humor

LOVE IN A PLASTIC CONTAINER

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Blame it on my Grandmother! I associate love with food. “You have been such a good boy…here have a peanut butter cookie” …or another helping or five of chicken pot pie. My wife, Linda Gail, doesn’t associate love with food which would explain why she has never weighed in at more than a buck twenty and doesn’t eat left overs. I on the other hand have battled my weight since having my tonsils removed in 1956. Sixty years of war on my weight…after yesterday my war effort may have suffered a major setback but that is a story for a bit later. I once heard Linda Gail exclaim, “I forgot to eat lunch.” Forgot to eat? How do you forget to eat? I’m planning my next meal while I am eating THIS meal.

Linda Gail rarely eats left overs unless we do something creative with them…which, those of you who read me regularly realize, I DON’T HAVE A CREATIVE BONE IN MY BODY! BUT, for some reason my lack of creativity doesn’t stop us from collecting all of these plastic containers just perfect to put leftovers in…for me to eat. Also blaming my Grandmother, I have a hard time throwing away food. Open container, deep breath, okay that doesn’t smell too bad…I don’t see any green…yeah put a little catsup on it and it will be okay.

On the other side of the coin, Linda Gail can’t seem to throw away the containers. Oh we may need that to put food in. Okay, I’ll just put it over here with the other food containers. Linda Gail, you do realize we have enough food containers to send a regiment of soldiers out with left overs. JUST DON’T MICROWAVE THEM in the container, we don’t need soldiers coming down with some incurable disease. There are just two of us…if we had to store left overs for a week how many containers would we need? Seven to fourteen maybe? Oh and that doesn’t include the niffy Tupperware that we don’t use. Boy did that bring back a loving memory…Nannie’s peanut butter cookies in a Tupperware container. I can even hear the air rush in when it’s opened and the scent of “love” rushing out. Interesting, a Pavlovian response. Hold on while I swallow.

Side note: Tupperware, and its patented “burping seal, was developed seventy years ago by Earl Tupper. Let me say thank you sir!

Yesterday I got the phone call. Linda Gail’s ID came up so I answered. “What do we need when I stop at Wally World?” I ticked off a list and heard, “Can I get a smaller jar of mayo, we don’t have a lot of room in the fridge. I’m stopping at the Fresh Market.” Oh my, she is going to throw out my leftovers. To me leftovers are like “stealing a nap” in the middle of the day. What am I going to do? EAT THEM SILLY! Pork tenderloin, three days old, cantaloupe, four days old. Oh yeah, can’t let those peaches go to waste…these beans…I wonder what that fuzz is…nope. I’m not sure what this was but there is no fuzz or odd green colors…hummmm smells okay, still not sure what that WAS.

Burping contentedly and trying to “steal a nap” my reverie was interrupted by the return of my beloved. “Look what I got…seafood salad and croissants for it to go on. I knew seafood salad was one of your favorites. I got these mini chocolate croissants for dessert.” Who knew today would be croissant Thursday? “Let’s eat!” Oh man I’m as full as a tick on a fat dog. What am I going to do? Get fuller and enjoy love in a plastic container tomorrow. Bon appetite y’all!

TOO LITTLE TIME TO HATE

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It is easy to hate in today’s political climate it would seem. I see so much written or expressed in other ways that always seem to begin with “I hate….” You’re going to hate a lifelong friend because you have differing political views? With so much hatred being thrown around I began to think of my own hate. I don’t mean “strong dislike.” I mean “I wouldn’t pee on you if you were on fire or dying of thirst” hatred. Hatred is something we should be experience up close and personal, not “I hate all of the libtards” on my Facebook page or “I hate all Trump supporters” on my Twitter feed. Don’t you really have to know someone to hate them? As I evaluated my hatred I could only come up with three people worthy of it. Two former bosses and the little “shit” bully who tormented me throughout my primary and junior high school years. That should give you a clue as to my age, we don’t call them primary or junior high schools anymore.

All three were bullies in their own right and I found out the hard way “sometimes when you confront a bully” he doesn’t just walk away. I stood up to all three. Despite my “bowing up”, one led to my resignation, another “fired” me out right and the little “shit” beat my ass every time I stood up to him and for some reason I never got the message that “He’s beating your ass because he can and that is not likely to change in the foreseeable future.” He also stole my girlfriend in the seventh grade and had he wanted he could have kicked sand in my face. I remember daydreaming about ways to end my torment, pushing him down a long razor blade into a vat of alcohol was one memorable thought as was drowning him in a bucket of snot. A friend once told a story about three brothers. The two older brothers tormented their younger brother so badly that he waited until they slept one night and beat them senseless with a two liter Pepsi Cola bottle. Wish I had thought about that. Providence intervened when the little “shit” moved away after our eighth grade year.

I’m sixty-six and with age comes wisdom…sometimes…well, a blind hog sometimes finds an acorn. It dawned on me that despite my hatred, the focus of my hatred didn’t even know I am still alive and furthermore could care less. At sixty-six, the sands in my hour glass are running out and I have decided, if not able to forget, I can forgive and move on. Funny odd, not ha ha funny, but every time I was egregiously wounded by one of these bullies, something good came out of it. In some ways, they are responsible for the good life that I enjoy today. Moving on was always a better move it just took a little age to realize it.

So, I have decided to eliminate the word hatred from my vocabulary and my mind. I may still strongly dislike, especially in this political landscape, but for now at least, Mikey, Sammy and Willy…I forgive you and wish I could give you what you so justly deserve, which is…NOT ANOTHER THOUGHT.

CIRCLES

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I wonder how many YEARS of my life have actually been spent driving mowers and tractors in circles? In my own yard, on football and baseball fields? Finishing up where I started only to do it over again…and again…. I find that my mind drifts with the repetitive mindlessness of the job…until I run over something I shouldn’t or cut a clump of Linda Gail’s flowers.
This time of year, the hot and humid doldrums of summer, my mind “circles” to twenty-nine seasons as a football coach…despite not having coached football in fifteen years. It’s been that long? With the coach’s clinic this weekend I am reminded that the football season is just around the corner. The smell of my freshly cut grass, along with the heat and humidity, takes me to the fields of my past. Twenty-nine first practices followed by twenty-nine first games. Fields freshly manicured with sharp white lines almost glowing from the reflected light from above.

In some ways my twenty-nine seasons were a study in frustration. Eight seasons finishing above .500 and a small, very small, handful of break-even seasons. We have at least three coaches in South Carolina with eight or more state championships during their career. It gets much worse, five of those winning eight seasons occurred during my first nine seasons. Three winning seasons over the last twenty. My own tenure as a head football coach boasts one winning season, six wins out a total of thirteen over four seasons. What made me think I was head coaching material?

I spent this past Friday morning with best friend, former boss and Linda Gail’s former high school classmate, Mike “Hawk” Hawkins. I was lending “moron” support as we attempted to erect a backyard swing from scratch. The “blind leading the blind” didn’t quite describe it. More like the “blind leading the stupid.” Somehow with a bit of “cussin’” on my part and a lot praying on his, we got the job done. Maybe it won’t collapse in on itself. More importantly, being around “Hawk” reminded me of why I coached football for twenty-nine years despite the frustration. It was the people and the personalities surrounding high school athletics.

My last game coaching football was Mike’s last game as head coach at Riverside. No man could have put more into a program than he did but it wasn’t in the cards. My first five years as his assistant netted two winning seasons and a couple break evens but then the wheels fell off the jalopy. To quote Linda Gail and thousands of others, “You can’t make silk purses out of sow’s ears.” We had great kids who tried and worked hard but were “athletically challenged” proving that you could do most everything right and still not be successful. Weekly we found our X’s to be much smaller and slower than our opponent’s O’s. Tasting just a bit of success is what made my last game much sweeter.

I don’t know how many games we won my last year…it wasn’t many. It doesn’t matter because we won the last one. A playoff bound Mann team came to the River and our kids rose up and smacked them in the nose. Hawk devised what I have always called a “bastard” defense, throwing caution to the wind and our kids executed it. As the seconds ticked down a senior defensive end who, in a normal defense, would not have been dropping into pass coverage, did. Geoff Rigsby intercepted the confused Mann quarterback to ice the victory…my last victory. I didn’t know it was my last game at the time. I was living vicariously through “Hawk” who was being carried from the field on the shoulders of his players while what few fans were in attendance were bring down the goal posts…well bending the goal posts.

A friend who used to coach with Hawk and I, Rick Scott, once said, “Winning is better than sex.” I bit, “How is that?” “Sex only last a few minutes. A win lasts all week long.” Well! I would guess he is correct. I’ve enjoyed my last win for fifteen years.

For more humor by Don Miller click on the following link: http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

A GOAT IN THE BATHROOM

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Timing is everything…or nothing. We had just completed tearing the old kitchen, pantry, back porch and wash room off of our old farm house. Renovations had begun! Cooking was taking place on the Weber kettle grill, what dishes we were doing were washed in the bathroom sink and Linda Gail’s washer and drier were now located under a hemlock tree, connected electrically with a drop cord and to water by a garden hose, or in the Southern language, a hose pipe. Into this environment of flux came Nae Nae.

We were working on raising a small herd of goats to maintain a large hillside and deeply cut stream bank covered with the southern scourge, kudzu. We had tried to kill it with Round Up, something I was scared to do since our location was so near water. We had also attempted to burn it. DO NOT ATTEMPT TO BURN KUDZU! Kudzu likes to be burned and comes back twice as fierce and will grow two feet per day in optimum growing conditions. Burning it gave it optimum growing conditions. We were told introducing goats would control kudzu so let me introduce the goats.

Claude and Claudette, named for former owner Claude Sherriff. Nugene and Nicolette, named for former owner Eugene Nichols. Newt, named for his loss of baby making apparatuses, as in “Newt-or.” Offspring Sha-Na-Na rounded out the herd who had all been named by Linda Gail. All, except Newt, were American Alpine milking goats and because of their genetics had the endearing habit of climbing to the highest point available. The top of your pick-up truck cab or tractor seat, and if young enough, to the top of your head. Not so endearing was their habit of butting…especially if you happened to bend over for some reason…and it really didn’t matter which end got butted. Getting butted between the eyes by a Billy with a three-foot horn spread will stun you just for a second.

Our youngest, Sha-Na-Na, was “with child” and picked this particular “not so good a time” to deliver. The delivery was both a blessing and a sorrow. Nae-Nae entered the world as a breech birth after much effort from both Sha-Na-Na and ourselves. Sha-Na-Na would not survive, the sorrow, and we would be left with a little bundle of joy we had no idea how to raise, Nae-Nae. A phone call to our vet educated us on what was called “colostrum,” which is best described as the mother’s “first milk,” the milk loaded with everything needed for a healthy baby goat or as I found out a healthy baby anything. Our call to the vet also exposed a problem, “WE AIN’T GOT NO COLOSTRUM!”

Our helpful vet put us on a Miss Labrea who told us for five dollars she would provide us a bottle of colostrum. Known by the locals as “the goat lady,” she raised show goats. Show goats? Who knew? When I first saw the “show goats” I thought they must be from another planet…which is saying a lot when you consider how alien normal goats generally look. Our goats were down right beautiful compared to hers with very large, upright ears to go with black fur and white spots or vice versa. Hers? No ears! Just little holes in the sides of their heads. They were all the same uniform color of…pale, very pale. From their necks hung long fleshy “waffles” making them look even more “out of this world.” Lamancha goats originally from Spain, then Oregon and now found on Gap Creek Road…in a “past its prime” single wide trailer.

Okay only the babies were in the single-wide…in a baby “cage” …in the kitchen…along with the fridge, stove and dining table. When I looked in the sink I realized the goat “cage” was the cleanest area of the kitchen. The expectant mothers had their own individual stalls in a run-down barn, the rest populated scattered paddocks and pastures. According to Miss Labrea, “Them baby goats never touch the ground! I catch ’em when they drop and into the kitchen they go!” NO! NOT TO BE EATEN. She would then milk the mothers and begin feeding the kids, causing them to imprint on her rather than their mothers. I have this vision of Miss Labrea leading her “babies” down to the water ala “Clementine and her little ducklings.”

Miss Labrea got her nickname honestly and it may not have been because of her chosen vocation, raising and selling show goats. You know how people who too closely identify with their animals begin to “kinda” look like them? Well, Miss Labrea kind of smelled like them too.

Armed with colostrum and baby goat formula we began the raising of a baby goat…in our bathroom…for six weeks. Did I mention it was our only bathroom? Did I mention we were doing our dishes in there too? I should also mention the flu bug I caught shortly after our new guest moved in…an intestinal kind of flu…a twenty-four-hour intestinal kind of flu…with a baby goat in our only bathroom…as renovations continued around us. It’s okay, we renovated the old bathroom along the way too.

Don Miller has also written three books which may be purchased or downloaded at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

“JOHN WAYNE” COP

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I knew he was going to be a problem when he got out of his brand spanking new cruiser. All shiny and blue…just like him. He was spit and polished, all sharp creases, all five foot four of him. Is there not a height requirement? Aviator sunglasses wrapped around his round head. They weren’t mirrored but Immediately I thought of “Cool Hand Luke…” until he opened his mouth. Then I thought of “red neck” Sherriff J. W. Pepper. I am sure when he looked in the mirror he saw “John Wayne” …only with slicked back hair. Before the day was out I’m sure he had at least one John Wayne thought, “Pilgrim, you caused a lot of trouble this morning.”

Don’t get me wrong. I have the utmost respect for good cops and the few I have run afoul of have been great. My favorite was a six foot “forever” patrolman who stopped me from “flying” over the Church Street bridge. Preceded by a deep and hearty laugh, “This should be interesting. Can you explain why you were doing sixty in a thirty-five…with Driver’s Education stickers all over your car?” It did not seem prudent to say I had forgotten to take them off. Thank God, a warning.

Linda and I go on “walkabouts” and on a beautiful spring Sunday decided we would walk about what we call “Hemlock Hills.” We have ninety acres of what was described as “gently rolling.” It’s a lie. Some of it is pretty steep rising four hundred feet above where our house sits and is cut by deep ravines that feed seven streams once used to feed stills producing the moonshine that made the “Dark Corner” famous. Most of the land is covered by hardwood, mountain laurel, rhododendron and hemlock, the tree not the poison. There are terraces from previous attempts at hilltop farming but nature reclaimed them long before we settled there. From the top of our property we have great views of both Glassy Mountain and Caesar’s Head. Truly a beautiful view, especially with the new green growth of spring and the blooming laurel.

We didn’t get far on our trek. A half mile up, and I do mean up, our logging road I saw a flash of sunlight where there shouldn’t be sunlight along with fresh vehicle tracks…and a ripped off muffler and tail pipe to go with broken fender parts and side view mirrors. Further down we found logging chains, wedges, logging tools and a battery that might have brought an Abram’s tank to life. We also found two cars and a truck showing a lot of wear from their mile or so “overland” journey on the old, rutted and grownup logging road that connected us to Chinquapin Road. After a quick investigation and with the hackles standing up on the back of my neck, we quickly reversed our course and summoned the police. Enter “John Wayne” Cop.

I met him at the top of Chinquapin and my unnamed logging road…well it’s not mine, it actually crosses two other properties before it gets to mine. It is also rutted six or eight-inches-deep in places. I have used it with my tractor and with my old FJ 40 land cruiser but never with a police cruiser. I still haven’t. He strutted like a bantam rooster when he got out of his cruiser and seemed to fidget impatiently as I told him my story. He also ignored the part about walking in to view the crime scene. When I told him it was about a mile walk it was settled, we were driving in with the air conditioning blasting. Because I had been taught to respect the law I crawled in beside him making sure my seat belt was tight. Good thing. We didn’t get far. He also ignored my instructions to stay on the “high side” of the ruts. We came to a sudden and violent stop as his oil pan, drive shaft and rear end hit the center dirt hump. Because he was accelerating at the time we continued forward as his rear end ground into the compacted soil. We finally bounced to an unceremonious halt with both rear wheels off of the ground.

He didn’t seem to be as “cocky” when he got out of the cruiser. Surveying the damage, he weakly asked if I could stand on the bumper and bounce it. I said sure but added, “You do know your tires are not touching the ground, right?” I still get a chuckle from Linda when I tell that part of the story. I bounced it up and down but we were stuck fast.
After walking in to survey the stolen cars, he stopped me by putting his hand on my chest while pulling his weapon. In a hushed voice he said, “We can’t be too sure they are not still here.” I silently wondered if the powers actually allowed him to load his weapon and decided to stay well behind him…even when he turned to talk to me. “What are you doing?” when I tried to stay behind his left shoulder. “Just trying to stay out of the line of fire sir.” I doubt he was amused.

Walking back out we found he could get no reception from his radio or cell phone at the bottom of my rutted road. Yeah, they have to pipe us sunlight to. I also noticed his car was bleeding fluid. I would say oil from a fractured pan. Walking up to Chinquapin to get reception he was a bit more reserved as in “silent like the inside of a coffin.” When he finally got reception there was first a phone call to the lab to come process the crime scene and then to his sergeant. Once he told his story there was a five-minute tirade coming from the other end. Turns out it WAS a brand new cruiser now a little worse from wear. Four tow trucks later the cars were gone as was “John Wayne” Cop. They left all of the logging materials, something I am “really” likely to use.

Since “John Wayne” Cop left his cruiser stuck in my logging road’s ruts I have had a tractor and an FJ 40 stolen and replaced with a stolen power company boom truck hidden on my property after it had driven through the gate I had put up to block the road. Thievery is not just an urban issue and I really wish the locals would go back making shine or growing “Glassy Mountain Gold” to supplement their incomes. News flash to self, “The Honest Ones Still Do!” Both the tractor and FJ 40 have proven to be irreplaceable. I got a replacement tractor which has proven to be inferior. Linda Gail is tired of hearing me gripe about it and spend money on it. The FJ 40 was returned to me…but not in the same shape it was in before it was stolen. Its red paint had been painted over in flat black from aerosol cans, its original radio broken out with a crowbar and various parts removed including its master cylinder, a fact I didn’t know about until I tried to stop it. I can’t even prosecute the jerk who stole it. He is doing hard time in Georgia. Later my cruiser became so embarrassed with itself it caught fire and burned. No, I didn’t get to keep the boom truck and it would not have been an equal trade anyway. I guess there are serpents in any Garden of Eden but it seems as if we have had more than our share.

Don Miller has also written three books which may be purchased or downloaded at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

MY COLONOSCOPY …OBSERVATIONS OF HUMOR

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No, No, No, No! Don’t let me wake up! DON’T LET ME WAKE UP! Just let me finish this dream…SH@T FIRE! It was such a great dream. It was about…okay you will have to take my word for it…actually I will have to take my own word for it. How quickly a drug induced dream disintegrates. My colonoscopy has completed my 100 000-mile checkup. Drat! I just remembered I have to have that other test. Glad my GP has slender fingers.

All is well except the lost memory of my dream and I DO understand why people become drug addicts. I wonder if I can have another colonoscopy next week without the prep…OR MAYBE JUST THE DRUGS. Why is the prep timed so it will hit in the middle of the night and how much Miralax can be dissolved in Gatorade?
My doctor says he found nothing so I guess I can’t have another one next week or the drugs. I am surprised he didn’t find something. I would say from the way I feel he should have found Amelia Earhart’s missing airplane or Genghis Khan’s burial site. Wow, he even took pictures. No I will not share them with you but I always knew I had an inner beauty and now I have the pictures to prove it. I also have a bad taste in my mouth. You don’t suppose…?

I am in recovery now with a chorus of other recovering patients. I say chorus because we are serenading each other with “Trumpets (NON) Voluntary!” Who knew air being forced up your intestinal tract would cause such “music.” You know when you blow up a balloon and let the air escape by stretching the little opening? I am sure the nurses would prefer rooms with real doors instead of the pull around dividers. They must be used to the trumpeting and thank goodness it is not very noxious. My recovery nurse did not laugh when I asked if she wanted to pull my finger.

There is something demeaning about lying on your side and having a video camera threaded up a couple of dozen feet of intestine through your…well, you know. Especially demeaning when one of the “team” members is a cute, young brunette. I know, I know I am a happily married male in my late summer or early autumn years. But I ain’t dead and I would prefer to put my best foot forward…or six inches forward. In a way I guess it is. I wonder who has to clean the camera? You went to college for four years to do this?

I wonder if the five-person team jokes about MY predicament? Why does it take five people? More embarrassment or more jokes. Little snide remarks like “Hey and now you know how a puppet feels” or “In some states we’d be married now.” “I’m at the top of my game but at the bottom of yours.” I wonder if my wife asked my doctor to check for my head? She did tell me she didn’t understand why I even need a colonoscopy. With my head so far up my butt I should be able to check for myself.

When I had my first colonoscopy I embarrassed my wife when I asked my doctor if I had heard him correctly? “Did you say I had a perfect asshole or I was a perfect asshole?” Those of you who know me will agree that it was probably NOT THE DRUGS talking and will agree on what the doctor actually said. Those who don’t know me, IT WAS NOT THE DRUGS talking. I promised my wife this time around I would not embarrass her…and I didn’t. Hope she doesn’t read this.

More nonfiction by Don Miller is available at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

THE BURDEN OF FRIENDSHIP-GENTLE RANT ALERT

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The most infamous tow truck owner in the South…maybe nationwide…well on Facebook at least, is a friend of mine. Is…not was…! He is a friend of mine despite my social liberalism and his Trump leanings. Just so we understand his leanings, were he the Tower of Pizza, he would have fallen over into Trump’s lap by now. No I’m not going to divulge his name but I will call him Sampson. My “conservative, Trump supporting, gun toting, Christian values spouting and I refuse to tow Bernie supporters” friend started a wee bit of a furor when “God told him” to leave a handicapped woman on the side of the road because of her “Bernie” bumper sticker. Sampson says he did not know she was handicapped, despite her handicapped sticker, and I believe him. I am sure he didn’t see it because the Sampson I know would not have ignored a handicapped sticker. I am sure he was simply blinded by the light given off from the “Feel the Bern” sticker. Look guys, sometimes I can’t see an elephant sleeping under my nose or the food I dropped on the floor so I am not going to throw stones.

I am very disappointed in Sampson but I’m not going to abandon him. Abandonment is not what friends do even when they disagree with each other or one is disappointed in the other. Sampson has never been anything but kind, straight forward and above board with me and my wife Linda Gail. I’ve bought several cars from him, dined with him, shot the bull with him and borrowed equipment and tools from him. I admit Sampson is a “wheeler dealer” and probably should have named his company “Anything For a Buck!” but wheeling and dealing is not illegal…maybe. Besides, he has not tried to steal my bass boat or woo my wife so I am not going to throw him under his tow truck. Did I write that in the correct order?

I won’t desert him but I won’t defend him either. While I defend his right to leave anyone on the side of the road he chooses, I won’t defend his actual action or his decision. Sampson was out and out wrong. Good Samaritans don’t leave people stranded and the God I worship would not tell me to “leave the lady socialist on the road,” handicapped or not. The situation could have been handled differently and Sampson should make his lack of trust in “communist left wing hippy freaks” known and mention his adversion upfront.

Lack of trust may not be the whole issue but rather out and out hatred. Not necessarily hatred on Sampson’s part but rather the social and cultural atmosphere we find ourselves inhaling. My brother tells me all of the time, “It’s not Trump. People just want change. People are fed up.” I agree with him about being fed up but I fear Sampson’s presidential choice, Mr. Trump, is using our hatred and bigotry, along with the desire for change, to power his campaign. People are no longer nice to each other, especially with the anonymity of social media. Any idiot with a computer can say whatever he wants to without the fear of getting kicked in the crotch. Worse are the creative non-idiots with an agenda to push who play to the folks who think everything on the internet is true. Trump did not create this scenario and may not be a bigoted racist himself but I believe he is using bigotry and racism to his advantage.

Hitler used mass media to create a “Let’s Make Germany Great Again” campaign along with non-Aryans as scapegoats to give “good Germans” someone to hate and a focus for their energies. Mr. Trump has just taken the next natural step, utilizing social media to create a “Let’s Make America Great Again” campaign and has used most every American fear, except our fear of clowns, as a reason to create scapegoats for us to focus our hate and energies. Clowns may yet be utilized as soon as Mrs. Clinton secures her party’s nomination. Before someone points out Godwin’s Law, yes I did compare Trump to Hitler but only his methods and he has had much help from the trolls that lurk near “the bridge” known as social media.(1) Despite Hitler’s track record, I believe Trump to be infinitely more dangerous. After all, if he wins the election he will have his finger on the nuclear trigger surrounded by a group of minions yelling, “Push it! Push it! Push it! We dare you!”

Differences in political opinions can make friendships challenging and interesting but should not end friendships. When I finally talk to Sampson I will tell him that I am disappointed and why. He will listen intently and then defend himself. There may even be a little yelling involved but at the end of the day, I won’t leave until I am sure we are still friends or when the ambulance leaves to take me away. I am guessing I should leave my car with the COEXIST sticker at home. I shouldn’t be taking chances at my age.

(1)Reference is from the Norwegian fairytale “THREE BILLIE GOATS GRUFF.”

More nonfiction by Don Miller is available at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

OH HELL, NO!

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“Oh, hell no!” I just got a look at myself in the mirror. Note to self, just because you have to pee first thing in the morning does not mean you have to look in the mirror while you are doing it. Those are not bags under your eyes those are freaking steamer trunks. Weren’t you just dreaming about “frolicking in fields of green with…?” Just moments ago you didn’t look like your image in the mirror…but then, “You guess she might look differently and aren’t you a little old for wet dreams?” Note to self, “Keep the light off!”

Okay time to meet the day…” Why am I standing in front of the open freezer?” Oh yeah, blueberries for the oatmeal. “Sleepy Self” don’t you need to fix your oatmeal first and what about your coffee?” Yeah, coffee would be wise and I need to get it in me quickly it would seem. “Hello clock. What time is it anyway?” “Oh, hell no!” Three thirty in the FREAKING AM? Sure glad I didn’t fix the coffee. Let’s try the recliner, I do not need to create another “Oh, hell no!” moment and wake Linda Gail.

“Oh, hell no!” Didn’t I just go to the bathroom…Oh yeah I fell asleep in the recliner. What is that “thingy” staring up at me? Didn’t we have a conversation about wet dreams? How stupid do men look running to the bathroom with that? “Sleepy Self” didn’t you pay attention? NO LIGHTS EVER! Your steamer trunks have turned into boxcars. Okay, what time is it? Whew! A reasonable hour and now you really can meet the day. COFFEE IS NEEDED! Why is the oatmeal tube in the freezer? The Quaker is freezing to death. “Oh, hell no!” WHERE DID I PUT THE NO LONGER FROZEN BLUEBERRIES? Great, they’re next to the coffee on top of the cabinet. “OH, hell no!” What a day…but at least I’m not going to school!

More nonfiction by Don Miller is available at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

AH…SPRING

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Wow! An actual spring this year. Most years we simple go from the dead of winter to the height of summer in a twenty-four-hour period. There were a couple of days when I worried as the thermometer edged past a somewhat comfortable eighty-five into an uncomfortable near ninety. But thankfully no, it was simply a harbinger of the heat, humidity and mosquitoes to come. We are in the midst of “blackberry winter” with beautiful white blackberry blooms adorning our roadsides bring cool morning temperatures and warm, but not hot, afternoons. Moderate evening temperatures allow for outdoor activities involving a cigar, an adult beverage, a comfortable sweat shirt and the smell of sweet honeysuckle mixing with the aroma of my Dutch Master’s Honey Corona. Ah…Spring!

The local bear paid me his annual spring visit last night, pulling down my fence before making off with two bags of trash. “Pooh Bear” found no honey but seemed to enjoy the empty peanut butter jar…once he got into it. He was not a very tidy diner but at least he left both bags “relatively” close together and intact. Last year his “great trash robbery” was left scattered over an acre. Linda Gail and I have enjoyed watching a small brown snake, variety not color exactly, make his slow, early morning trek up into the tangle mess of Linda’s clematis while waiting for the morning sun to warm the very cockles of his little fork-tongued soul. I’m not too worried about my bird families because even the smallest babies are larger than the snake. Flick, flick goes his tongue. Several mornings ago I watched a doe and two small, spot covered, fawns cautiously follow the stream past my garden. I hope they don’t discover my tender spring plantings. Ah…Spring!

As I sat outside in my camp chair last night, I was treated to a concert of sorts. I had decided to enjoy a second adult beverage and heard the melodic yet lonesome call of a whippoorwill. I heard no answering call and could not help but softly sing “Hear that lonesome whippoorwill, He sounds too blue to fly, the midnight train is whining low, I’m so lonesome I could cry.” Thank you Hank Williams. My moroseness was short lived when the owls began their serenade. They certainly are not lonesome. It won’t be long before their hooting will be joined by the cicadas and their short lived mating chant along with the fireflies and their flashing message, “Here I am, lets skip the light fandango.” Ah…Spring!

Unfortunately, even the Garden of Eden had its serpent. My little piece of heaven does too and I am not speaking about my friendly little brown snake. With spring comes beautiful flowers, green trees, the honeysuckle and my “god awful” allergies! A serpent disguised as postnasal drip…no, disguised as a postnasal flood of biblical proportions. Noah had nothing on me and there are no rainbows to signify the end of the flood. I think I may drown in my own pool of…mucus and wonder why God decided to place our noses upside down over our mouths. I have an equally allergic friend who I converse with several times a week. Our conversations seem to always begin with “My allergies are…” take your pick. I’ve attempted all of the fixes and found I cannot sleep standing up. My allergy tests showed I was allergic to one hundred and forty-four different grasses and weeds, all possibly found in my backyard. Trees, including the dozen or so Beech trees found around the stream behind my house, assorted molds and mildews, and cocklebur. I’ve got them all and I tried all the remedies. Weekly allergy shots for two years to a daily teaspoon of local honey and everything in between including three different allergy prescriptions, all taken at the same time. Maybe a World War One gas mask might work but I fear it would simply fill up and drown me in the end and there is no end in sight until the cold, unwelcomed winds of winter. Ah…Spring…Ahhhhhhh Chooooooooo, sniff, sniff, sniff, cough, cough, cough!

For more of Don Miller’s unique view of life click on http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

STANDING TO PEE

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My early morning doctor’s appointment played hell with my gastro-intestinal system. “Excuse me I must avail myself to your facility.” “Straight through the door,” the pretty nurse directed. Do you hate to use public bathrooms as much as I do? What do we have here? Unisex? Oh wow! Male and Female figures so close together they could be holding hands, the symbols on the wall not couples actually in the bathroom. What symbol do we use for those who are not sure? Wait I just used it to end my question.

I knocked and entered and was treated to a spacious, clean and most importantly empty bathroom. I checked to make sure there were no perverts hiding in the cupboard. Nothing but toilet paper…no transgender females lurking in the shadows. Nothing but water in the toilet tank but DAMN THE LUCK, who left the lid down. Don’t they know…wait that’s the way it should be.

Because there was no reading material, I contemplated the squabbles being debated over bathroom use and thought about the arguments people had been using in the wake of transgender laws being enacted in several states. I don’t want my daughter or granddaughter in a bathroom, or any room, with a pervert or pedophile but what about the pervert or pedophile peeing with you in the next urinal over? We don’t seem to be too concerned about our male children. I have only had contact with one pedophile…that I know of…and that would be METAPHORICAL contact. The man in the three-piece suit and shiny wingtips asked, “Hey boy, you want to see some dirty pictures?” Yeah but where were the pictures of women?

My brother first alerted me of a theory that I will call the “shiny bauble” theory. Like a parakeet enamored with a shiny bell, we are given something insignificant and “shiny” to focus our energies on while the media, certain politicians or our government walks out the door with the silver. I believe it. So much about war on whites, Black Lives Matter, war on religion, war on gays and lesbians, war on marriage, war on cops, war on Beyoncé, etc. So little about…well take your pick. We probably should just call it war on humanity or maybe just a war on my sensibilities. To quote POGO, “We have met the enemy and it is us.”

Funny how we got through the last hundred years without bathrooms being an issue…well make that an issue for those of us with cognitive dissonance. Bathrooms have never been safe places even when they were one holers out by the barn. I would guess a lot more bullying has taken place in school bathrooms and locker rooms than anywhere else but it is better just to ignore it. Right! Leave it alone and it will only get worse.

Nothing more than shiny baubles to keep me from asking myself, “Did I put the toilet lid down when I left?”

Don Miller has also written three books which may be purchased or downloaded at http://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM