.com/nerdybff/tech-jokes/?lp=true
Ravings of a Mad Southerner 