Blogger

Oh, Great Swamee….

/ cigarman501 / 3 Comments

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

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

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

Carnac’s last appearance on the Johnny Carson show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Flying Spaghetti Monster

A rendering of Noodles: The Flying Spaghetti Monster

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ruby’s Oyster Dressing…Well, Maybe.

/ cigarman501 / 3 Comments

“After a good dinner one can forgive anybody, even one’s own relations.”
― Oscar Wilde, A Woman of No Importance

I’m one of those guys who likes to leave Halloween and ease into Christmas. Are you aware that there is a holiday in between? Despite the Christmas decorations being sold at Wally World a week after the Independence Day celebration there is Thanksgiving to celebrate. Family, friends, football games and glorious food…and a turkey induced nap in the afternoon.

It is never too early to plan for the Thanksgiving feast. For some reason I was triggered…might have been a Butterball turkey advertisement or just the pig trails my mind wanders down.

In a time warp long, long ago, I sat down with my first set of in-laws for the traditional Thanksgiving feast. I would later have two different sets of in-laws before I finally got matrimony right, but this pig trail isn’t about in-laws or ex-wives; it is about oyster dressing…and a little forgiveness.

Oyster dressing. I had never had it before that fateful day…not unusual for me, I didn’t eat my first pizza until my freshman year in college and really didn’t understand the bounty I was receiving until the pizza arrived in front of me. I was truly “country come to town.” I continue to eat dishes I hadn’t heard of in the late Sixties…and a lot of them still resembles pizza.

To my sorrow and loss, I haven’t eaten oyster dressing since my first set of in-laws turned in to my first set of ex in-laws…ex-laws?

I intend to change this fact myself this year but have a quandary since my ex-mother-in-law is no longer in the land of the living. Which recipe?

Ruby isn’t around having gone to that great kitchen in the sky a couple of decades ago, and I’m not going to contact my first ex-wife, the red-headed one, to find out what the recipe was. She was not the stereotypical redhead, but I will take no chances.

What a conversation I’m having in my head with one of the many voices residing there:

“Hey, Dianne. Longtime no…see.

“Yeah, I know, I’m the scum of the earth but I do hope you are doing well.”

“Well, that’s a bit harsh.”

“Uh, I need a favor. I need Ruby’s oyster dressing recipe. Can you oblige me?”

“When hell freezes over, you say?”

No, I don’t think I’ll be making that phone call.

Instead of making the phone call from hell, I have perused many recipes online but none of them seem quite right…and stuffing ain’t dressin’! I think I’m going to have to combine certain parts of certain recipes into one. I thought I had found one, but it uses tarragon instead of sage. Who uses tarragon instead of sage in their cornbread dressing? Blasphemy to the angelic hands of my Southern foremothers…or is it heresy?

So, I require suggestions or maybe some gentle criticism. This to be a pretty simple recipe for a pretty simple process, I think. In the back of my head, I hear my grandmother’s voice saying, “It’s not about the process Boy, it is about the outcome.” I also hear her saying, “Nothing is ever as simple as it looks.”

Ingredients

8 cups crumbled cornbread. I will make my own the day before…or rather Linda will, and it will be made in a cast iron skillet.

1/2 teaspoon each, Kosher salt and freshly ground black pepper.

3 1/2 cups chicken stock

6 large eggs

1/2 cup chopped Italian parsley, this I’m not sure of.

One large yellow onion, chopped.

4 stalks of celery, chopped.

5 cloves of garlic chopped.

1 teaspoon of dried sage, I might stub my toe and put in a little more, but I like sagey, sage dressing.

1 pint of small oysters and their juices.

Directions

Heat the oven to 350 degrees. Butter a 9- by 13-inch baking dish.

In a large cast-iron skillet, melt the butter over medium heat. (I might cheat and use a little bacon grease with the butter.)  When the butter is foamy, add the onion and celery, and cook, stirring frequently, until softened, 6 to 8 minutes.

Stir in the garlic and cook until aromatic, about 1 minute. Stir in the crumbled cornbread and cook, stirring, until lightly browned, then remove from the heat.

In a large bowl, beat the eggs until smooth. Whisk in the chicken stock, parsley, and sage. (I’m still not sure about the parsley.) Stir in the cornbread mixture and the oysters. Pour the dressing mixture into the prepared baking dish and bake until dressing is set and golden brown, about 1 hour. (Alternatively, cover the mixture and refrigerate overnight before baking. Cornbread will soak up more goodness.) Let rest for 5 minutes before serving.

***

Ruby, I’m gonna make this in your honor. You were a good mother-in-law…better than I was a husband to your daughter. Please forgive me. Uh, you wouldn’t want to come to me in a dream maybe and let me in on your recipe? Yeah, I didn’t think so.

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

I Reckon I’m a Liberal

/ cigarman501 / 16 Comments

“No school can supply an anti-liberal education, or a fascist education, as these terms are contradictory. Liberalism and education are one.”
― George Seldes

This letter popped up on one of my memories last week. Being from South Carolina, I drew much criticism for my decision to come out of my conservative “closet.” To be honest, until the 2016 election I had been in denial. I always considered myself middle of the road but 2016 pushed me left of center, 2020 further, and if this lead up to the 2024 election cycle is any indication, my friends are thinking I’m standing next to Karl Marx. Well, at least we are still friends.

An open letter from Lori Gallager Witt to friends and family who are/were shocked to discover I’m a liberal…

This is going to be VERY long, so: I’m a liberal, I’ve always been a liberal, but that doesn’t mean what a lot of you apparently think it does.

Some of you suspected. Some of you were shocked. Many of you have known me for years, even the majority of my life. We either steadfastly avoided political topics, or I carefully steered conversations away from the more incendiary subjects in the name of keeping the peace. “I’m a liberal” isn’t really something you broadcast in social circles where “the liberals” can’t be said without wrinkling one’s nose.

But then the 2016 election happened, and staying quiet wasn’t an option anymore. Since then, I’ve received no shortage of emails and comments from people who were shocked, horrified, disappointed, disgusted, or otherwise displeased to realize I am *wrinkles nose* a liberal. Yep. I’m one of those bleeding heart commies who hates anyone who’s white, straight, or conservative, and who wants the government to dictate everything you do while taking your money and giving it to people who don’t work.

Or am I?

Let’s break it down, shall we? Because quite frankly, I’m getting a little tired of being told what I believe and what I stand for. Spoiler alert: Not every liberal is the same, though the majority of liberals I know think along roughly these same lines.

1. I believe a country should take care of its weakest members. A country cannot call itself civilized when its children, disabled, sick, and elderly are neglected. Period.

2. I believe healthcare is a right, not a privilege. Somehow that’s interpreted as “I believe Obamacare is the end-all, be-all.” This is not the case. I’m fully aware that the ACA has problems, that a national healthcare system would require everyone to chip in, and that it’s impossible to create one that is devoid of flaws, but I have yet to hear an argument against it that makes “let people die because they can’t afford healthcare” a better alternative. I believe healthcare should be far cheaper than it is, and that everyone should have access to it. And no, I’m not opposed to paying higher taxes in the name of making that happen.

3. I believe education should be affordable and accessible to everyone. It doesn’t necessarily have to be free (though it works in other countries so I’m mystified as to why it can’t work in the US), but at the end of the day, there is no excuse for students graduating college saddled with five- or six-figure debt.

4. I don’t believe your money should be taken from you and given to people who don’t want to work. I have literally never encountered anyone who believes this. Ever. I just have a massive moral problem with a society where a handful of people can possess the majority of the wealth while there are people literally starving to death, freezing to death, or dying because they can’t afford to go to the doctor. Fair wages, lower housing costs, universal healthcare, affordable education, and the wealthy actually paying their share would go a long way toward alleviating this. Somehow believing that makes me a communist.

5. I don’t throw around “I’m willing to pay higher taxes” lightly. I’m self-employed, so I already pay a shitload of taxes. If I’m suggesting something that involves paying more, that means increasing my already eye-watering tax bill. I’m fine with paying my share as long as it’s actually going to something besides lining corporate pockets or bombing other countries while Americans die without healthcare.

6. I believe companies should be required to pay their employees a decent, livable wage. Somehow this is always interpreted as me wanting burger flippers to be able to afford a penthouse apartment and a Mercedes. What it actually means is that no one should have to work three full-time jobs just to keep their head above water. Restaurant servers should not have to rely on tips, multibillion dollar companies should not have employees on food stamps, workers shouldn’t have to work themselves into the ground just to barely make ends meet, and minimum wage should be enough for someone to work 40 hours and live.

7. I am not anti-Christian. I have no desire to stop Christians from being Christians, to close churches, to ban the Bible, to forbid prayer in school, etc. (BTW, prayer in school is NOT illegal; *compulsory* prayer in school is – and should be – illegal) All I ask is that Christians recognize *my* right to live according to *my* beliefs. When I get pissed off that a politician is trying to legislate Scripture into law, I’m not “offended by Christianity” — I’m offended that you’re trying to force me to live by your religion’s rules. You know how you get really upset at the thought of Muslims imposing Sharia on you? That’s how I feel about Christians trying to impose biblical law on me. Be a Christian. Do your thing. Just don’t force it on me or mine.

8. I don’t believe LGBT people should have more rights than you. I just believe we should have the *same* rights as you.

9. I don’t believe illegal immigrants should come to America and have the world at their feet, especially since THIS ISN’T WHAT THEY DO (spoiler: undocumented immigrants are ineligible for all those programs they’re supposed to be abusing, and if they’re “stealing” your job it’s because your employer is hiring illegally.). I’m not opposed to deporting people who are here illegally, but I believe there are far more humane ways to handle undocumented immigration than our current practices (i.e., detaining children, splitting up families, ending DACA, etc).

10. I believe we should take in refugees, or at the very least not turn them away without due consideration. Turning thousands of people away because a terrorist might slip through is inhumane, especially when we consider what has happened historically to refugees who were turned away (see: MS St. Louis). If we’re so opposed to taking in refugees, maybe we should consider not causing them to become refugees in the first place. Because we’re fooling ourselves if we think that somewhere in the chain of events leading to these people becoming refugees, there isn’t a line describing something the US did.

11. I don’t believe the government should regulate everything, but since greed is such a driving force in our country, we NEED regulations to prevent cut corners, environmental destruction, tainted food/water, unsafe materials in consumable goods or medical equipment, etc. It’s not that I want the government’s hands in everything — I just don’t trust people trying to make money to ensure that their products/practices/etc are actually SAFE. Is the government devoid of shadiness? Of course not. But with those regulations in place, consumers have recourse if they’re harmed and companies are liable for medical bills, environmental cleanup, etc. Just kind of seems like common sense when the alternative to government regulation is letting companies bring their bottom line into the equation.

12. I believe our current administration is fascist. (The Trump Adminsistration) Not because I dislike them or because I’m butthurt over an election, but because I’ve spent too many years reading and learning about the Third Reich to miss the similarities. Not because any administration I dislike must be Nazis, but because things are actually mirroring authoritarian and fascist regimes of the past.

13. I believe the systemic racism and misogyny in our society is much worse than many people think, and desperately needs to be addressed. Which means those with privilege — white, straight, male, economic, etc — need to start listening, even if you don’t like what you’re hearing, so we can start dismantling everything that’s causing people to be marginalized.

14. I believe in so-called political correctness. Not because everyone is a delicate snowflake, but because as Maya Angelou put it, when we know better, we do better. When someone tells you that a term or phrase is more accurate/less hurtful than the one you’re using, you now know better. So why not do better? How does it hurt you to NOT hurt another person? Your refusal to adjust your vocabulary in the name of not being an asshole kind of makes YOU the snowflake.

15. I believe in funding sustainable energy, including offering education to people currently working in coal or oil so they can change jobs. There are too many sustainable options available for us to continue with coal and oil. Sorry, billionaires. Maybe try investing in something else.

I think that about covers it. Bottom line is that I’m a liberal because I think we should take care of each other. That doesn’t mean you should work 80 hours a week so your lazy neighbor can get all your money. It just means I don’t believe there is any scenario in which preventable suffering is an acceptable outcome as long as money is saved.

So, I’m a liberal.

(c) 2018 Lori Gallagher Witt. Feel free to share, but please give me credit, and if you add or change anything, please note accordingly.

Written in 2018, I find I am still a liberal in 2023. I also find this letter has been shared so much I am in good company.

Don Miller’s Author’s Page https://www.amazon.com/stores/Don-Miller/author/B018IT38GM?ref=ap_rdr&store_ref=ap_rdr&isDramIntegrated=true&shoppingPortalEnabled=true

Oh, the Horror….

/ cigarman501 / 4 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Haunting of Hemlock Hills

/ cigarman501 / 6 Comments

“It was a mistake to think of houses, old houses, as being empty. They were filled with memories, with the faded echoes of voices. Drops of tears, drops of blood, the ring of laughter, the edge of tempers that had ebbed and flowed between the walls, into the walls, over the years.”  -Nora Roberts, “Key of Knowledge”

Haunted houses have always been a mainstay of the horror genre. From “The Haunting of Hill House”, or the Bates Motel in “Psyco”, to the Marsten House in “’Salem’s Lot” there is something malevolent about the old, worn down and crumbling homes…including my own. Sometimes first impressions are not the best impressions.

We don’t have the Spanish moss or swamps that go hand in hand with Southern Gothic. Just an old farmhouse sitting on top of a hill surrounded by hemlocks and memories. The numerous hemlocks made it easy to name our homeplace “Hemlock Hills.”

The original front porch shone with a silvery gray color in the moonlight…from the silver paint applied by a wandering group of shysters who convinced the previous owners to let them paint the roof.  The silver paint had been washed off by the first winter rain, staining the original lapboard cladding the old farmhouse.  The shysters are long gone but the house still stands. Moss covered chimneys in disrepair rose above the rust-stained, metal shingles.  If you need a site for a horror film, I have one for you.

This was the house we purchased thirty-five years ago…a house we fell in love with as soon as we saw it.  A house we renovated and brought into the twenty-first century.  I wish we had left it the way it was when we first saw it but sometimes my memories are softer than the here and now.

Spirits reside here.  Renovations have not chased them away. They aren’t the haints from Gullah legend or Bell Witches or Wampus Cats from Appalachia and the Cherokee that haunt according to South Carolina lore. They are softer and welcoming. They are ghosts of the past that live in our memories.

Mike Franks, a character from the television program NCIS made the following observation, “With the memories we make. We fill the spaces we live in with them. That’s why I’ve always tried to make sure that wherever I live, the longer I live there, the spaces become filled with memories of naked women.”

I always laugh when I hear him say that.  I think too, our spaces become haunted not only with the memories of naked people but any person who has been lost…people we don’t even know…people who lived their lives and died within these walls.

At least three different families contributed to the memories I believe haunt this old farmhouse.  Except for a period in the Fifties, it has been occupied continuously since the 1890s… a lot of spirits I would guess.

Despite our renovations, this old farmhouse still creaks and moans.  If the wind is exactly right and the TV is low, late at night you can hear the spirits…whispers in the dark, a light footfall, a woman’s giggle…or is it just a scurrying mouse or a puppy moving in her sleep at the foot of the bed or a flying squirrel landing in the cubby in the bedroom?

Sometimes when I’m reading or writing, as the witching hour approaches, I catch movement just outside the periphery of my vision…beyond the light cast by my reading lamp.  A shadow that doesn’t quite belong, a flash of light despite the darkness that surrounds me.  I don’t fear them, I welcome them. I don’t understand why they don’t come closer.

In the moonlight outside as I stand at the kitchen window, dapples of silver and gray make me wonder what I might be seeing. The spirits of long-dead animals that once played in the backyard still come out to frolic in the moonlight.

We’ve spent thirty-six Halloweens inside of these walls…we’ve never had a trick or treater.  No little ghouls or goblins, real or imagined.  The house looks haunted in the darkness of night with moonlight filtering through the hemlocks.  It is their loss.  A not so wicked witch lives here.

I’m comfortable with my spirits.  The spirits residing here…and the ones I brought with me from a time gone by, from places that no longer exist anywhere other than my mind.  No vampires or werewolves, just spirits that lovingly caress a cheek or place a steadying hand lightly upon my shoulder.  Comfortable and loving spirits from a long past who visit me every day, not just Halloween.

For more of Don Miller’s ramblings https://www.amazon.com/Don-Miller/e/B018IT38GM

Cornbread as Dry as the Sahara

/ cigarman501 / 12 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Linda’s Cornbread

Ingredients

Two cups of Aunt Jemima’s self-rising cornmeal

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

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

One egg

One large tablespoon of Duke’s Mayonnaise

A dash of salt and pepper

A pinch of sugar (Optional)

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

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

Directions

Preheat oven to 425 degrees.

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

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

Combine all ingredients in a mixing bowl and mix well.

Turn down oven to 350 degrees.

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

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

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

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

/ cigarman501 / 6 Comments

“At three in the morning the blood runs slow and thick, and slumber is heavy. The soul either sleeps in blessed ignorance of such an hour or gazes about itself in utter despair. There is no middle ground.”
― Stephen King, ‘Salem’s Lot

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Note: From the https://paranormalauthority.com

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

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

Of Dung Beetles and Other Seriousness

/ cigarman501 / 9 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Historical

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

Update

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

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

Again, thanks for your prayers and comments of encouragement.

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

Searching For My Generation Gap

/ cigarman501 / 9 Comments

“Each generation imagines itself to be more intelligent than the one that went before it, and wiser than the one that comes after it.” – George Orwell

I’m a Boomer and I don’t say that with much pride these days. I have joined a few Facebook sites touting Sixties and Seventies music, fashion, lifestyle, culture, etc. The “free love” Sixties are not immune from inflamed politics or the lamentation for “the good old days.” What happened to the “first” “Me Generation?”

Why have we, the Boomers, become so judgmental, so jaded? What did we do to become the end all adjudicators for societal judgement? I mean, we invented the term “generation gap.” What happened?

We once put a premium on thinking outside of the box. We were the epitome of non-conformity. We were going to go out and change the world and we did. Boomers did some amazing things…and then sat back on their laurels and bitched and moaned, “What happened to our youth, no manners, no work ethic, yada, yada, yada?”

We allowed the world to beat us down, turning us into our parents, and now we want to make sure our future generations get beaten down too by pointing out all their failures when we are the ones who raised them. I hope these new generations will save us from ourselves or will at least save themselves from us. We need a little Sixties-style nonconformity.

Am I looking through rose-colored glasses at the past? Newberry College in 1968-1973 was not a liberal baston of “wokeness” despite being a “liberal arts” college. I mean it was in South Carolina, a conservative baston and a champion of the “Lost Cause”.

I remember plenty of folk who did not toe the expected line. We weren’t all about panty raids, Purple Jesus, and singing “Dixie” or “Hail to the Redskins” at football games. (The Newberry College mascot was once “The Indians” and not “The Wolves.”)

I remember people who not only colored outside of the box but tore the box up and used it for kindling to start a fire in one of the outside entrances to Brokaw Hall. It wasn’t willful destruction. They picked the safest place to start a fire so they could broadcast the “Fish Cheer” from their dorm windows to the powers that were gathered outside. I’m not sure the Dean of Men ever recovered. I know, there were bigger war protests at certain “left” coast institutions of higher learning, but we did have them and only had a student body of eight hundred or so.

What happened to us? We came of age during a decade of protests, primarily centering on an unjust civil right of segregation and an unjust war fought in Viet Nam. Church, state, and parents were all called into question and found wanting by us…and now we have become them…or at least the most vocal have.

My research has given me some insight. The Boomers are not monolithic, nor are the Generation Xers or Millennials we raised. Those Boomers who were born closer to the end of WW II tend to be more liberal than those born in the later period. Interesting but I digress.

We utter the same battle cry our parents did. “That’s socialism” or “that’s Marxism” anytime anything is done to try and help people other than those at the top of the food chain. Helping those on the lower end of the food chain is not socialism. Socialism is, “a political and economic theory of social organization which advocates that the means of production, distribution, and exchange should be owned or regulated by the community as a whole.”

The last time I looked, “the means of production, distribution, and exchange” is still in the hands of the owners of said means of production, distribution, and exchange; ergo, not socialism.

The fact is we “sold out” during the 1980s and became part of the materialist, consumer culture. We became members of Reagan’s “moral majority” which was anything but moral as far as treatment of people. Remember the beginning of the AIDS epidemic? It was “hurrah for me and the hell with everyone else.” “Trickle down” only happens with rain…or “the man” pissing on our heads.

For those of us who might have championed capitalism we should have learned how corrosive capitalism can be when unaccompanied by a counterbalancing belief of moral restraint. When did our 1968 idealism turn into materialism? When did we become so pontificated against the generations that we raised?

We judge the new generations as being lazy, without morals, or taste. We had the best fashion, the best cars, the best music, we say. We forget about the class struggles, the war, and civil rights assassinations and riots. This fictional world is no longer our oyster…nor is it Generation Xers. We taught you too well to be just like us.

One of the tasks for those who succeed the Baby Boomers, Gen Xers, and Millennials is to restore some good old fashioned, 1968 idealism. The great challenge of this moment is the crisis of isolation and fragmentation, the need to rebind the fabric of a society that has been torn by selfishness, cynicism, distrust, and autocracy created by my generation. Good luck. You have a huge job ahead of you.

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

“Quare” Birds

/ cigarman501 / 17 Comments

“Normal is an illusion. What is normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”

― Attributed to Morticia Addams, it is a quote by Charles Addams, creator of the characters who became The Addams Family. I guess Morticia could be considered his daughter since he created her.

Once Southerners knew how to deal with folks who were a half bubble off plumb. Most were viewed humorously and talked about with a twinkle in one’s eye. They were “quare which simply meant they were a little crazy, giddy, or off kilter when compared to accepted societal norms. Many were gifted in ways we don’t understand as well but as I have grown to understand, normal doesn’t exist.

Designing Women’s Julia Sugarbaker summed it up this way, “We, here in the South, don’t hide our crazy relatives up in the attic; we bring them downstairs and show them off.” We even had cute ways to refer to them, “their cornbread ain’t quite done in the middle.”

It seems we have recently created more chaos for us flies by labeling anything or anyone we disagree with as being “not” normal if not downright abnormal to the point of criminality. This is a disservice to those of us who have not stepped over the line to wearing tin foil hats but are a bit odd…the fruitcakes Jimmy Buffett sang about. The weird, the odd, those with a screw loose.

“Fruitcakes in the kitchen, fruitcakes on the street. Struttin’ naked through the crosswalk in the middle of the week. Half-baked cookies in the oven, half-baked people on the bus. There’s a little bit of fruitcake left in every one of us.”

I’ve written about normal before, “Normal is Just a Setting but the Knob on my Dryer is Broken”. See https://cigarman501.com/2023/03/19/normal-is-just-a-setting-but-the-knob-on-my-dryer-is-broken/ if you are a mind to.  

I used the Addams quote in that previous post but saw it again this week and for some reason, it was if I’d never seen it before.

Now there are limits to not being normal. I’m not talking about people who are dangerous to themselves and others. I’m thinking about special people, who here in the southern Appalachian, would be called “quare.” “Old Jeb, now he was a quare bird” kind of people. Just a little eccentric, a bubble or a couple of bubbles off plume but for the most part, harmless and yet special.

Special? Those people with unique gifts, sometimes subtle, sometimes supernatural in addition to being eccentric.

When we needed a new well drilled, the company brought what was described by the company as a water savant. The statement was further qualified, “He’s a little out there…you know, in left field out there. Don’t mind him none, and don’t be surprised if he doesn’t speak to you.” He didn’t but after pointing to a spot on the ground, the drillers struck water at sixty feet, so I didn’t care. The man was a dowser and came from a lengthy line of dowsers…some five generation.

Dowsers are also called Water Witches…how special.

My mother’s friend was one of those special people. She didn’t dress like women in the Sixties were supposed to, she dressed like a man in denim pants and shirts and kept her hair cut short. She was loud and boisterous with a deep and ready laugh. Despite being married and with children there were whispers. “Old Gracie was a quare bird.”

One of her gifts was that she was a kind woman, always willing to help and bring joy where she could. She brought much happiness to my ailing mother. I found out she also had a hidden talent that brought her specialness into better focus.

One day shelling beans with my mother and regaling her with humorous stories, she saw me rubbing a nasty wart on my wedding ring finger as I prepared to head to high school football practice.

“Donnie, I kin get riddah that wart if you want me to.” She carried a knife, and I had a bloody vision.

Instead of reaching for her knife, she reached into the bowl of butter beans that had been shelled and pulled one out.

“I can talk it off. I learned from my daddy. He passed it down to me and his daddy to him.”

Taking my hand in hers she began to rub the bean on that old wart and mumbled words that made no sense. The old “mumbo jumbo” I guess.

After a bit she stopped and said, “Donnie, mark my words. That wart will be gone fore the sun goes down. I just talked it off.”

I was not a believer until Al Stevenson stepped on my hand during practice and made a right turn, a cleat from his shoe on top of that wart. I still bear the scar but true to her words, “That wart will be gone fore the sun goes down,” and it was. Coincidence? I think not.

We don’t seem to abide special people who “dance to the beat of a different drum” as we once did. People who dress differently or pray to different gods or swing differently. In some cultures, they were held in reverence, as our Native American brothers and sisters did. Now we just call them names it seems and it ain’t just “quare.” If the Bible is to be believed, Jesus was special. I wonder if we would welcome him now or try to hide him in the attic. I think he would be proud to be called a “quare bird.”

Update

Linda Gail is a bit of a quare bird. She has taken to dressing like a gipsy woman who likes purple and I’m not complaining. She always had a special gift for people. She is kind and caring, children and old people seem to search her out…as do animals. A person with the special gift of empathy.

She has a spirituality about herself that she doesn’t manage very well, dropping anything she is doing to help both the young and the old. The problem is now she can’t, and it weighs heavily upon her.

It has been a rough week following Linda’s chemo treatment and as I write this, it is only Tuesday. A friend of mine recently passed from the ravages of cancer. She opted to discontinue chemo when the path it followed became too rutted to travel. I thought she was a little selfish. I don’t feel that way anymore.

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