Life and Death

A Letter to the Love of my Life

/ cigarman501 / 8 Comments

“Death ends a life, not a relationship.”
― Mitch Albom, Tuesdays with Morrie

My Dearest,

I walk through the door hoping I will find you sitting up and smiling a hello. Once again, my hopes are dashed. I watch you as I wait. My heart is breaking. I listen to your breathing, my life hinging on your next breath.

You look so peaceful and youthful. It is as if you have lost thirty years. During the thirty-eight years I have loved you, peaceful is a word I would rarely use, beautiful, a word I always used.

You once described one of your players as your “bull in a China shop.” It is a description I could apply to you as well. Remember your little red VW Bug? When I questioned the safety of your brakes you shrugged and said, “Who needs brakes? I have a horn.”

There was only one speed with you and it was Warp Factor Nine, wide open. Somehow you managed to pull it off with grace and elegance…even dressed in your ten-year-old sweats and always wearing purple.

You always waltzed to the music only you heard. You did it in a genteel and lady like manner, even when coaching. Everyone knew who was in charge and knew when your mind was made up you would not be dissuaded. Right was right even if it was your right.

It was kismet meeting on the press box at Eastside High. Later there was the Halloween pumpkin on your head and a brutal trip to Charleston with your ex-boyfriend. I thing I knew then but it took nearly a year of dancing around each other before we decided to dance together.

Neither of us were looking to fall in love. I had been bitten twice and you thought you were looking for the perfect man. For some reason you asked me out after trying to fix me up with all your friends. It may have been pity; I like to think it was by karmic design.  

I asked a question I swore I would never ask again. You decided perfect was not what it was cracked up to be and said yes without hesitation. For thirty-seven years I have been blessed with your love, support, and enthusiasm. For thirty-seven years you have been blessed with an imperfect mate. I’m sure my most redeeming quality was allowing you to have your head like the unbroken filly you were.

Our life was a life easy to laugh about. Stories of biddies falling out of trees, a baby goat being raised in our only bathroom. A fully grown goat falling into our well or a naked woman being chased from the bathroom by an equally naked rat snake.

Epic road trips on a whim, many using your “shortcuts” to make sure the enjoyment would raise questions such as “Are you sure you know where you are going.” One that ended at a warm Georgetown bar on a windy, bitter night. A warm bar that included shrimp and grits, Jack Daniels, and a bluesy singer behind a grand piano.

I could go on but instead I will promise that our grand babies will hear about their grandmother. I promise they will remember their Grandmommy Linda.

Everything was not laughter and giggles. We had our share of what I called “clearing off showers.” Thunderclaps and torrents of rain would give way to freshly cleansed air. Life would settle down and it was good.

I’m not ready for you to leave me. This wasn’t the way it should be. Still, I am thankful for the time we had together.

You have fought hard. It is time for you to rest and lay your burden down. It is time for you to step into the light. Time to start your next great adventure. Time to prepare for when I join you.

You are loved more than you could ever know. Rest now, my darling, rest now.

Your love, Donald.

Linda Porter-Miller passed March 29, Good Friday.

Luck of the Draw

/ cigarman501 / 19 Comments

“Shit storms are no fun to walk in with your mouth open.” ― Jean Oram, Champagne and Lemon Drops

Sometimes you draw two to an inside straight and hit, other times a royal flush is not good enough to win. It all comes down to the “luck of the draw.” Some would say “that’s life.”

I don’t agree. Poker isn’t life. Life isn’t choosing whether to take a card or standing pat. Sure, we sometimes must make choices but sometimes we walk through shit storms that are not caused by our choices. Sometimes, we draw a hand that goes bust. The luck of the draw. That’s life.

We’ve received what I would call a “gut punch” of a diagnosis. I’m not going to say who or what. Saying it would bring a wrath down upon me worse than the disease itself. Everyone who needs to know, knows and I’ll leave it at that. I’m writing about it simply to…I don’t know why I’m writing about it. To keep from losing my sanity?

During the light of day, I force reassurance, offering nothing that is not positive, sympathetic, or affirming. During the darkness of night, not so much. I’m left with my thoughts that turn into dreams that turn into nightmares. As you might guess, I’m writing this to the light of my computer screen far past the witching hour.

Even during the light of day intrusive thoughts worm their way into my head. I must stay busy. If I try to write or watch TV, I find my thoughts wandering and wondering about what life is to bring.

One of my thoughts is “What did she do to deserve this?” She checks all the right boxes. I’m the one that should be struggling with a diagnosis. All my checks are on the wrong side of the ledger, not hers. She doesn’t warrant this. She has rarely gambled in her life.

I remember my father as he dealt with my mother’s illness, ALS. She was a good woman who didn’t deserve her lot, either. Hours after the singing of the National Anthem ended the TV programing for the day, I would see him playing solitaire.

I don’t know how he did it. Working a shift in a cotton mill, doing everything he could for my mother when he got home…and still playing solitaire into the wee hours. I fear he is a better man than I. I hope I can stand in his shadow. I’m glad I had him as a role model.

I never believed my mother would die. I was a childish eighteen-year-old when she did. She was ill for years and yet right up until we received word of her passing, I believed she would continue to survive. I’m trying to maintain that hope now.

A quote by Jonathan Anthony Burkett, “In life we all go through trials and tribulations. So now tell me, will you pass, or will you make a mess?” God, please let me pass this test. Not for me but for her. Let me be who I need to be. Give me the strength not to “crap out.” Above all, let her recover.

Wednesday is a big day for her…for us. Sickness is a family affair. I’m sure the anxiety will continue to build. I wonder, which is worse? Knowing or not knowing. I won’t know until Wednesday.

I posted in a blog earlier this year expressing my belief that the quote “God will never give you more than you can handle” is a fallacy and does more harm than good. I hope my belief hasn’t come back to bite me. I hope I don’t have to find out if it is true or not.

Please keep us in your thoughts. Prayer would be nice as would good mojo or ju ju. Black magic…I’ll take it. I’ll take what you can give. Thanks.

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

“Whistlin’ Past the Graveyard”

/ cigarman501 / 4 Comments

“My daddy says that when you do somethin’ to distract you from your worstest fears, it’s like whistlin’ past the graveyard. You know, making a racket to keep the scaredness and the ghosts away. He says that’s how we get by sometimes. But it’s not weak, like hidin’…it’s strong. It means you’re able to go on.” ― Susan Crandall, Whistling Past the Graveyard

I am doing a lot of whistling past graveyards… to act or talk as if one is relaxed and not afraid when one is afraid or nervous. I’m not sure I’m afraid or nervous, but I am aware…too aware…of the passage of time. Aware that the sands left in the hourglass are dwindling…so maybe there is a little fear and nervousness.

I’ve lost three childhood idols in the past week. Bill Russell, Nichole Nichols, and Vin Scully. I knew none of them personally, but their passing brought pain and a sense of loss, and worse, introspection. Introspection…something I try to avoid.

I’m at an age when I cannot deny my own mortality, but I don’t like thinking about it.

Many of us think we are going to somehow outrun the Grim Reaper but as my best friend says too often, “We ain’t getting out of here alive.” The image of the Grim Reaper in my rear-view mirror has grown closer as I have grown slower. Still, attempting to outrun the Grim Reaper seems to be an effective way to live my life no matter my age and beats waiting around for the scythe to reap me.

Age…I’m at an age that I cannot deny I’ve lost a step or five. First thing in the morning I’m a bit unsteady. I no longer hop out of the bed anticipating the day, I ease out and try and sneak up on it.

When I meet up with old farts, I compare the way they look or move. Compared to many of my contemporaries I’m in fairly decent shape and I could beat them all in a five-yard sprint. With that and a nickel I can buy a piece of bubble gum. I remember when I could buy five pieces of Bazooka for a penny. Why does everyone my age look so old and who is that guy in the mirror?

Life is good but there are the pains that go with a lifetime of normal abuse, and I think mine might lean toward abnormal. Too many repetitive athletic endeavors have ruined my joints, too much fried food has clogged my arteries, too many cigars and brown liquor has addled my mind. I should have taken Billy Noonan’s quote more to heart, “If I had known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself.”

When someone dies, known or unknown, I tend to compare ages. Well, old Bill was eighty-nine, he was seventeen years older than me. Seventeen years…that’s a long time. I still have time. Then I look back and I realize the past seventeen years have passed in the blink of an eye. I also realize, I’m not guaranteed any time other than what I have with this breath. No amount of whistling past the graveyard will change that.

I’m not afraid of dying. I admit I’m afraid of dying badly, I hope I don’t long for death to come. Dying in the arms of a passionate woman might be the best way to go.

I believe there is “something” after death. Science says energy and mass can be neither created nor destroyed, they can only be changed. I believe conservation of energy will transcend death…or is that more whistling past the graveyard? Is that in a closed system?

Whistling or not, I’ve made plans. My will has been made and I ‘ve requested a gathering of friends, a gathering I intend to attend…even if it is as a small pile of ash. A bottle of Gentleman Jack will be cracked open, toasts made to the dearly departed and funny stories told at my expense. When the bottle is empty, I have instructed my bride to transfer my ashes to the bottle and place them in a cool location. I fear I may need a cool place as I ride through eternity.

More Whistling past the graveyard with Jimmy Buffett.

For more of Don Miller’s “Corny” pone, https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM?fbclid=IwAR3mOJBeCIdYFmtmjd13NuoyUMu5KPAYDTwo_9yA_jnZ2oftvitbyBMjllY

Deep Impact

/ cigarman501 / 19 Comments

 

If you hope to be successful in life there are people who impact you.  I don’t know how successful I was but I certainly had people who guided me, mentored me, people I wanted to emulate.  Marilyn Koon Hendrix had the impact of a pile driver as far as my life is concerned.

I don’t know what I expected.  I didn’t know how a principal was supposed to act, but “Koon” certainly wasn’t what I expected.  She was a friend, a mother figure…maybe a god figure.  She was the standard I measured all other principals by.

She was certainly the queen of her realm.  Everyone knew who was in charge but not in a heavy-handed way.  No one would accuse her of being a micromanager.  She wanted to lead, taking you along because you wanted to go, not dragging you along because you had to go.

Mrs. Hendrix allowed you to teach or coach in your own way.  She was comfortable allowing you to learn by making mistakes, backing you the first time and expecting you to gain wisdom and not repeat the mistake.  I made plenty of mistakes those first few years and she made sure I learned from them.  My wisdom?  I made sure I didn’t make the same mistake again.

Koon was a big woman or maybe I should say, she had a big presence.  She cast a huge shadow, bigger than life.  To me, she was an Amazon in every way. A deep raspy voice and a hardy laugh she liked to use.  Koon worked hard and she played hard, she expected the same for those who worked under her.  She had an “if it ain’t fun, I ain’t wantin’ to do it” attitude and her attitude translated to all around her.  I tried to adopt her attitude throughout my career, always trying to find fun in what I was doing.

I was young and impressionable trying to soak up as much knowledge and wisdom as I possibly could.  I was a twenty-three or four-year-old child who couldn’t bear the idea of disappointing his parents or Ms. Koon…although I’m sure I did.

The youthful me was “country come to town” when I entered her office for my interview.  It was a casual affair…a sit down on the couch, she in her rocking chair.  A let’s get to know you kind of interview.  I found out we grew up in the same county, she the “huge” metropolis of Lancaster, me in a wide place in the road near a cow patty, eighteen miles north.

I’ve often looked back on that moment.  I’ve often wondered what she saw in an immature hayseed from Indian Land, but she offered me a job teaching Physical Science and coaching and my life’s course had been set.

As the interview ended, I remember she leaned in as if to tell me a secret, instead asking a question, “Do you think you can work for a woman?”  An odd question in today’s era but this was the early Seventies and she was the first female principal in Greenville County.  I wanted the job badly and would have worked for an Orangutan.  No, I never said such and working for a woman was no problem.  Working for Koon was a joy of a lifetime.

If you are successful there are usually one or two people who impact you.  I was lucky…I had many impactful role models just at Mauldin, many who never realized their effect on my life.  Many who are now gone but not forgotten.

I was fortunate, I got to tell Marilyn how much she meant to me a year or so ago.  One person I didn’t get to tell was Jay Lunceford who passed too quickly to tell.  I find it particularly ironic to have learned of Marilyn’s passing on the anniversary of Jay’s.

Saddening but then the memories come flooding in.  I’m not sure how we survived to have memories.  God takes care of the young and stupid.  Oh, the stories I could tell but won’t…some of the people involved are still alive.

Koon will be missed but she’ll never really die either.  I have too much love.  Too many people owe her much…much love.  Too many people have the warm glow you associate with the warm morning sun and with Koon.

I have hopes she and Jay have met up somewhere in the cosmos, telling tales, laughing with each other, reminding us of what it was to be a Mauldin Maverick back in the day. “Do you remember when….”  You bet I do.

Koon, I’ll miss you, but I’ll still be laughing with you, telling tales of those days…the good old days.

***

Clarification:  Jay Lunceford was the head football coach and athletic director at Mauldin High School…and the father figure to Marilyn’s mother figure.  He too had a significant impact on my life.  Unfortunately, he passed way too soon in the late Seventies due to a brain tumor.  I believe he was thirty-two.

Don Miller writes on various subjects and his author’s page may be found at https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

The image is from an old yearbook.  Marilyn Koon Hendrix when she was still Marilyn Koon.  I pray she’s not looking down pointing a finger at me.

Dark Tempest

/ cigarman501 / 6 Comments

All tempests are not caused by climate.  Belle Beaudoin’s chance encounter with a man she hasn’t seen in fourteen years leads to a passionate romance.  She and Sawyer Ramsey’s second chance at love becomes complicated and perilous due to her ex-husband’s and his replacement wife’s involvement with a Gulf shore crime lord and his menacing lieutenant.  Their budding romance may not be allowed to bloom but may instead die in the dark waters around Bayou Adelaide.  The following excerpt is from Dark Tempest.

“Virgile Lagasse dressed like a dandy from an earlier era.  A light-colored, linen, three-piece suit was worn over a frilly silk shirt.  The matching vest was embossed with scenes of antelope at play.  A dark, string, bow tie, gold studs, and cufflinks completed his outfit.  His matching gambler’s hat and cane lay on the desktop.  Virgile could have been Big Daddy Pollitt from Cat on a Hot Tin Roof or Yancy Derringer of Fifty’s TV fame…except he was grossly overweight…more so than Burl Ives, the actor who played Big Daddy in the film, at his heaviest.  Three hundred and fifty pounds if an ounce, carried on a five-six frame.  He resembled a miniature Jabba the Hutt dressed for a cotillion.  Even his skin coloration was a bit green.

No one dared comment on his toad-like looks. As Big Daddy, Virgile Lagasse was one of the most powerful and feared men on the Gulf Coast …one of the most violent.  Unlike Big Daddy, he hadn’t acquired his power from the buying and selling of cotton, he had grown wealthy from the buying and selling of men’s vices.  Women and gambling were the bait, meant to capture men’s souls and he had hooked a big one, Phillipe’ Marcel Beaudoin.  All he had to do was land him and from his phone taps, it appeared Phillipe’ might jump into the boat on his own.

The Beaudoin family had been a thorn in Virgile’s side for years.  Not a big thorn but it didn’t matter.  Virgile hated any competition even if it was from an old-time moonshiner’s family.  He had purchased Phillipe’s gambling debt from the local loan shark, Fat Cherry LeBlanc.  Virgile wanted a monopoly on vice along the delta.  The weed and moonshine the Beaudoin family ran went hand in hand with gambling, women and heavier drugs.  Virgile would have the monopoly…along with the gambling debts Phillipe’ owed or Phillipe’ would have trouble walking without crutches…if at all.”

Don Miller’s nom de plume Lena Christenson creates a tale of romance and suspense with a touch of the erotic.  A second chance at love turns in to a fight for survival.  Dark Tempest may be purchased in paperback at https://www.amazon.com/dp/1081900407?ref_=pe_3052080_397514860 or downloaded at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07VL9S7CB

dark-tempestjpeg