Valentine’s Day

“This fire that we call Loving is too strong for human minds. But just right for human souls.”
― Aberjhani, Elemental: The Power of Illuminated Love

It is Valentine’s Day. My first without my bride. Memories flood over me…and when it came to this day, few were memorable in a positive way. It was always a very stressful day.

My bride didn’t like traditional Valentine’s Day gifts…you know…roses or chocolate.  Stress!  I mean she likes roses, but she’d rather have a bare root rose to plant in the spring…you know the gift that keeps on giving…season after season.  I did that for one year.  It died.

Chocolate would be fine if we celebrated at an intimate little Belgium chocolate shop, we once discovered in Charleston…the owner, a Belgian Jew whose family fled to the United States as Nazi tanks began rolling toward France, died a while back.  How dare she.  The son who took over was…was…delicate and high strung, prone to fainting.  He couldn’t take the pressure of making handmade chocolate delights.  He sold out and for some reason, it’s just not the same.  It’s like the shop died too.

One of the first Valentine’s Days we celebrated after moving to the foothills of the Blue Ridge is a prime example of my luck as it relates to Valentine’s Day. I found a nearby inn offering a romantic dinner for two.  I jumped on it…it snowed.

The owner called us saying, “they say the roads are cleared.  We’re open but have no power.  We’ll be preparing your meal over an open fire if you can get here.”  We’ll get there. 

“Have four-wheel drive, will travel” which explains why we opted to take the Thunderbird instead of the old Landcruiser.  The Landcruiser just wasn’t sexy enough for Valentine’s Day.  “Fools rush in….” Up the Saluda Grade for twelve or so miles.  Everything was fine until we hit the North Carolina line.  Snowplows?  Even South Carolina has heard of them.

It was a drive through the mountains that reminded me of the scenes from the movie “Battle of the Bulge.”  The road looked like it had been bombed.  Trees and powerlines went down, six inches of snow on the ground with a heavy fog rising as it melted.  Instead of Nazis directing mortar fire on us, power crews in yellow helmets directed us around obstructions.  No artillery shells exploded, just transformers lighting up the approaching darkness.  We made it.  How are we getting home?  I’m sure the inn is full…it was.

Saluda, North Carolina, is a rustic little village filled with memories of past days when it was a stop for the railroad.  The inn, built to serve the railroad elite, was located on the far side of town, and welcomed us with hurricane lamps that gave the old structure a turn of the Twentieth Century feel.

Oil lamps provided a warm glow with a hint of kerosene wafting through the air.  An intimate table for two covered in red and white checkerboard.  A flickering candle in the center of the table caused shadows to dapple around us as if bathed in soft moonlight.

There was a view of snow-covered mountains as we sat next to an open fireplace that could have burned a giant Sequoia tree.  Everything was warm and cheery…and of course, romantic.  None of the waitresses called anyone honey or sweetheart.  The offer was of a young red wine, not sweet Southern tea.

The bill of fare included mushrooms stuffed with duck liver pâté, Caesar salad, a healthy cut of filet mignon sided with asparagus and roasted potatoes…can you believe I can remember a dinner from nearly forty years ago?

A chocolate cheesecake topped with a cherry sauce finished the meal…a decadent, triple-digit priced meal…worth every penny…to me…but not to my bride which is the only reason I had come here anyway.  She enjoyed the meal when she ate it, later…not so much.

We decided to take the long way home by interstate…the interstate had to be clear.  The wide four lanes had to be safer than the two lane we had traveled up.  We found it clear of snow.  We also found it shrouded in a heavy fog rising from the asphalt as thick as (insert your own cliché here).

Worse still, my bride was sick.

“Honey, you need to pull over,” she said weakly.  She looked a bit green in the light cast by the passing headlights.

“What?”

Said with emphasis, “YOU NEED TO PULL OVER!  I’M GOING TO THROW UP!”

Slowing and easing to the side of the road, “STOP THE DAMN CAR WILL YOU!”  Okay, not fast enough.

I watched in horror as half of a triple-digit meal landed on the pavement with the force of a high-pressure hose.  Think Linda Blair in “The Exorcist.”

Once I helped her into the car, I pointed out, “The pâté….”  I shouldn’t have mentioned food.

“What?”

“It had to be the pâté.”

“Oh, just shut up and get me home!  NO WAIT.  STOP THE CAR…NOWWWWW!

So much for the after-dinner festivities.

I’m only sharing because it exemplifies the horror that is Valentine’s Day…and it is more subtly humorous in retrospect than at the time.  The ‘meal from hell’ is not the exception; it is the rule.  So bad are my Valentine’s Day memories, I’ve blocked most of them, locking them away somewhere in my head and throwing away the key.

What can you expect from a celebration of love named for the patron saint of epilepsy?  A jailer beaten, clubbed, and beheaded for trying to convert prisoners into Christians.  Nothing says “Be my Valentine” like a bloody, headless corpse.

I thought long and hard about this Valentine’s Day…just like every other one when she was alive.  It’s been a rough month in a rough year.

The last Valentine’s Day gift I gave her was perfect. A handmade (chortle) necklace…a cheap, fake silver locket in the shape of a sunflower on a cheap, fake silver chain.  The sunflower splits apart to expose an engraved message, “You are my sunshine.”  It’s beautiful.  Perfect.  She was my sunshine.  Her light still burns brightly in my heart.

Bumping into Memories

“There are memories that time does not erase… Forever does not make loss forgettable, only bearable.”
― Cassandra Clare, City of Heavenly Fire

It has been a month and a half since Linda left me. I struggle most days…attempting to come to grips with my new normal. Friends and family check on me. I say what I think they want to hear but truth be known, I am struggling.

I try to stay busy putting one foot in front of the other. It is easy to stay busy…I lived with a hoarder. Just a fact. Not recrimination. I allowed it. Thunder just rumbled. I’m sure it is just Linda’s “heavenly” reaction to hearing the word “allowed.”

We often talked about decluttering but never moved past conversation. I once attempted to put my foot down and exclaimed, “You can’t bring in anything new until you take out something old.”  It had no effect because I could never say no to her. She just stomped the foot I had put down.

Linda could throw nothing away and why buy one item when a dozen of the same item is a dozen times better. A bag full of broken sunglasses, other bags with the remains of broken drinking glasses or dishes. A bag with a dozen brand new baseball caps. Bags full of…bags.

In my head I heard, “It didn’t matter if I needed them or not, it mattered that they were on sale and I might have needed them.” I admit the thought brought a smile to my face.

I have taken garbage bag after garbage bag of clothes to a women’s shelter. Most were sweats or active wear and many still had tags, clothes she intended to wear but never got the opportunity to. Clothes she put away for a rainy day not knowing that day would come too soon. I still have many garbage bags to fill.

I pause to look at a beautiful purple dress with a colorful, matching wrap and a butterfly necklace hanging on a door frame. The outfit still has a tag on it. I’ve paused every time I’ve walked past it. It is so beautiful, so Linda. I can’t give it away…at least not now. I wish I had had a chance to see her wear it.

I took two large trash bags of stuffed animals, still with tags, to be given to the needy. I cried. I know there is a reason she bought them. I just didn’t know why. She never told me why.

In my head I ask for the hundredth time, “What did this (insert whatever) mean to you? Why was this little curio important to you and what should I do about it? I’m as bad as you are. I can’t just throw away for the sake of throwing away.” I should have paid better attention. I should have asked more questions.

I still have five rooms of memories to work my way through. I wonder what I may find. Blackbeard’s lost treasure may be lying under one of the beds surrounded by the other treasures you stuffed under them.

I bump into memories every time I turn around as it is. Bumping into memories is not a terrible thing. Sifting through the “treasures” saved by a hoarder is not a terrible thing if that hoarder’s name was Linda Gail. One woman’s garbage is another man’s treasure.

“For where thy treasure is, there also will thy heart be.”
― Anonymous, The Holy Bible: King James Version

Hope Eternal

“They say a person needs just three things to be truly happy in this world: someone to love, something to do, and something to hope for.”
― 
Tom Bodett

Just a few days ago I was mired in depression. I was exhausted from lack of sleep, felt I was being assailed from all sides while trying to minister to my bride, Linda. There was a leak in the upstairs bathroom, home therapies and doctor’s appointments galore. And, AND…she wanted me to apply fingernail polish to her nails. Oh, the pressure. I was having a real pity party.

My wife had some issues, setbacks in her recovery from a stroke and chemotherapy for ovarian cancer. I was just a step away from despondency when “BAM!”, said by the John Madden voice in my head, hope reared its beautiful head. We are still on the defensive end of our field, but we are moving the ball forward.

Her stroke has caused changes in personality along with vision and balance issues. There is a slight weakness in her right side, but her balance issues are as much a vision issue as it is a weakness issue. I mean, with my steadying influence, she gets around okay…maybe too okay.

One personality trait, aside for her needing purple fingernail polish applied, that has not changed is her bull headedness. She is and always has been a type A personality. Linda is going to do what Linda wants to do when she wants to do it. She has always been the poster child for self-reliance.

She is not to get up and move around without assistance. Right? Wrong. How many times must I ask you not to get up without help? Bull-headed self-reliance.

“Now baby, I’m going to the bathroom. Stay where you are until I get back.”

She nods her head and smiles sweetly while saying, “I won’t move” but has rearranged the furniture before I can get back from a thirty second piss. The rearrangement is due to her falling onto the couch sending the puppies in two different directions. Thankfully, it was on the couch.

I sleep on the same couch next to the recliner she sleeps in. “Don’t you have a bed?” Why yes, we do and a bedroom that houses it. We have found it is too far from the bathroom. The bedroom with a close by bathroom is up fifteen steps which are not navigable currently. I sleep on the couch so I can assist should she need to get up…if she takes the time to wake me up.

Two nights ago, I awoke to find she had taken herself to the bathroom, cleaned up, changed her clothes and was standing in the kitchen making toast and jelly. Bad news, it was three in the morning, the witching hour. Good news, there were no new bruises because she hadn’t fallen. Remember, I said I was exhausted from lack of sleep and as good a reason as I can produce for not waking up on my own. The puppies were no help either. I must believe her guardian witch was looking out for her.

Part of me, the logical side, was mortified.  The hopeful side was celebrating.

I reminded myself, there was a time when I mentioned how bad the brakes were on her ’73 VW Bug. She commented, casually, “I don’t need them, I have a horn.” That is not a lie. “Damn the torpedoes, Linda is on her way.”

On a safer note, this morning as we returned from the bathroom, Linda stopped, bent from the waist, and without bending her knees, picked up a dime I had missed when sweeping the floor. I’d say her vision and balance have improved. My cleaning skills have not.

Life is full of mysteries and mine is full of little hopes to hang my hat on. Her vision has holes in it that will never improve, but she is learning to navigate around them. Her balance is better, and she is physically strong. The best is that she is hopeful, and her hope sustains me.

Don Miller writes at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?fbclid=IwAR3vLExkIeP5kMTh-isZEUoByY0dey7OFK_G1WGQZF5QokB_dWBC5Wihzcc&ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

Check back, he will be releasing a new book, “Food for Thought”, soon.

Oh, Great Swamee….

“Knowing too much of your future is never a good thing.” ― Rick Riordan, The Lightning Thief

I don’t know if it is spelled Swamee or Swami. The Hindu spelling is Swami but I’m more into the hillbilly, Junior Samples spelling, Swamee and don’t want to make fun of a religion I don’t understand. I reserve the right to make fun of religions I understand.

Before the grammar police hit me up, don’t. Instead, visualize Johnny Carson as Carnac the Magnificent. Ed McMann baritone echoes in my mind, “And now, the great seer, soothsayer, and sage, Carnac the Magnificent.”

Carnac’s last appearance on the Johnny Carson show.

My mind is crowded this morning, Doris Day is crooning “Que será, será, whatever will be, will be, the future’s not ours to see, que será, será,” and it is playing on an endless loop. You would think that one of the voices in my head would hit “End” or at least turn down the volume.

The simplest things send me down pig trails and activate the voices that argue in my head. It can get crowded. This time it was my close friend, Lynn, who was advertising her business with an offer to end all offers. You see, Lynn is also a great seer, soothsayer, and sage but looks nothing like Johnny Carson…a little like Doris Day?

What is her business? She provides on-line psychic readings and is offering to predict what 2024 will have to offer. I made a joke about the Great Swamee and here I am. Voices argue while my pig trail falls into a rabbit hole the size of the Grand Canyon.

After 2023, why would I really want to know what 2024 has to offer? I would only want to know if certain physical maladies are going to correct themselves and if a certain Orange Marmalade Monster will go down like burned toast in a blazing defeat.

As Riordan‘s beginning quote told us, “Knowing too much of your future is never a good thing” unless IT IS a good thing and includes knowing when to buy that billion dollar winning lottery ticket.

If you could know the future, would you want to? Would you really wish to know the date of your day of reckoning? I lean toward not knowing when the “The Flying Spaghetti Monster” is going to drop his cosmic meatball on my head. I like surprises.

The Flying Spaghetti Monster

A rendering of Noodles: The Flying Spaghetti Monster

Too sacrilegious for my religious friends? It’s okay, I haven’t gone over to the dark side but I’m spiritual and believe that cosmically when my time is done on Earth my matter and energy will be converted to something else ala Conservation of Mass and Energy. That being said, I guess I could find my mass and energy damned to the fiery hell of the Sun’s surface. That is something to ponder.

I don’t believe I’m being blasphemous. My God has a sense of humor, and I am on a first name basis with him. He calls me Don and I call him Herb. I thought Herb sounded good along with Jesus. It sounded like a singing group. One of the voices in my head now sounds like Ed Sullivan introducing them, “And now, singing their number one hit, ‘You Nailed Me’…America’s Duo…Jesus and Herb.” How hot is the Sun’s surface?

In all honesty, Herb doesn’t call me anything. I speak to Herb often, but I never hear from him. He has ghosted me for seventy-three years. A soft, breathy, and sultry voice joins the others, “You big dummy. You are trying to pray to the wrong person. You can call me Sage…not the herb Sage, the wise Sage.”

I told you my rabbit hole was the size of the Grand Canyon…and somewhat blasphemous. Forgive me for my sins Herb…or rather Sage.

Is my friend really a psychic? I don’t know. I do know she is an empath who knows what to say at just the right time. At any rate, if you are interested, for a mere $11.11 you can have your 2024 psychic reading at   www.etsy.com/shop/megspsychicreadings. Give it a whirl and find out when the Flying Spaghetti Monster might strike.

For more of Don Miller, go to https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

Oh, the Horror….

“It’s Halloween; I guess everyone’s entitled to one good scare.” Halloween (1978)

It is two days from Halloween and my horror has already begun. Someone shared Michael Jackson’s “Triller” and like a dolt I clicked on it. “Cause this is thriller, thriller night. And no one’s gonna save you from the beast about to strike….” Now it’s going to be in my head all freaking dayyyyyyyy! Happy Halloween to me…not!

As much as I have heard and seen “Thriller” way toooooooooooo much, I dearly love an old horror movie. Specifically old movies where most of the horror takes place off camera and the special effects are created in your own head. Not the newer, more blood and swimming pools full of gore movies.

Bela Lugosi nibbling at necks, Colin Clive hovering over Boris Karloff manically yelling “It’s Alive,” or Vincent Price grabbing you by the throat from the “Oblong Box.” I even loved the humor of Marty Feldman as Igor extorting Gene Wilder to “Walk This Way!” or Count von Krolock licking his lips as he watched a bathing Sharon Tate in “The Fearless Vampire Hunters”…a few less bubbles please.

I loved them even though they really didn’t scare me. There WAS that disturbing scene with The Monster and the little girl. My fear was reserved for another generation of films that probably began with Michael terrorizing Jamie Lee in “Halloween” and “Carrie” burning down the town. Yes, I did scream during the final scene.

The one movie that absolutely terrified me beyond any reason was a 1972 low budget film called “Children Shouldn’t Play with Dead Things.” Snappy title. I found out later that it had been filmed in fourteen days and believe me it looked like it. A theater group of young people find themselves on an island filming a horror film.

Using Satan’s own “book of the dead” they accidentally raise an island full of dead and the theater group ends up dead, torn apart by zombies who end the movie by getting on a boat headed toward a nearby city to continue eating. “More Brains Please!”

It shouldn’t have been that scary and probably wasn’t, but I haven’t had guts enough to rent it. During my coaching days, after Friday night football games, I always found it hard to sleep and usually tried to put myself to sleep by watching TBS on cable and sipping Jack Daniels.

This TBS was the old version that was still owned by Ted Turner, featuring Saturday afternoon wrestling after an all-night horror fest of reasonably new films, sandwiched around cartoons and such.

Being in the early Eighties, “Children Shouldn’t Play…” was reasonably new, only a decade old or so. I was alone, my roommate brother out for the night participating in an evening of “Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll” I am sure. My significant other…there was no significant other at the time as I was still waiting around for the love of my life to ask me out. You really should not watch a horror film at two in the morning without someone to snuggle with or at least call-in case you need to be talked down from your fear.

It wasn’t the movie…the plot was too easy to follow. You just knew that as soon as they finished their “raise the dead chant” terrible things were going to happen and that the black guy would be the first victim. He was and was soon followed by the two amorous youngsters who had snuck off for a little quality time alone.

I laughed…until that damn music started. It really wasn’t music; it was more like a million fingernails being drug over a chalk board or a million out-of-tune violins being played with a crosscut saw. With the hair standing up on the back of my neck, the bodies started popping out of their graves like daisies in the spring sun. That should have been laughable…except for that damn music!

“Who you gonna call?” Not “Ghostbusters” because it had not been released yet. Well at least another theme is running through my head now instead of “Thriller.” “Who you gonna call, GHOSTBUSTERS!”

Happy Halloween! May your treats be more numerous than your tricks and the bite on your neck be from your love and not Bella Lugosi.

Don Miller’s authors page can be found at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

Cornbread as Dry as the Sahara

“Good bread is the most fundamentally satisfying of all foods; and good bread with fresh butter, the greatest of feasts.” ― James Beard

I doubt James Beard grew up with bad cornbread, with or without butter. I did. Come to think of it, rarely have I had good cornbread. Mostly it is too dry. Dry like the Sahara Desert. Did you know the word Sahara means “desert” in Arabic? We’ve been saying the “Desert Desert” in all our geography courses.

Photo of the “Desert Desert” by Greg Gulik on Pexels.com

The Sahara gets between zero to three inches of rain per year with some areas not receiving any moisture for years and years. The Sahara isn’t even the driest desert. That goes to the Atacama in Chile and Argentina. How dry is it? As dry as Nannie’s cornbread.

I have made it a lifelong quest to find good cornbread. I have been thwarted…mostly. Most people would have quit but being a Southern gentleman, I feel compelled to continue eating cornbread or give up my Southern gentleman’s card.

My grandmother, Nannie, made bread for every meal. Biscuits or cornbread. On those nights she made cornbread I cringed. Dry, dry, dry. How dry was her cornbread? If it had been a cow, it would have given evaporated milk. “Ba-dum…BUM” rimshot.

I can remember my grandparents crumbling up their cornbread into Their Looney Tunes jelly glasses filled with buttermilk. Sylvester the Cat did not look impressed. Any liquid, even buttermilk, adds moisture to the driest cornbread. Adding Nannie’s cornbread to buttermilk seemed to be combining two evils to make a greater evil. I like buttermilk in dishes like biscuits but have never developed a taste for it as a libation with or without crumbled cornbread in it. Okay, I’ll be sending my Southern gentleman’s card back ASAP.

With Linda’s malady many friends and family have contributed meals for which we are thankful. Many have featured cornbread to be crumbled into soup. Good thing. Good cornbread by taste but…dry. Dry cornbread goes good in soup…if the soup is good and it has been. Thankfully, no cornbread has included sugar in its recipe.

My wife, by chance, tumbled onto an alternative recipe. She made ‘close’ to good cornbread before the alternative recipe. She will tell you it is because I like my cornbread just underdone and she would take the pone out early and cut a few wedges out just to suit me before returning the cornbread to the oven to finish.

I agree with her. Truth be told, I like my biscuits slightly underdone, too.

I have memories of being allowed to eat raw biscuit dough made with lard and how many times did I lick the spoon from cake batter made with raw eggs, and unpasteurized milk? The horror! Raw lard and yet, I survived. Same with cookie dough.

So, what was the alternative recipe? The same as a regular recipe except for one ingredient…squash.

One summer we had an overabundance of squash. I gave it away to friends, family, and unsuspecting souls who drove by my garden with their car windows down. Still, I ate it every day for a month.

One of those days we had leftovers of boiled squash and onions and had earlier run out of different ways to use squash. With a mess of green beans cooking away on the stove, cornbread was an option. We pondered what we might do with the leftover squash. One of us suggested she use it in her cornbread and my quest for moist cornbread came to an end.

The cornbread was wonderful and so moist I had to eat it with a fork. With cornbread containing squash, and a mess of green beans, we had the “Three Sisters” covered and I was happy to ask for a second helping of cornbread. Summer squash is so mild it really didn’t change the taste of the cornbread.

After doing some research I feel a little akin to that lost explorer, Christopher Colombus. I discovered something that wasn’t lost. Seems like I’m not the only one looking for moist cornbread and recipes abound on various internet sites incorporating squash.

Ok, I’ll be takin’ my Southern gentleman’s card back! Truth be told, I loved Linda’s cornbread before we added squash.

Linda’s Cornbread

Ingredients

Two cups of Aunt Jemima’s self-rising cornmeal

One cup of White Lily self-rising flour (Used Red Band until it was discontinued)

Two Cups of buttermilk…maybe. Add buttermilk until you get the consistency you want along with a squirt of water.

One egg

One large tablespoon of Duke’s Mayonnaise

A dash of salt and pepper

A pinch of sugar (Optional)

Butter, Bacon grease – enough to cover the bottom of a cast iron frying pan

If using Squash, a cup of pre-cooked, drained, and chopped

Directions

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

Coat the bottom of frying pan with butter or bacon grease, or both. Yes, you can use vegetable oil if you must.

Place frying pan in the oven but don’t let butter burn.

Combine all ingredients in a mixing bowl and mix well.

Turn down oven to 350 degrees.

Remove frying pan from oven and carefully pour the mix into the pan. There should be a satisfying sizzle.

Cook for twenty to twenty-five minutes and see if it has browned enough. If not, turn it back up to 425 until it is. A toothpick inserted in the middle should come back clean.

Please give Don’s author’s page a look-see at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

Vampires Tapping on Your Window-It’s Halloween Season Again

“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 was three in the morning, the real witching hour according to many theologians and historians. It is “inverse” time to when Christ was crucified. Therefore, it is the time when evil loves to play. Witches, ghouls, demons, and the like having a chilling fun time. What about vampires? What is that tapping?

I awoke to a tapping on my bedroom window. It was spring, a late Saturday night or an early Sunday morning in the mid to late Seventies…the year, not the temperature. I awoke with goosebumps chasing themselves up and down my spine. It was the witching hour.

I don’t know why I remember certain things like it was “a Saturday night in the mid to late Seventies.”  Dateless and alone on a Saturday night? Sam Cooke’s “Another Saturday Night” plays in the background of my memory.

I had discovered Stephen King and was reading ’Salem’s Lot” to while away the alone time. One should never read Stephen King while alone and in the middle of the night. For those of you who are unfamiliar with ‘Salem’s Lot, it is a vampire yarn featuring bloodsuckers taking over an entire town. I assume everyone is familiar with Stephen King.

I love good scary yarns. Vampires and any book by King seem to be my favorites although I won’t turn down a good Zombie apocalypse or end of world scenario. The Walking Dead? Sure, and it isn’t even King. I also love Halloween season because it takes advantage of the horror genre, and I can usually find an old horror film to get a good dose of fear…unless I’ve seen it a dozen times or so.

‘Salem’s Lot besides being scary as hell, has an instructional section devoted to…vampire protocols. The section went farther than I must sleep in a casket on a bed of home soil, I risk a bad sunburn if I appear before dark and to maintain my immortality I must feed on virginal blood and stay away from sharp, pointed stakes.

Just before I had decided to call it a night, I read that a vampire couldn’t come into your home unless you invited them in. That was why I was awake. I had heard, TAP, TAP, TAP on the window next to my bed.

Alone, with no one to run to or call, I’m hearing a TAP, TAP, TAP on the window of my apartment bedroom. My second-floor apartment bedroom…just hours after reading how “little vampire Johnny” had hypnotized his little brother to open a second story window and invite him in. You just can’t trust a vampire or a little brother.

“Whatever you do… DON’T LOOK THEM IN THEIR LITTLE VAMPIRE EYES!” That’s how they hypnotize you…and I heard it again…TAP, TAP, TAP. I could imagine his little vampire fingers…those tiny, gray, blood drained fingers. I imagined his big vampire smile, lips stained with blood surrounding sharp little fangs…mouthing…” Come on man! Just invite me in, it won’t sting…much.”  TAP, TAP, TAP. Sorry little vampire guy, this ain’t a McMiller’s drive-thru window.

There was a breeze churned up by a distant thunderstorm…, “it was a dark and stormy night” …and the window was cracked enough to take advantage of the spring coolness…the breeze was moving the curtains…” DON’T LOOK! DON’T LOOK!”

Thunder rumbled in the distance…” DON’T LOOK! DON’T LOOK!” A gust of wind moved the curtains. I didn’t look…I slept with the lights on and the covers over my head. A grown man sleeping with the lights on with covers over his head…it was a grown man NOT sleeping but with the lights on and the covers over his head.

The next morning, as soon as the sun was FULLY above the horizon, I went out, all bleary-eyed, hoping to see that what had caused the TAP, TAP, TAP was not a vampire. I was met by the Doberman Pincher from the apartment below. Placing her paws on my shoulders while looking me in the eyes, she pinned me to the wall assuring me it wasn’t her. Her master explained, “She’s in heat and a bit jumpy.” I would agree. I’m jumpy but not in heat.

It was the tree…a water oak. A little branch just close enough to tap, tap, tap in the wind…or was it? No, I ain’t fallin’ for it. Why take the chance?  Where is my crucifix?  Do I have a clove of garlic?

For more of Don Miller’s whacky rantings, please go to his author’s page at http://amazon.com/author/cigarman501.

Note: From the https://paranormalauthority.com

“Many theologians suggest the true witching hour takes place between 3 and 4 AM. In traditional Christianity, canonical hours, or regularly intervaled prayers, were held in strict observance, save for that one, now infamous, hour. Over time, this period of the night became associated with unsavory activities and supernatural beings. Anyone caught lurking out of doors around 3 AM was often accused of witchcraft, and devil worship.

Most historians also agree that the witching hour was most likely linked to 3 AM, due to the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. It is believed that Jesus perished around three in the afternoon, rendering 3 AM an inversion of that time. In short, any demonic or supernatural activity that occurs at that time is a mockery of the Christian faith.”

Of Dung Beetles and Other Seriousness

“Quit complaining about life’s burdens, a dung beetle carries up 1000 times its own body weight.”
― Anoir Ou-Chad

The things you think about while embraced by the silence….

She has finally gone to sleep…sitting in her infusion chair. Neither of us sleep well the night before her infusions. Her infusion chair looks comfortable, my chair is anything but. No nap for me. There are many of us sitting in uncomfortable chairs supporting friends and family, all hooked up to infusions of “hope.” All of us are uncomfortable in our chairs and our thoughts.

This is Linda’s chemo treatment number three of six. I understand why she has a difficult night but wonder why I’m having a sympathetic reaction. I will usually sleep through almost anything. All night I dealt with intrusive dreams. Minor dealings compared to hers but major to me.

I sit with her as she gets her five hours of liquid “hope”. She picks a room with a view instead of a room with a TV. I sit with my back to the wide windows watching her watch the wind move tree limbs until she falls asleep. Linda can’t tolerate the chatter of TV or radio for some reason, and I am having a problem dealing with the silence.

I do have a computer to provide a bit of noise over my pods and just watched a YouTube video of a dung beetle hard at work. It was an accident. I didn’t just Google or YouTube “Dung Beetle” but once I saw the preview I was hooked and watched several videos. They are hypnotic.

The video was of a dung beetle hard at work. What kind of work does a dung beetle do? They roll small balls of poop into large balls of poop and then feed off them or use them as a breeding chamber. Breeding chamber? Barry White croons in a deep baritone, “I can’t get enough of your love baby.” I think in a high screech, “Hey baby, want to come check out my big ole ball of poop?”

There must be some kind of lesson here, I’m just too groggy to figure out what it might be. “A water buffalo’s poop is a dung beetles cabana?” That wasn’t even funny in my head, I don’t know why I decided to go ahead and add it.

Amazing fact. There are three types of dung beetles, mine is called a “roller” for obvious reasons. “Rollers” can roll up over 250 times their mass in one night and bury it to be feasted upon later. Amazingly, all this demanding work is done with their rear legs while standing on their head. I wonder if female dung beetles are impressed by the size of their paramour’s balls? Of poop. Get your mind out of the gutter.

Obviously, watching videos about dung beetles is not about dung beetles. It’s about not thinking about my sleeping bride who is battling cancer. I clutch every time I think or say the word. It is as if I don’t say it, it might not be true. But then, I see her softened face as she sleeps through her infusion, liquid hope running into her veins.

I wonder what kind of devils run through her mind. I’m sure she has her intrusive thoughts. When we talk, our focus tends to be more about the “hope.” The blood panels have come back good. Cancer antigens have gone down after every infusion but in the back of my mind I worry that the cosmic Big Guy is going to snatch the rug out from under us.

Dung beetles don’t seem to worry. They are perfectly happy to roll up poop balls all day long. I don’t want to trade my life for that of a dung beetle but there is something to be said about a lack of worry.

Historical

Ancient Egyptians held dung beetles in high regard. The “sacred scarab” was in fact a dung beetle.

Update

As I said before, we are halfway, completing chemo treatment number three. She is wired on the steroids that are included in chemo and I can’t help but wonder when the energizer bunny will wind down. She slept not a wink last night and I feel guilty that I did.

Her cancer antigens have continued to drop but her side effects have continued to escalate. There is a tradeoff there, I’m sure. Despite the pain she is optimistic.

Again, thanks for your prayers and comments of encouragement.

Don Miller doesn’t just write about dung beetles. He has published several books, fiction, and nonfiction. They can be purchased or downloaded at https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

The Girl with the Pumpkin on her Head: A Love Story

“You fell in love with a storm. Did you really think you would get out unscathed?”
― Nikita Gill

When attempting to decide what kind of writer I wanted to be, I authored a book that was a collection of stories about my life with Linda Gail in the foothills of the Blue Ridge entitled “Through the Front Gate.” The book was a collection of stories, no rhyme or reason, I’m not sure I had any goal in mind. Most of the selections centered around the woman I married and the ancient farmhouse we bought. I think I’m going to rewrite it. I’ll have a goal this time…and I hope I’ve grown as a writer. Yes, there is a rewrite in my future.

***

My Birth

“Maybe love at first sight isn’t what we think it is. Maybe it’s recognizing a soul we loved in a past life and falling in love with them again.” ― Kamand Kojouri

I was born in the fall of my thirty-fifth year in 1985. I say this because my “real” life didn’t begin until she said yes.

I hadn’t planned to ask her to marry me. I thought I was too scared to ask as in “already twice burned” scared. As I asked, I looked intently into her hazel eyes and noticed they turned from gray green to bright green. I have learned over the years that green doesn’t always mean GO! Sometimes it means run like hell and be prepared to duck while you are doing it. This was not one of those times.

It was a spontaneous moment. I hadn’t really contemplated asking until I asked. It was a simple…almost casual, “Why don’t we get married.” As the request came out of my mouth, I knew it was blessed by the “gods of matrimony.” She must have thought so too, she said yes.

We weren’t young, I was thirty-five, she a year younger. We were both old enough to know better. Many friends were shaking their heads in disbelief. I had a couple of failed excursions into matrimony, she had never been married. She had been asked more than once but was still holding out for “mister right.”

When I asked for hand, her mother looked me straight in the eyes and without much expression of support said, “I’ll pray for you.” Her father’s comment foretold the future, “I don’t know why you are asking me. She’s never listened to me before.”

I don’t know when I first met Linda Gail, my ex-roommate’s on again, off again girlfriend. If you believe in reincarnation, I may have met her in a previous life. It is as if she has always been around.

I remember her in a striped bikini top over purple shorts as she helped my ex-roomy clean his boat. I noted she was a fine figure of a woman. I found out later she baits her own hook and will take off any fish she catches.

Later there was an early football season encounter on top of a press box before a football game.

We disagree on the moment we met, but I know when I was first smitten. She had an inflated pumpkin on her head preparing to celebrate Halloween.

She was a well-put together, remember the bikini, petite little girl with curly brown hair and twinkling hazel eyes. She had prominent cheek bones but was missing a spray of freckles across her nose. Her smile might be a bit off kilter and she never smiles enough.

Linda doesn’t just enter a room; she explodes into the room. Motion in several different directions as she talks more with her hands than she does with her mouth.

We would become fast friends with a heavy accent on friends. It would be the following football season before I had enough nerve to say yes when she asked me out. I was slow to act because of my relationship with her ex-boyfriend but the action was rapid once it began.

Slow to act but quite interested. I’d like to say that the relationship took off when the ex-boyfriend was transferred to a city three hours away, but the truth is we continued to dance around each other for six months before we finally decided to dance together.

There were friendly “flare-ups” until she took it upon herself to invite me to see an old friend of hers singing at a hole in the wall named the “Casablanca.” It looked nothing like “Rick’s Place” in the movie, but the singer/piano player might have been better than “Sam”. Ronnie didn’t sing “As Time Goes By” though but might have banged out a version of “That Old Time Rock and Roll.”

Yes, a rewrite is in order with a few more added stories.

Update:

As I write this, we are exactly one-week past Linda Gail’s first chemo treatment. I now know that if you have never been through chemo or supported a loved one going through chemo, you have no idea how painful it is.

For two days after, my bride was frantically manic and then the wheels fell off. There was a great deal of pain we weren’t expecting, and she is quite tired and weak. Emotionally, late in the day she grows fangs and bites. Thankfully, there was no nausea.

She is weak but has grown stronger and we have two weeks of reprieve to get stronger until the next one.

It is a learning experience. I have also found out that this disease is not just limited to the person who has it. It is a family disease.

Don’s books may be purchased in soft cover or downloaded at Amazon.com: Don Miller: books, biography, latest update

Controversy Sells

“This is almost always the case: A piece of art receives its f(r)ame when found offensive.”
― Criss Jami, Healology

Okay, before we argue, I am using the broadest definition of art. Painting, sculpture, music, theater, movies, literature, etc., including a 4-6-3 double play in baseball, especially if it involved Ozzie Smith. Anything done by Ozzie Smith must be considered, at the very least, “artistic” as he danced around the left side of infield.

As if we don’t have enough political dissent, over the past couple of months, we have had controversies involving the arts, sculpture, music, literature, and movies, two within the past month. You know them unless you have been sequestered in the deepest South American jungle for the six months. What do they have in common…money to be made…and in my humble opinion the controversy is stupid!

Michelangelo’s David controversy that got a Florida principal fired, Jason Aldean’s song and video, “Try That in a Small Town”, and the movies “Barbie” and “The Sound of Freedom.” All have created much controversy and as a byproduct created financial boom.

Okay, not for Michelangelo. Mike has been dead for several centuries, and the Florida principal is still fired. She did get an invitation to come to Italy to see the real thing. That seems a very “small” reward. However, it did put Renaissance art back in the public eye which created the problem in the first place.

Artistic controversy is not new, something many artists consciously and actively pursue. Who can forget “Fountain” by Marcel Duchamp, which was a porcelain urinal signed with Duchamp’s pseudonym, R. Mutt, and presented as a sculpture. Who can forget it? I just learned of it but from what I read, it created controversy in 1917 and brought Duchamp to the forefront of the art world and praise from plumbers everywhere.

One man’s art is another’s urinal

A controversy I do remember, Robert Mapplethorpe’s The Perfect Moment Exhibition, 1989, found itself steeped in controversy due to graphic S&M content. The Philadelphia Museum of Art, who had organized the show, had received federal funding from the National Endowment of the Arts. Senator Jesse Helms mobilized a group of members of Congress to sign an angry letter to the NEA.

The show was supposed to open at the Corcoran Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., a museum that received a great deal of federal funding, but amid the outcry, the director canceled the show. Financial boom in reverse. To keep funding the exhibit was cancelled.

Aldean’s “Try That in a Small Town” wasn’t particularly popular or a huge money maker until the video splashed like a warm cow patty. When the CMA decided to pull the video over the message of the video, country music fans chose up sides and sent the song to the number one spot on Billboard. All that free advertising. As I understand it, the song also dropped from Billboard’s Number 1 to 27th in record time. Once controversy is replaced by newer controversy, we quickly forget the old one.

Not all controversies translate into financial boom as the then Dixie Chicks found out. During a London concert in March 2003, the band declared that they were “ashamed” of fellow Texan, President George W. Bush, who was planning to invade Iraq.

The comments sparked backlash and the group’s music was pulled from several radio stations and their record sales took a hit. Rebranded as The Chicks, which didn’t enamor them to Southerners, the fourteen-time Grammy winners have never regained their fame.

I grew up in a time of protest music and wonder if, those supporting the message of “Try That in a Small Town” or The Chicks fall from grace would be as supportive of Nina Simone’s “Mississippi Goddam” or Billie Holiday’s “Strange Fruit.” No need to argue the point, I’m just wondering aloud and yes, I did bring race into the statement.

In case you received your history education from the deep South in the Sixties and Seventies, you may wonder what I’m talking about. Simone’s song was a reaction to the racially motivated 1963 Mississippi church bombing that claimed the lives of four innocent children, and Holiday’s, a protest of the lynching of Black Americans with lyrics that compare the victims to the fruit hanging from trees.

Billie Holiday

There were plenty of folks who protested both songs at the time. “We got several letters where they had actually broken up this recording and sent it back to the recording company, really, telling them it was in bad taste,” Simone said during a 1964 interview on the Steve Allen Show. “They missed the whole point.”

Holiday’s song, first sung in 1939, came as lynchings of Blacks had reached a peak in the Southern United States during the first third of the 20th century. Southerners were not impressed, and the song received little play south of the Mason-Dixon.

Movies have always been controversial. From “I Am Curious (Yellow)”, “A Clockwork Orange”, to “The Passion of Christ”, sex, violence, or religion have always driven the controversy and now we get to add partisan political positions to those controversy.

Original Cinema Quad Poster – Movie Film Posters

Jim Caviezel, who once played Jesus Christ in Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of Christ”, stars in “Sound of Freedom.” The controversy is not over whether the movie is good or bad but over certain inaccuracies and Caviezel’s supposed ties to Qanon. I don’t know if the movie is good or bad because I haven’t seen it, but I know every movie that is based on “true events” has inaccuracies and untruths for the sake of drama and “esthetic appeal.”

Caviezel’s ties? I liked him in “Person of Interest” and “The Thin Red Line” before I knew his political affiliation and I will still like his acting now that I know it. To like one’s acting ability doesn’t mean I have to like the actor or agree with his politics…or vice versa. If it weren’t for people politicizing, I wouldn’t know his political posture today.

“Sound of Freedom” has made over one hundred million at the box office, mainly from efforts by those on the political right supporting it and the left denigrating it. That being said, the left has won the money battle with “Barbi.” “Barbi?” Over one billion in three weekends. The right yells, “woke, woke, woke” and the left goes and turns it into a billion-dollar movie…about dolls. Only this week’s Mega Million lottery winner made more.

I’m sure millions of current or former Barbi doll owners bought tickets regardless of political standing but much of the controversy surrounding the movie was over whether the Ken character had enough testosterone or was he a sniveling little, whoosie. A character based on a doll with no man parts to begin with.

Liking or disliking art due to political affiliation seems…I don’t know…what is worse than stupid. Mindless? Do I like the painting, the song, or the movie? Did I ask how Cassius Marcellus Coolidge, the artist who created the “Dogs Playing Poker” voted in his last election? No, I just like paintings of puppies smoking cigars and playing poker. No controversy there.

Note: Please don’t point out that I left out…. Sadly, there are dozens of controversies over literature I could have picked. I just don’t have the time.

Update: Things change fast when dealing with controversy. Contemporary Christian music star Derek Webb’s collaboration with Drag Queen Flamy Grant on his new album “The Jesus Hypothesis” has thrust them both into the cross hairs of conservative Christians attacking the release. What happened? The protest AGAINST those attacks have propelled the singing-songwriting drag queen and Webb to the top of the Christian music charts. Yes, controversy sells.

Flamy Grant Sings and Strums

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