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Coffee is Better with a Friend

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Coffee is Better with a Friend

“Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art…. It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.”

― C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Many years ago, my best friend and I would meet on Fridays before the sun rose and walk and jog the Swamp Rabbit trail while attempting to solve all the world’s ills. Many heated discussions occurred but after many years we agree our efforts have come for naught.

We are an unlikely pair. He, the staunch Christian conservative and I, the left leaning, possible agnostic, ordained Dudeist priest. I will let you look up Dudeism on your own.

While staunch, he isn’t MAGA or Christian Nationalist. He cares little for politics or any kind. He would best be described as an old timey Christian singing “Give Me That Old Time Religion” but is more a Reagan Republican than an Eisenhower Republican. While we sit on different sides of the center, we find more to agree on than disagree.

Just off the Swamp Rabbit is a small coffee and art café, The Tree House. Originally it was Leopard Forrest before changing owners along with its name and we stumbled upon it one very cold winter’s morning. We decided to warm ourselves with a cup of coffee and continue to discuss and debate.

The Tree House is cheerful, welcoming and adorned with colorful artwork. The aroma of coffee greets you at the door, and the owners and their working staff greet you inside. They have become the family everyone wishes to have. My brother and cousins should not take offense; they would fit right in with the dysfunctional group we have assembled.

Over the years our duo has grown into a small group. One of the owners, the artist, sat down with us one day, striking up a conversation. Instead of running her off we were introduced to her friends, an English lady who was born during The Blitz, literally born in a bomb shelter. She sits farther to the left than I. Her husband, retired military, sits farther right than my friend. They are an unlikely duo but have managed to make it work for sixty-eight years. She calls us her Muppet men, the grouchy old Muppets that sit in the balcony. Grouchy but just as humorous.

This is the core group, but we welcome nearby diners, attracted by our loud stories and even louder laughter. There are others who are part-time members. We welcome all comers and their contributions. We are a woke, equal opportunity group.

I look forward to Fridays. It is as if the ills of the world that we cannot erase are somehow washed clean. For a bit of time, I don’t worry about what is happening in Washington or Columbia. We don’t worry if we are a red state or if New York has elected a Muslim. All the divisiveness ends. It is fun stories and laughter. It is learning about different backgrounds. Laughter is truly good for the heart as are friends. Friends do make survival worth it. It certainly brings value to mine.

Like Don Miller’s stories? Try “Pig Trails and Rabbit Holes.” Download or purchase from Amazon at https://tinyurl.com/5n8uzuwp

Oh, the Horror…Happy Halloween

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“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 is the morning of Halloween, and I am awake. For some reason, threeish seems to be the hour that I awake. Sometimes I fall back to sleep but often I do not. This is an often I do not morning. Known as “the Witching Hour,” I certainly seem to be under a spell.

Three AM is referred to as the witching hour due to the belief that it is a time when supernatural forces, such as witches, demons, and ghosts, are at their most powerful. This association stems from the idea that witches cast their spells in the darkness of night when they can go undetected, and it is thought to be when the veil between life and death is at its weakest.

The phrase “witching hour” use began at least as early as 1762, when it appeared in Elizabeth Carolina Keene’s Miscellaneous Poems. It alludes to Hamlet’s line “Tis now the very witching time of night, When Churchyards yawne, and hell it selfe breakes out Contagion to this world.” Thank you, Wikipedia.

Further thanks to Swedish director, Ingamar Bergman. He coined the phrase “The Hour of the Wolf” due to his 1968 thriller with the same name. In his own words, the hour of the wolf is

“The hour between night and dawn … when most people die, sleep is deepest, nightmares are most real. It is the hour when the sleepless are haunted by their worst anguish, when ghosts and demons are most powerful. The hour of the wolf is also the hour when most babies are born.”

I don’t know why he included babies, I hope it is simply a fact, although Rosemary’s Baby came out in the same year. A movie based on the spawn of a human woman and the devil himself, I know some babies that cry like their father might have been Satan.

In the dim light of my computer screen, I wonder if I am haunted. There are certainly memories that haunt me. My old farmhouse creaks and moans when the wind is just right, sometime there is the patter of little mice feet or a shadow that I had not noticed before. All seem to make me feel haunted. I can see my puppies, asleep on the couch, twitching in their sleep as if they are chasing a dream involving rabbits or squirrels. Haunted? Probably.

I am unsure when I first became interested in horror. I remember reading Mary Shelly, Bram Stoker, and Edgar Allen Poe when I was in high school. Horror greats from another age along with black and white, midnight horror fests that included reruns of Boris Karloff as “the monster” and Bela Lugosi, not the first vampire character but certainly the coolest Count Dracula.

On the small screen there was Thriller’s “Pigeons from Hell”hosted by Karloff, The Twilight Zone with Rod Serling hosting Captain Kirk’s “Terror at 20000 Feet” and Alfred Hitchcock Present’s  “Lamb to the Slaughter.” I wonder if we taste like chicken.

In college I remember going to the old Ritz Theater in Newberry with a group of fraternity bros. The Oblong Box starring Vincent Price was playing.  A movie about premature burial and Voodoo, a scene of a hand reaching out of a casket is all I can remember. It may be blasphemy, but I was never a Vincent Price fan and had to research what the movie was about.

I may not know when I became a horror enthusiast, but I know when it became solidified, along with science fiction, as my go to genres. Whether on a printed page or on a screen, it is Stephen King.

I have told this story before and will probably tell it again. My first King book was “’Salem’s Lot.” A story about the infestation of small-town Maine by vampires. According to King’s own words, “it is Peyton Place meets Dracula.” Whatever it was, it scared me to death, scared to death in a good way.

I remember reading it late on an early spring Saturday night. I was alone, propped up on my bed, which itself is horror for an unattached young adult male. My windows were open to a welcoming breeze, the drapes fluttering occasionally.  A thunderstorm was rumbling in the distance.

As I read a passage that explained that vampires had to be invited into your home and were sneaky enough to hypnotize you into doing so, I heard a faint tapping on my second-floor apartment window.

“Tap, tap, tap!” I pause and listen. I heard it again. The same tap, tap, tap. There was no way I was going to walk over to that window. Instead, I did what any sane person would do. I left the light on and pulled the bed cover over my head.

The next morning, in the light of day, I found the tapping was caused by a tree limb that had grown too close to my window. Sure, that was it.

I have the newest remake of ‘Salem’s Lot ready to be watched. I have been saving it for this Halloween night. I hope it is at least as good as the late Seventies miniseries although it may be impossible for anyone to replace James Mason as the vampire’s main minion, Richard Straker. If it isn’t, I can reread the book. I still have my original copy.

However you celebrate Halloween, I hope you have a ghoulishly, good night. Here are happy “boos” to you.

If you like fiction, try Thunder Along the Copperhead. Not Gothic horror, it is a historical romance with plenty of history of the depression year of 1933. An almost destitute farm woman, a damaged World War One veteran who moonshines on the side are the primary characters. Please help a struggling author by downloading or purchasing it in paperback. Thanks, I know you will.

Protest and Dissent

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“We must not confuse dissent with disloyalty. We must remember always that accusation is not proof and that conviction depends upon evidence and due process of law. We will not walk in fear, one of another. We will not be driven by fear into an age of unreason, if we dig deep in our history and our doctrine, and remember that we are not descended from fearful men – not from men who feared to write, to speak, to associate, and to defend causes that were, for the moment, unpopular” ― Edward R. Murrow, 1953(?)

I’m waiting for the sun to show its presence. Something has my puppies all “ah twitter.” Something has me the same way but at least I’m not outside barking into the darkness. Instead, I am sitting in the dark here pondering the upcoming No Kings Protest.

I’ve spent too much time on social media reading about “the battle lines being drawn.” Name calling from both sides. Motivations being dissected. No, I’m not getting paid. Soros has offered me nothing, I protest to support our democracy for free. I’m not a Marxist, a communist, or an anarchist. I’m not a terrorist. I’m just worried.

I can’t believe I feel motivated to protest. A balding, achy kneed, seventy-five-year-old considering making a sign and joining the protest. I’m a “Boomer” and according to social media, I should be supporting the other side.

My brother is questioning my sanity, I am sure. He believes the present turmoil and concerns about a dictatorship is “much to do with nothing.”  According to him, we have too many checks in our system. I hope he is correct but believe we can take nothing for granted, especially our democracy.

I am a product of a period of protest. Born in 1950, I was unaware of the social change that Bob Dylan sang about in 1962, and I guess my answers are still blowing in the wind. The protests of the Sixties and Seventies shaped me in ways I was unaware of until my later adult life.

Despite calls for nonviolent protests, the Sixties and Seventies were fraught with a fire that even fire hoses couldn’t extinguish. I hope the protests from this Saturday are not violent, but I fear there will be agitators from both sides. I fear one side has begun to stoke the fire to oppose and hopes it will lead to confrontation. We must avoid our base instincts to retaliate while we defend our democracy.

I don’t hate America. I’m not willing to “move to those countries” more in line with my beliefs as more conservative “friends” have suggested. My beliefs align with what is written in our Constitution and its Amendments and not with a tinpot, want-to-be autocrat.

Portland frogs, naked bike riders, and serenading ICE facilities with jazz bands dressed in animal costumes have brought a breath of creativity to the protests in cities invaded by ICE and National Guard. Unfortunately, there has been enough violence to make large-scale protest worrisome.

I have been accused of not caring about crime in blue cities. This is not true. I care about crime anywhere and quite deeply.

I care about hastily trained ICE agents using undue force and friends who support it and attempt to justify it with the ends justify the means. You cannot justify women and children being drug from cars, beaten, even shot.

I care about National Guard troops who are not properly trained in policing. I remember “four killed in Ohio.” I worry that they will be forced to be trained in domestic urban warfare and ordered to use their training.

We, as a nation, have a rich history in dissent and protest. We were born, as a nation, from dissent and protest, some quite violent. The Revolutionary War, sometimes referred to as our first civil war, was quite violent and began due to protest and dissent.

There were people then, as there are now, who believed our dissent and protest was unintelligent and ignorant. They believe it is misplaced. I guess there are always two sides to any protest.

I worry that we are sliding down a slope toward dictatorship and oligarchy…or have hit the rock bottom and are already there. It seems that I face people who are okay with, if not welcoming, a change in our system of government and willing to accept an autocrat.

Our legislative branch seems to have surrendered as well as a third of our voting population. I am not willing. I’m not against change but I am not for illegally circumventing the checks put into place by the authors of our Constitution.

I trust our President, not at all. Nor do I trust his advisors, his cabinet members, the Supreme Court, and our Legislative branch. It hurts me to say it, I don’t trust those who voted for him, including family and friends.

I worry too, that for every person who thinks as I do, there are good folks…well intentioned folks, who believe otherwise. Folks who want change for the sake of change. Folks who will pay for that change, as will I. I don’t hate them. I feel sorry for them and worry about what they are willing to do to me and my family.

There is plenty wrong with our leaders, not our system of government. Our leaders are the problem. We have leaders who are dedicated to the people and leaders who are only dedicated to themselves and their party. It appears one side, the wrong side, has taken control.

Protest seems to be the only avenue available. “There comes a time when one must take the position that is neither safe nor politic nor popular, but he must do it because conscience tells him it is right.” ~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

I believe I have come to that time.

America the Beautiful…No More

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“I really love America. I just don’t know how to get there anymore” -John Prine

It’s Independence Day and somewhere deep in my soul, I feel, “So What?”

I’m celebrating like most any other day. Sitting with my puppies lost in my thoughts. Often my mind is a terrible thing. A cigar and brown liquor drink will soon join my terrible mind as I wait for the pyrotechnics to begin. I have no belief the drink will help.

 I’m forcing my thoughts to go back to the “Good Ole Days” to the celebrations of my youth. Yes, I understand that once you get past Dutch Fork BBQ, South Carolina hash, greased pigs and poles, patriotic songs, and the fireworks, for some, America was a beautiful, seemingly, impossible dream. See, I can’t keep my mind on little Donnie enjoying the Fourth of July celebrations of the late 1950s and early 1960s.

I was young and still believed in the American Dream my parents were peddling. This was before Viet Nam, before Watergate, before Reagan’s “trickle down” and the endless wars, mass shootings, and the hatred I am seeing displayed in the present. I have become more liberal in my autumn years and a tad bit cynical.

Honestly, I could withstand most of this…except for the hatred that is now being peddled like Clark Stanley’s Snake Oil Liniment…seemingly from all sides. We are taking doses of snake oil quite liberally. Especially, one side but the other side is not squeaky clean either.

America the Beautiful has lost its empathy and with it, its humanity. With our humanity we have lost our benevolence, creativeness, our brotherly love. Why?

We have embraced cruelty. Why just disagree with someone when we can metaphorically cut them deep, wide, and frequently.

Some will immediately begin to discuss…no argue venomously, that it is the Trump effect. This may surprise you. I don’t believe he isn’t to blame. Trump is a catalyst. We knew who he was from the early Seventies.

Trump is the greatest snake oil salesman of all time, and it is his followers who turned America into the not so beautiful. PT Barnam said, “there is a sucker born every minute,” and Trump took it to heart. I’m just flabbergasted that he found so many in one place.

The cruelty didn’t just begin with Trump 1.0. It was present well before Trump. It has always been there. An honest study of history will bear that out.

The cruelty has expanded with social media. Trolls, bots, foreign agents, and computer alphas hiding behind their keyboards have pushed the idea that being cruel was cool. It has been effective.  

Before someone suggests, since I hate America, I should leave. I don’t hate America. I love America with all her flaws. The concepts behind “America the Beautiful” are still there but like John Prine, I don’t know how to get there anymore.

Note to Steve: The drink and cigar did not help.

A Long, Hard Year

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“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
― Kahlil Gibran

I sat with a group of friends at a local café. It is usually a time of joy, sometimes when I need it the most. This was one of those times. It is March and I have begun to contemplate the past year since Linda left me.

My friend Val, the eighty-two-year-old teenager, asked how Linda and I met and cautioned, “If it is too hard to talk about….”

“Val, I never find it hard to talk about Linda,” I answered. It is never too painful to talk about her. It is the dark, quiet times when I am alone with my darkest memories that I find hard. A vibrant, loving woman reduced to an urn of ashes is what is hard. Still, I left our gathering smiling, my mood lightened, even if it was short lived.

I only share the good times when I talk about Linda. There were thirty-eight years of good times. Tales of our first meeting and the winding road that we traveled trying to acknowledge we were in love were the subjects of the day. The meeting on top of a football field’s press box or was it when she stood with an inflated pumpkin on her head? The trip from hell to Charleston with her then boyfriend, my roommate. A trip to a local dive, The Casablanca Lounge, that brought love more into focus. In that conversation with Val, I realized I had an anodyne for the deep darkness I have been feeling for the past twelve months.

I have an old photograph of Linda being Linda. I keep it close by to remind me of who Linda was…not what she became. Hands apart, she is sticking her tongue out. The photo is dark but not as dark as her curls, the dark curls I loved and remember most. This is Linda, the Linda I must remember. The Linda that still makes me smile.

I must also remember the Linda of the last year of her life. I have no choice. Even in the darkest moments there were pinpoints of light. No matter how weak she became, there was still a light that shined brighter than all others. She struggled with names and called everyone “Baby” and told them, “That’s alright, it’s okay” even when it wasn’t.

Still, the darkness encroaches along with the bitterness I feel. Life played such a terrible trick. From the joy of being told, “You are in complete remission,” to the stoke a scant week later. Four months later she was gone…four months that seemed like four lifetimes for all the wrong reasons.

Despite the photography, I don’t think I will ever get over the bitterness. Despite the wonderful memories, I find myself angry. Sometimes, I get angry at myself. I get angry at God. I could have done more. I could have held her more, danced with her more, kissed her more.

God could have not been such a hateful trickster. Why did you take her from me in such a painful manner?

Selfishly, I feel robbed. She is gone and I am left to act as if I am still alive.

The lyrics of an old tune popped in my head, “Don’t it always seem to go. That you don’t know what you’ve got ’til it’s gone.” I always knew what I had, and it made her loss even greater. There is a hole in my heart I never want to heal.

Even with bitterness there is room for joy. Life without Linda is a two-sided coin. Bitterness on one, the joy that was Linda on the other. I find that there is always something to smile about even in the darkness of absence.

Soulful Vaccination

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“The saxophone is an imperfect instrument, especially the tenor and soprano, as far as intonation goes. The challenge is to sing on an imperfect instrument that is outside of your body.”

— Stan Getz

Other than those found on my playlist, I hadn’t thought about saxophones until I chanced upon a beautiful, blond, Dutch saxophonist named Candy Dulfer. Where have you been all my life?  I admit her long legs and short skirt got my attention at first but then I clicked on a YouTube video, and not only does she look alluring, but she is also a damn fine saxophonist.

A version of “Pick Up the Pieces” led me to a cooperative effort with Glennis Grace singing Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight.” This in turn led me to a comment by a fan, “Just what I needed, a soulful vaccination.” I feel it. I needed one too.

I am prone to following pig trails in my mind and was led back to late 1950s or early 1960s to my mother’s living room. A large, cabinet stereo occupied one corner, and my mother was prone to playing Ray Coniff, Perry Como, or Mitch Miller…she did give me Johnny River’s “Live at the Whiskey a Go-Go” my fourteenth birthday, but rock and roll was a rarity for her.

She inadvertently introduced me to the saxophone with Billy Vaughn and his Orchestra. Vaughn’s trademark was harmonies with twin alto saxophones.  I think it was his rendition of “Red Sails in the Sunset” that got my attention, and I found myself attempting to play the sax in my high school band. They accepted all comers and honestly, I was no better at the saxophone than I had been at the drums, the first instrument I tried but failed to master.

Unless playing the cymbals, I didn’t have the manual dexterity to be a great musician despite my “want too”. More than likely, I would simply catch a body part between the two cymbals.

 More importantly I needed a “soulful vaccination” …or maybe a “soulful transfusion.” To quote my band instructor, “You’re just too tight assed.” He was correct and not just about playing the sax. It is a trademark of my life in general. Friends always comment, “I can’t believe you did that”, whenever I might step out of my comfort zone.

I played just well enough to join my college band, they accepted all comers too, and even spent a year as the second alto in the jazz ensemble… but only because we needed five saxophonist and five were all we had.

 I was no Cannonball Adderly or Junior Walker, but I had a great time and made great lifelong memories. I even got to play with Doc Severinsen during a jazz clinic. There was also a long night of partying with him but for some reason I don’t remember it as well.

I probably could have been better had I concentrated. I blame my small high school. Blame but in a good way. We were so small I was involved in everything from chorus and band to baseball and football. I was able to do it all but mastered none and would not take money for the memories.

Thanks Candy. Thanks for your sexy and soulful renditions. Thanks for the pig trail you sent me down. I’ll be adding you to my playlist. Thank you for the soulful infusion.

Don Miller’s latest offering is “Food for Thought” and can be purchased on Amazon at https://www.amazon.com/Food-Thought-Musings-Mad-Southerner/dp/B0CVFVVKZ3/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3JOR4JC665OYR&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.qHgZwjWZGMMWOAkFzZNGvUYxwSKDGldwLlh06k97FCmeZeq-pJC3KvlR9FJlvR50DyXu0dByDs0VDomtfuOpRw.4zi2lLYNri-Omdm8TQ4n4-aweXDLZEaozt9zQm83Ruk&dib_tag=se&keywords=food+for+thought+book+Don+Miller&qid=1737828043&sprefix=food+for+thought+book+don+miller%2Caps%2C95&sr=8-1

Surviving the Spider’s Web, January 1, 2025

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Surviving the Spider’s Web

“Sometimes the greatest tests of our strength are situations that don’t seem so obviously dangerous. Sometimes surviving is the hardest thing of all.” ~ Richelle Mead

It is my annual day of introspection. A day rife with questions but devoid of answers.

What did I accomplish in 2024? What do I want to accomplish in 2025…. It is the end of one year and the beginning of a new one. It is a jumbled chalkboard waiting to be erased, a fresh one waiting to be written on.

While I am desperate to erase the old chalkboard, I’m too invested in 2024 to even think about 2025. Loss will do that and 2024 was full of loss. Viewed through the wrong end of a telescope, 2025 seems to be filled with the reckonings caused by those losses.

Often, losses won’t allow you to turn loose or maybe you just don’t want to turn loose. I am a fly caught in a spider’s web of my own making and am battling the urge to remain there.

Sometimes all you can do is survive. When thinking about 2024 the best I can muster is that I survived. I accomplished nothing but survival.

What will 2025 bring? On a personal level, it will bring whatever I allow it to bring. I visualize a closed door, and I am fearful to what spiders are hiding behind it.

I can only control my personal space and the challenges the world poses to it. I also know beyond a shadow of a doubt external forces will throw curveballs causing me to frail awkwardly. The metaphorical “swing and a miss” followed by a graceless pirouette and faceplant.

As I struggle against my web, I wonder, “What do I want to do in 2025?”  My first thought tells me a lot about where I am mentally. “I want to sit in the dark and be left alone.” I want to lay on my web and wait for the spider to wrap me in insulating silk. I am in a dark place.

But I am a survivor. I am going to move forward into 2025. I’m not going to sit in my dark place. I will not allow the spider to devour me. Easy words to say, not so easy to carry out.

One lesson I learned from my losses is that I am loved. Deserved or not, family and friends have proven this, and if nothing else, I’ll not let them down. I will not let me down. I will continue to struggle against the spider’s silken trap and my own self-destructive tendencies.

I have a hole in my heart the size of the Grand Canyon, that will never be filled. I realize the crater will always be there. I also realize that there is nothing wrong with trying to fill it. Happiness cannot find me sitting in the dark. Somehow, the sunlight must prevail. Buckle up spider, the battle is on.

The Good Old Days

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“The only good thing about the good old days is they’re gone.”― Dick Gregory

The cold snap of the last few days have me thinking about the “Good Old Days” people wax poetic about. It is cold and windy and has me longing for the humidity and mosquitoes of summer.

Our good old days started when Linda Gail and I moved into the foothills of the Blue Ridge in 1987 just before a twelve-inch snowfall that kept us stranded for over a week.  Despite questioning our sanity, the old farmhouse became our “little piece of heaven.”

An old farmhouse sitting above the Cherokee Scenic Highway, built in 1892 that had no electricity, heat or plumbing until 1956 when the new owner, long time Methodist missionary and reverend, James Copeland and some of what he called his good “Baptist Brothers” installed it. It has never been updated and I admit I sometimes worry about how well the good “Baptist Brothers” installed it.

 Prior to 1956 this old house, with no insulation, was heated with a wood stove and five fireplaces, water was hauled from the stream located below the house and the outhouse was, and still is, located some thirty yards behind the house.

Would anyone like to explain to me the “Good Old Days” as it relates to the series of cold days we have experienced and the impending “Snowmageden” we are facing this weekend? I am reminded of the old childhood joke, “Have you read ‘A Mile to the Outhouse’ by Willie Makeit. The book was illustrated by Betty Don’t.”

I should point out that indoor plumbing was added in 1956 to an old porch that was closed in to accommodate it. We now have updated heat, two more bathrooms, a new well with running water and we only actively use one of the fireplaces. The insulation in the old part of the house needs to be redone but at least the old wavy lead windows were replaced.

 I spent some eight hours spread over three days, cutting and splitting two pickup truck loads of dead fall with a chainsaw, axe, sledge and wedge. I also had benefit of a tractor with a frontend loader to help keep me out of trouble. My back might disagree with that last statement and has me wondering how did the previous generations keep a woodstove, and five fireplaces fed without benefit from later technology?

 Hey, I’ll let you keep the good old days. I’ll take the toilet paper over the Sear’s catalogue or corn shucks any day.