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FROM SHRIMP AND GRITS TO WORLD PEACE

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Laud have mercy! I vacillate on my favorite foods. Not much really, I just enjoy eating. If I were on death row facing my “last meal” my decision would come down to either Dutch Fork barbeque or low country shrimp and grits. I hope I never have to find out which I would choose but with the politics of today…who knows? If my worst fear were to happen today, it would be shrimp and grits.

I have discovered that the Yankees have the wrong idea about grits. My former teaching chum Frankie, who is from Ohio I think, says, “OOOOH! Grits are too bland. I would much rather eat polenta.” UUUH, isn’t polenta boiled cornmeal? Grits are boiled ground corn…smaller grains than cornmeal but the source is the same. The Yankees need to realize that grits to a cook are what a blank canvas is to an artist. If you have had bad grits, it ain’t the grits’ fault any more than a bad painting is about the canvas. It takes a master’s touch.

I have eaten grits all my life…as a kid usually for breakfast swimming in fresh churned butter and a hunk of hoop cheese melting in it. My grandmother tried to substitute oatmeal or milk toast on occasion, but I was having none of it. As I got older, I realized grits made a wonderful “canvas” for many meals. I grilled it as a cake and served it with gravy alongside chicken, pork, beef, or fish. I have even made it as a dessert in the form of grits pie that is as good as any egg custard. I HAVE NEVER SERVED IT JUST AS GRITS. Grits must have butter and cheese. You may take your pick as to which kind of cheese. I also like a little chive, green onion tops or plain old onion chopped up in it. BE CLEAR! I am not talking about grits that come in a package and are to be cooked in a microwave.

I discovered shrimp and grits, first in Charleston and later in Georgetown, some thirty-five years ago. Shrimp was a luxury at my home during my childhood and teenage years and I just didn’t know that heaven could come in a big bowl. This delicacy is an orchestration of stone-ground grits bathed in a broth, fluffy with heavy cream or creamed cheese, drowning in a dark roux gravy blessed with Tasso ham or Andouille sausage featuring chubby pink shrimp topped with chopped chives. “Heaven! I’m in Heaven!”

In 1999 my baseball team made the trip to Georgetown and were lucky enough to win the state championship. When I got home, I found a Styrofoam container sitting on my kitchen bar with a congratulatory note from my wife. Inside was a double portion of shrimp and grits. I couldn’t begin to fathom a better way to celebrate.

I truly believe we could solve the world’s problems if we could get all of the world leaders to sit down with my Southern trifecta of shrimp and grits, sweet Southern tea and Jack Daniels. Yeah, you could make it a duo by adding the Jack to the tea with a bit of mint for garnish. If you feel the need for a salad, be my guest but I don’t believe that one is demanded. I would wait until after the meal and serve the Jack Daniels with a fine cigar. I’m sure we would be able to work out our world-wide differences…just don’t tell our Muslim brothers there is ham or sausage in it. They will enjoy it much better without knowing.

LOOK UP

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“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.”

Sunday morning I awoke with a start, my mind as troubled as the world I was dreaming about. My already feeble brain resembled an unfinished jigsaw puzzle with several dozen pieces missing from the box. I was also in pain. Arthritis and sciatica…aging is not for the faint of heart. Instead of making the noises my father made I bit my tongue to keep from waking my wife and made my way down to the den. It was 4:30 in the AM and both of my puppies decided to follow asking with their paws to go outside.

Stepping outside with them into the crisp predawn air, I was struck by the dark beauty of a bright moonlit night. I remembered similar mornings from my past, previous life…my working life. For the ten years since my heart attack I have been, more than less, religious about running or walking. Recently, due to knee pain, it’s been more about walking but I find either exercise is a better pain killer than Advil. During my working days I would roust myself out of bed at 4:30 and hit the pavement by 5:15. Since my retirement I try to run or walk at a more civilized 7:30 or so. With nothing of interest on TV and a mind too cluttered to write, I decided to relive “those days of yesteryear, Hi Hoh Silver, Away!”

It was dark and cold as a made my way up the steep, half mile hill to the drive way at Lookup Lodge. This stretch is the darkest and most fearful part of my jaunt because of heavy timber forming a canopy over the road. Despite the bears, coyotes and wildcats who share my habitat I have never been too concerned about running into wildlife. I am much more concerned about the spirits, ghosts and haints that are just out of the range of my head lamp. This time of year I would always pause at the top of the hill before entering Look-Up Lodge and “look up.” This morning was no different. The constellation Orion waited above me to protect me from harm just as it always had. As I continued to gaze at my protector a shooting star flew across the still night sky reminding me to make a wish, one that I doubt will come true. Shakespeare wrote, “Whenever a mortal falls in sin, tears fall from angels’ eyes. And that is why at times there fall bright stars from out (of) the skies.” My guess is there will be more stars to fall.

A mile long downhill would lead me to the athletic field at Look-Up were I would again “look up” seeing Orion nipping at my heels before a short, slow uphill trek leads me to the lake and a view of an electrically lit, bare cross below the small mountains beyond. As a small child I would stay with my grandmother while my parents worked. Under her tutelage I memorized many Bible verses including one of her many favorites from Psalms, “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh my help.” The memory reminded me to pause and say a short prayer for humanity before beginning my mile and a half journey home.

My knees still ache, not as much as they did when I arose this morning, and judging from the morning news, the world is still just as troubled. My mind is clearer and less jumbled, I think I even found those missing jigsaw pieces. I may continue my predawn runs and walks…along with prayers at the lake at Look-Up.

THE NEW NORMAL…AND IT IS QUITE ABNORMAL

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Several decades ago I would find myself sitting in a freshman English class trying to translate the Old English of the Canterbury Tales into country redneck. I was having no success when the air raid siren in downtown Newberry began to blow. It was a test that was repeated every weekday at noon. My English professor, a sometimes not quite sober and always irreverent guy, looked out the window and stated to the class, “If the Rooskies have enough bombs to waste on Newberry, we are f@#$ed. Class is dismissed!”

As I think back I would have to agree with my old professor and also admit that I miss the Soviets. We thought we knew who our enemies were back then, where they were, and how far we could push them. They wore certain uniforms and lived in certain countries. We knew that we were here and they were somewhere over there. It was our government against their government. Our ideologies versus their ideologies. We had theaters of war where an army would be on a particular side.

Then came Vietnam and the end of our “American Exceptionalism.” Even though the Russians were still involved and were our greatest enemy the Cold War environment began to change. Suddenly all uniforms were made of the same camouflage material that looked for the world like pajamas and camouflaged to look like everyone else BUT US. We wore the same colors and hats we always had worn but in jungle camo. The fighting took place in a jungle where you could never be quite certain where or who Charlie was. Having said all that we started to sense a blur between the two sides and two sides became three…or more. It was harder to determine just who the enemy was and now the blur has become so exaggerated, it is extremely difficult to separate the “good” guys and the “bad” guys, EVEN ON OUR OWN SIDE.

We cannot really look around and identify our enemies with any certainty with sleeper cells, pretenders, spies, double agents, and even refugees. And we must not forget the US involvement in the formation and training of so many of these groups. There is possibly only one place where we can identify the real troublemakers…we can look in a mirror. To quote Pogo and his creator Walt Kelly, “We have met the enemy and he is us.”

At least back in the 60’s there were air raid sirens that let you know something might be getting ready to happen. If you were lucky enough to be near a bomb shelter, you has some small semblance of safety even if it was just in your own mind. You knew that the Russians were coming…and still might. Today, we do not know who, how, when, or what may happen. I think I liked the sirens better.

A CONVERSATION

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And now we are saying there is a racist aspect to Star Wars?

cigarman501's avatarRavings of a Mad Southerner

The arrest of fifteen Georgia residents who SUPPOSIDLY crashed a black neighborhood birthday party while flying Confederate Battle Flags, brandishing weapons and shouting racial epitaphs has once again ignited discussion about our Southern heritage and hate.

During a conversation with a really good friend, one whose opinion I respect a great deal, it suddenly became apparent that I had misrepresented myself. Our conversation was about the Confederate Battle Flag that recently was removed from our State House dome. From some of my previous post, she mistakenly believed that I was of the opinion that the flag was one of the reasons Dylann Roof decided to pull the trigger that took nine lives earlier this summer. I don’t believe that any more than I believe the gun was at fault. What I do believe is that both of these inanimate objects were a part of the same environment that spawned him…

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THE GAME OF POLITICS

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I have seen right and left wing posts maligning each other. I have watched the circus they call debates. We haven’t even gotten to the campaign ad season and I am already gagging. It is Trump versus Carson…hell Trump versus everyone, the fiasco that is Hillary, Huckabee, Cruz…oh just pick and plug in a name. Part soap opera, part demolition derby. It would be hilarious if they weren’t playing with my life. It reminds me of a really bad athletic event, especially since each party and their supporters are trying to outscore the other without saying anything of substance. It’s awful because there are no rules it would seem. I have a great idea. Let’s make the election process like an athletic event…no, WE WILL make it an athletic event!

First, we need to pick an event that all of the politicians are good at. Lying or talking all day without saying anything is not a spectator sport. Maybe we should pick an event that they are equally bad at. Something like Australian Rules football…no, we need a game that is or was played closer to home…say …ULLAMALIZTLI! Never heard of it? Can’t pronounce it? Perfect! I would say none of our politicians have heard of it either.

Ullamaliztli is the ancient Aztec game that combined basketball,soccer, football, religion, politics and human sacrifice. I LIKE IT! One would really have to believe in his or her party’s platform to risk having their heart, still beating, ripped from their chest and presented for inspection to the gods. I am liking it even more and I am not usually this bloodthirsty. Wait, there may be a problem. Does Donald Trump even have a heart? Maybe we can get Dr. Carson to try to detect one…WITH AN OBSIDIAN KNIFE! Team members could be picked from the most ardent party members in the Senate or House. The winning team would have the right to put their president into office. There should also be a lobbyist or two on each team, picked at random. Since there is human sacrifice involved, we should get rid of that pesky log jam that both parties hold against the other.

Played on a sunken court with a one-hundred to two-hundred foot rock floor, it had eight to eleven-foot high walls that sloped down to the court floor. Walls…I’m having a vision of prison walls, but while Republicans think Hillary should be in prison for her emails, it’s not that kind of wall. Surrounding the court was a seating area where spectators gambled on the outcome. Skulls of sacrificed coaches and teams surrounded the spectator area and looked down on the contestants. Nice motivational tool and right down Hillary’s alley, I would think.

The goal of the game was to put a nine-pound rubber ball through a stone ring hung vertically and located at mid-court. Sounds easy except for the part about not touching the ball with your hands or letting it hit the ground. The game ended when the ball was put through the stone ring – a feat that sometimes took a day or two of continuous play to accomplish. The game was violent, leaving the contestants bruised and bloodied. I can’t help but visualize The Donald running down the court, the wind blowing through his comb-over, getting cross-body blocked by Hilary Clinton or vice versa. Bernie and Ben are way too soft-spoken to get into each other’s grill. That would not work, I guess, because as front runners, they would have to be the coaches. Okay, Pelosi and Boehner, or his replacement, could body block each other. The upside is that somebody is going to lose their heart…if, in fact, they have one to begin with.

The original game was both political and religious in nature. Wars between Aztec cities were known to occur over outcomes. In one instance a winning king was presented a victory garland with a choking cord inside. He was assassinated on the spot.

Again I feel a bit bloodthirsty but the best part of the closing ceremonies would be the religious sacrifice of the losing presidential candidate… I mean the losing coach and possibly the entire team. If incompetence is not a virtue, it would be the entire team. Stewed to the gills on drugs, the losing coach would be held down, chest split open and his still beating heart would be cut from his chest and shown to the gods. The Aztecs believed that if a sacrifice was not made the Sun would not rise the following morning. In today’s political climate, the “Sun” shines very darkly. Could the sacrifices take the place of term limits? In some accounts it might have even been the winning coach who was sacrificed, but who cares as long as “elbows to the teeth” replace the campaign process. Broadcasted live and in living color “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat” would have new meanings as the Supreme Court Judges, dressed in black robes and masks, carried out the sacrifice.

Okay, I don’t want Homeland Security or the Secret Service to come calling. I am really just a harmless old coot who is fed up with our political process that is being played out like a cock fight between old moth-eaten hens with no brains…I mean heads. Or if it were football, the game that is our present political system would take twenty-five plays to score…against air. WAIT…BEER SOFTBALL OR BETTER YET, LIQUER SOFTBALL. That might be as funny as the candidates themselves….

THE WRESTLER

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Reblog from earlier.

cigarman501's avatarRavings of a Mad Southerner

This is a story that should have been included in WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING…but wasn’t. WINNING… can be purchased at goo.gl/dO1hcX
“Oh, sweet blindness, a little magic, a little kindness
Oh, sweet blindness, all over me”
“Sweet Blindness”-The Fifth Dimension

He stood with arms raised in triumph, the sweat of his exertion dripping onto the wrestling mat that he stood upon while his mouth curled into a slight smile. He had just won the Upper State Wrestling Championship in his weight class and was in the process of receiving a standing ovation from everyone in the gym, regardless of school affiliation. Well maybe not everyone, I doubt the friends and family of his vanquished foe were standing but you never know. As I stood and applauded, his coach sprinted to the mat and hoisted him into the air and I suddenly had a clarifying thought and felt more…

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Hello world!

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Don Miller is a retired high school social studies and science teacher who, despite his retirement, continues to coach. The 2015 baseball season marks his forty-third year involved with either teaching or coaching or both. “Floppy Parts” is his second collection of short non-fictional stories. His first book, “Winning Was Never the Only Thing” debuted in 2014. Both collections draw heavily from his experiences as an educator and coach, as do several stories that have been submitted to various journals and magazines.

When not writing, Coach Miller turns into Farmer Miller, as he and his wife of nearly thirty years, Linda Gail Porter-Miller, attempt to turn their heavily forested wild life sanctuary, complete with a one hundred and thirty three year old farm house and outhouse, into an organic farm. Linda Gail is a retired physical educator and coach who taught and coached for thirty years.
Happy blogging!