Welcome to The Hillbilly Blogger 2.0.

I figgered the blog was startin’ to get a bit stale as far as looks go, so I decided to just go ahead and redesign the whole dern thing. Sorta’.

See, what I went and done was tidy up the old THB with the new header and such, changed a couple things around, and then ….

I went and made a self-hostin’ blog that is combined with the old THB. Now now, I know what you’re thinkin, but it isn’t gonna be that bad, I promise. You will still have and be able to follow the old THB and all my posts will still show up in your reader (in a way).

By “in a way” I mean that I will be postin’ on the redesigned THB 2.0 and puttin’ an excerpt in a post on the old THB, so basically, when you click on “Continue Readin'” you will finish readin’ the post on the newly redesigned THB 2.0.

You will have a choice to follow 2.0 or not, it’s totally up to you because the core blog will be right where it is now, on WordPress.com which means you can either like and comment on the old THB or on 2.0. Nothing is really gonna change for you, except havin’ to click on “Continue Readin'”.

Now, why go to all that trouble Hillbilly? Well, it’s no trouble really and it gives me a lot more flexibility and choices for my blog. I’ve finally started learnin’ how to get more followers and there are some things I wanna do that I just can’t do on the .com site. I also don’t like what WordPress has done as far as clickin’ on a post.

Used to, when you clicked on a post title, it would take you straight to that post where you could read, like and comment. Now, if there isn’t a direct link to the post it takes you to some “middleman” page, where you can just read. If you wanna do anything else, ya have to click on the post title again to get to the “real” post, which I think is totally stoopid.

Anyway, I hope you like the new 2.0 and the new things Imma be doin’ as time goes on. Leave me a comment and let me know what’cha think. and as always …

Thanks for readin’


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My Old Man

I first heard this song by Zac Brown last week when Home Free covered it and released their video. I really don’t listen to the radio all that much anymore, or much music for that matter. When I was younger, music was everything, I was always playing it.

Anyway, that’s not what I want to talk about in this post.

I don’t know if I’m the only dad that ever feels this way or not, but sometimes I feel like I fall way short on being a good dad. I don’t feel like I did enough for my oldest and I don’t feel like I’m doing enough for my youngest.  I don’t mean materialistically either. I’ve never been the kind of parent to base parental love on material things. No, I mean in much more meaningful ways.

Sometimes I feel as if I holler(ed) at them way too much, or I don’t/didn’t give them enough of my attention. Was/is the advice I provide(ed) good enough to help them through life and to make good decisions? Am/was I a good role model for them?

I listen to that song and wonder, was/am I that dad? Do my boys think of me that way? Or do they have more bad memories than good when they think of me?

Where our house is small and my youngest has to sleep with me still, sometimes I will lay and watch him sleep and wonder what he’s dreaming about, especially if we’ve had an especially rough day or evening. I will watch his eyes dart back and forth in dreams and wish I could peek inside to see if he was having good dreams or was dreaming about an argument we had or of me telling him no for the hundredth time.

When I don’t hear from my oldest for a long time, I wonder if he thinks about me, or if he talks to his little boy, my grandson about me. Does he tell him about his younger years growing up with me or do I cross his mind much at all?

Ya see, for the better part of my oldest sons younger years,  I was a single parent and I’ve been a single parent for my youngest son since he was two and sometimes I can’t help but have these thoughts and wonders.

All I can do is hope that I did/am doing my best. I know for sure that I’m proud of my boys, I just hope that my boys are proud me too.

Posted in Reflections Tagged with: , , , , , , ,

The ’53 International

This isn't papaw's truck but looks just like it.

This isn’t papaw’s truck but looks just like it.

Back in the day, when my imagination was geared more toward the innocence of a child and the wonderment of all things new, one of my most favorite past times was driving for miles and miles in my grandpa’s 1953 International Pickup.

I’m quite sure I traveled through every state in that old truck, down old back country roads, with my arm hangin’ out the window, wavin’ at everybody I saw, and they was friendly enough to wave right back at me.

As I got a little older and learned of such things, I ran shine in it, burnin’ up these back mountain roads with the law on my tail. I never got caught though, nobody could catch the “Black Bandit.”

It was about this time The Dukes of Hazzard was popular, and of course, I never missed an episode. Needless to say, there were many miles running from Roscoe and Enos, jumping over everything, racing anybody that was willin’ to get a good butt whoopin’. Of course we knew a black International pickup truck looked nothin’ like the General Lee, but that didn’t stop us.

I wish I could count the times I would just go sit in papaw’s truck, for no other reason than to just sit there. I haven’t mentioned this yet, but that old pickup truck hadn’t moved in 15 years or better, all 4 tires were flat and the engine was busted on it, but to me, it was in fine shape.

I wanted that truck so bad when I got older. I begged my uncle to let me have it so I could drop an engine in it and fix it up. I was a teenager when he sold it. I was in school and when I came home, it was gone. Just like that, as if it had never been there.

I stood in the empty spot that for so many years of my life had been occupied by, not only my papaw’s old truck, but my refuge from many a storm, both real and emotional. I stood in that lonely spot, and I cried.

Posted in Memories Tagged with: , , , , , ,

Meet Me At The Tipple

As I’ve mentioned several times in this blog, I grew up and live in an old mining town, and by old I mean when the mines first started up they were dug out by men and the coal was hauled out of the mines in carts pulled by donkeys or mules.

Over the years, there were quite a few mines being worked in these mountains surrounding our town, which is where all the miners and their families lived, along with all the other tradesmen that went along with mining.

Coal was a booming business back then and our little town had a lot of the modern conveniences of the day. We had a huge motel, a movie theater, a YMCA, a company store, a hospital, a “beer garden”, a bank, and lots of other “citified” stuff for a little coal town in the Appalachian Mountains.

nw1427Down the holler a ways from the actual mine operations was the tipple. This ain’t a picture of our tipple, I couldn’t find one but it looks a lot like what ours looked like. If ya went on down the track another few hundred yards you would start runnin’ into houses and what is called “Straight Road.”

The tipple would stand and work for many years, but like all things, it’s time came to an end and it was torn down. All that was left of it was a concrete slab on the top of the hill that was the ceiling for a shallow “cave” that was maybe 12 feet deep back in the hill.

Now, back in our young days, there was no fence or guard rail to keep anybody from going to, or over, the edge, and it was a good 80 feet or better drop. Now to my knowledge, nobody ever fell over the edge, which was a good thing. Even though the actual tipple was no longer there, the place was still referred to as “The Tipple.”

I spent many hours sittin’ on the edge of that drop, sometimes alone, most times with my buddies. We’d talk about anything and everything, or we’d just sit and throw rocks and watch ’em bounce when they hit the ground below.

At one point, somebody got the bright idea to build a tennis court down below and we’d sit up top and watch people play tennis for a while, until we got bored, then we’d either just get up and leave or we’d start tossin’ pebbles down on ’em, just to make ’em mad. After a few years, people got tired of the tennis court and nobody ever used it again.

There were also ghost stories about the tipple and the surrounding area. The screaming baby and the woman in white bein’ the best known. We all knew the tales, right down to the last gory detail. Some of us even said we’d seen the woman in white or heard the little baby scream. There were others, all just as scary and for a time we all took ’em to heart and believed every word.

Now, I’ve told you all of that so I could tell you this.

As we got older, some of us stopped believin’ the old stories, me bein’ one of us, and some of us didn’t, but would never admit it. Case in point, my buddy Matt.

When we was young’uns, we’d spend the night at each others house most every weekend. Sometimes he’d be at his mamaw’s house, which was just down the road a piece from his house and we’d stay there.

To give you a bit of perspective here, the distance from his mamaw’s house to mine was, at most, 1/4 mile, if that, but, the tipple was almost smack dab in the middle between the two. Actually, it was a bit closer to him than it was to me.

Usually I’d get a call sometime near dark. It would be Matt, wantin’ to know if he could come around and spend the night. After gettin’ the required permission he’d say, “OK, let’s meet at the tipple.” To which I’d reply, “OK,” and out the door I’d go. Now, knowin’ that he was a bit closer to the tipple than me, I would walk a bit faster than normal so as to get there round about the same time as him.

By the time I got there it was near on full dark and Matt was nowhere to be found, so I waited a few minutes for him to show up. He never did. I took to walkin’ on up in the holler to his mamaw’s house, figurin’ the whole time I would meet him somewhere between there and the house. I didn’t.

I got to Maw’s house and went on in, and there sat Matt. I’m not even going to attempt to tell you what was said, mainly because I just don’t remember. I do remember the word chicken bein’ spoken a few times, to which a boisterous denial was forthcoming.

The funny part about the whole ordeal was when we got a few yards from the tipple we had to start running, and we couldn’t stop until we were a few yards past it. I’ll just let you use your own judgment.

There’s nothing left of the old tipple now. The whole slate dump and area where the tipple stood has been reclaimed and it looks nothing like it did back in those days. I guess the woman in white and the crying baby finally had to leave too.

Posted in Memories Tagged with: , , , , , , ,

That Should Be Me



That should be me standing beside you in a picture,

That should be me holding your hand,

That should be me laying beside you in the bed,

That should be me drawing our names in the sand.

That should be me touching your cheek,

That should be me wrapped in your arms,

That should be me lifting you up,

That should be me showering you with my charms.

That should be me staring lovingly into your eyes,

That should be me your love flows to,

That should be me wiping your tears away,

That should be me loving you.

That should be me, but it’s not …

Posted in Reflections Tagged with: , , , , ,


2016-02-07-1454862169-7634098-grimreaperThis post is in response to today’s Daily Post Prompt.

When I saw the subject of the prompt, my emotions rolled like thunder rolling through a long valley.

Since January 2015, I have lost six people from my life to the cold arms of death. With four of the  six, I have unfinished moments and memories with, moments and memories I will never get to finish. Not only moments and memories but unfinished business as well.

Over the course of the last year and eight months, my eyes have been opened to a whole new world, a world that was hidden from me. Whether it was hidden intentionally or not, in some cases I don’t know. In others, well, I now know far more than I ever did, and this new knowledge is weighing heavy on my heart and soul.

Not only is it weighing heavily on me, it has done something I didn’t think was possible. I honestly thought that I had lost all ability to deeply care about someone or something, that my heart had hardened to the point of no return. I was wrong.

I feel betrayed, lied to, lost, unimportant to people that I thought I was important to. I honestly thought I meant something to these people, but it appears I was sheltered in my own naivety and refused to see the truth that was in front of me.

Now? Well, now I’m just tired. My soul is tired. I have grieved until I’m not sure if I can grieve anymore. I no longer care about things that used to be important to me. I only wonder how long it will be until I can no longer care about anything.

Do I want your pity? No. Am I searching for attention? No. I am doing the only thing I can do that keeps me on the sane side of life. I’m writing it out, letting my emotions flow from my heart and soul through my fingers, turning these emotions into words to share with the world.

Unfinished. Yes, that is exactly how I feel.


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How Milwaukee’s Best Became Milwaukee’s Beast


If you know anything about beer, then you’ve probably already discerned the gist of this post, but read on, it get’s, um, interesting.

Let me start at the beginnin’ of the particular day the details of this post surround.

It started out as an ordinary summer day, not unlike most summer days of my teen years. Somewhere around 9 am or so, me and my “regular” crew began to gather up on my porch. As we sat there lazily tryin’ to determine what we would do that day I suddenly realized that there really was nothin’ to do, nothin’ that peaked our interest anyway. After an hour or so, everybody that was gonna show up was there.

I’ll be honest with ya here, I don’t recall everything that happened durin’ the daylight hours of that day, but I think I would be safe in sayin’ that we ended up doin’ a whole bunch of nothin’. Then dusk came around and it began gettin’ dark.

I figured it was gonna be just another hot, lazy evenin’. I was wrong.

A buddy of mine came around from out of the holler and he had his cousin in tow. (He is on my Facebook and if you read this Matt, correct me if I’m wrong.) Sometime durin’ the evenin’ three brothers that lived on the hill above my house came down, which was a rare thing for all of them to show up at once. All told, there were about 10 of us just kinda wanderin’ aimlessly around, talkin’ about this or that.

Somebody, and I can’t remember who, came up with the bright idea to go to the little store in Dante and buy beer and cigarettes. Back in those days, you could buy beer at 18 and it didn’t matter how old you were to buy cigarettes. So it was decided that Matt and Mike would go get it while the rest of us made our way up to a little rinky dink cabin we had built long ago. It wasn’t too far out the road from my house, but it was up on the hill far enough and enough trees growin’ around it, to where nobody would notice us and come askin’ questions. That, of course, also depended on how LOUD we got, an important factor we overlooked at the time.

I don’t have a clue as to where we came up with the money to buy beer and cigarettes, but we did. After a good long while, Matt and Mike finally showed up with our contraband.

We all settled around, some inside, most outside the little cabin, and began our night of innocent fun.

I don’t remember a whole lot from that night either, just a few interestin’ tidbits here and there. One such tidbit was the fact that the whole bunch of us, ‘cept Mike and Matt, were drinkin’ Milwaukee’s Best. Them two had decided to get them some Budweiser to drink, and it took the rest of us a good while and a few cans later to figure this out. The reason for that is, they had set up camp just a little further below the rest of us and had their bag of goodies stashed out of our sight.

They were close enough to join in the merriment, but far away enough whereas we wouldn’t notice that they was drinkin’ a different beer that us. I don’t know who noticed it first, it might have been me, but regardless a little, heated discussion sprang up about this blatant disregard and betrayal of our trust. This went on for a little while, then all was forgiven, well, it was actually forgotten because we were well on our way to that “third sheet in the wind” by this time.

Some time later, I have no idea what time it was, but it was dark, and we didn’t have sense enough to have brought a flashlight along, I was standin’, or leanin’ would be a better description, next to the cabin takin’ me a good, long pee, when I felt somethin’ wasn’t quite up to par about the situation. I thought about it while peein’ and it dawned on me that my right leg was a might smart warmer and a whole lot wetter than it normally should be.

I took my attention off of the effort of standing upright long enough to look to my right, where I saw Mac standin’ beside me. He had taken the notion to relieve his bladder at the same time as me, but … instead of peein’ on the wall of the cabin, he was givin’ my right leg a real good waterin’ down. As I started to form the words in my head that would eventually make their way out of my mouth, I felt rain startin’ to fall.

Once again, I was wrong. Tony, Mac’s younger brother, had climbed a tree that was beside the cabin, and he was havin’ himself a grand ‘ole time pissin’ on the roof, which in turn was splatterin’ all over the rest of us, or the ones close enough to the cabin. (Please, restrain yourselves from usin’ any and all references to Golden Showers. Thank you.) That was all I could take, I finished my business and started to make my way back down the hill to the road.

Remember earlier I told you we had neglected to think about the noise level? Well, thanks to Tony’s bright idea to piss out of a tree, onto the roof of a cabin with 5 or 6 guys standin’ around it, the noise level went up quite a few decibels. Luckily for us, nobody, and by nobody, I mean parents, came out to see what all the commotion was about.

So, once again, all was forgotten and we all managed to get back down to the road with nobody breakin’ any bones or just rollin’ down the hill. After that, things start gettin’ real fuzzy, except for three things, and I will never forget these three things as long as I live.

We had no idea what time it was, and really didn’t care and hadn’t really given it much thought, until a woman we all knew showed up in a car lookin’ for one of us. When she parked and got out of the car I realized she was wearin’ a really low cut nightie, and folks, lemme tell ya somethin’, this woman was well equipped. Naturally, it wasn’t the first time I had noticed, but it was the first time I had noticed while I was shit faced drunk and didn’t know how to keep my mouth shut. There IS a difference, as I was soon to discover … happily.

After she determined that the person she was lookin’ for was alright, she decided to stick around for a few minutes, mainly to laugh at us. At some point, she got close enough to me to where I could smell her perfume or whatever and I, of course, made a comment about it. Keep in mind this woman was a good foot and a half shorter than me.

I said something along the lines of, “Wow! Your boobs smell awesome!” or something like that, and she just nonchalantly reaches up and grabs the back of my head and pulls my face, not unwillingly I might add, right between those two joy jugs. After a second of eternity, I was standin’ back upright, not too sure of what just happened, wonderin’ if I had had a quick fantasy when she asked, did they smell better? and laughed. She left after that, but I was a changed man forever, at least in regards to her.

The second thing pertains to one of the guys inside this old garage that used to be there. I was wonderin’ where he had gotten off to ’cause I hadn’t seen him in a while. Somebody hollered out that he was in the garage, so we all went in, and there he was, pukin’ his guts out, IN THE GARAGE! Luckily for us, nobody hardly ever went in there, so hopefully it would be all dried up and gone before anybody discovered it.

But back to the actual pukin’. He was bent over double, and when there was nothin’ comin’ out, he was dry heavin, which to me is much worse. I might be wrong, but I think there was somebody else passed out in there too.

And the third and final thing I will never forget … the three days of sheer hell that followed that night. I honestly think I stayed drunk for those three days. I was miserable, as was everybody else that had drank The Beast that night. I probably smelled like a brewery the followin’ mornin’ but nobody said anythning. Of course, I stayed outdoors as much as possible. If the show The Walking Dead was playin’ at that time I would have made the perfect zombie.

So there ya have it, a night of young, innocent debauchery, forever branded in the minds of those that partook of The Beast.



Posted in Memories Tagged with: , , , , , , , ,

Throwin’ Down Some Hillbilly Common Sense

clinton-trump-0222I’m not sure what kinda feedback I’m gonna get from this post, but I’ve been thinkin’ about this for a long time. I even posted something similar way back when, but this is different.

Without gettin’ into a lot of details, facts and figures, I’m going to share with you my Common Sense way of thinkin’ about this upcomin’ election. I know, a lot of you are tired of hearin’ and readin’ about it by now, but there is somethin’ so fundamentally wrong with this election that I believe it bears further inspection.

First of all, we have two multi-millionaires running for President, so they’re obviously not doing it for the money. Well, one of ’em might be, it’s debatable, and certainly not the main driving force for their decision to run.

Second, I don’t remember ever havin’ two so completely opposite people tryin’ to get elected for President. These two give the term, “The difference between day and night,” a literal meanin’.

One the one hand, we have a multi-millionaire business tycoon, best known for his hotels and golf courses. He has never served in a public office, never ran for a public office and has no political background what-so-ever. Yet, thousands upon thousands of people attend his rallies, town hall meetings, and speeches. He has an extremely strong base and has lately begun actin’ and talkin’ more like a President should.

On the other hand, we have a multi-millionaire ex-Secretay of State and First Lady, and I use the term “Lady” loosely, most famously known for her ineptitude and carelessness regarding her stint as Secretary of State and the most recent, scandalous e-mail debacle. Unbelievably, to me at least, she has millions of supporters. Even after everything that she has been accused of has been proven to be true several times over, people still flock to her campaign.

Now, I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t knowingly put a wolf amongst the sheep, and sheep is what most people in the United States have become. It would be one thing if the wolf was disguised as a sheep, but knowing for a fact that the wolf is definitely a wolf, and STILL putting him/her in is, to me, the very definition of insanity and extremely poor judgment.

It’s almost as if her followers are brainwashed and simply don’t know any better, they are unable or unwilling to see the truth laid bare before them. It’s very reminiscent of Germany in the 40’s. The thousands and thousands of people crammed together in every available spot, hangin’ on every word that spewed out of Hitler’s mouth. We all know how that turned out, now don’t we?

Hey, if you don’t believe me, go to The History Channel or any reputable history resource,  and compare the speeches and reactions of the people to those speeches. It’s scary.

I’m not sayin’ that Trump is squeaky clean, I’m sure he has some pretty big skeletons in his closet as well, but come on people. Pure, plain, simple common sense SHOULD tell you that it is not a good idea to put a manipulating, power hungry, deceitful, sneaky, lying, backstabbing, I could go on, woman, in the seat of the most powerful person on this planet.

Our current joke that holds that position has all but ruined this country. If Clinton gets elected, God forbid, it’s just gonna be another 4 or, lord help us, 8 years of tyranny and there will be nothing left recognizable of this once great country.

We used to be feared and respected, now we’re the laughin’ stock of the world. We used to be able to intimidate a hostile country into returning what is ours, now, well, we just pay ’em off with trillions of dollars, make deals with them that are so far outside the realm of common sense as to be ludicrous and provide them with the means and ability to finally create a nuclear weapon, capable of accomplishing what they have long shouted. Death to Isreal. Death to America.

In short, if Clinton gets elected, you might as well start your countdown clock to the extermination of America as we know it, or used to know it almost 8 years ago.


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potatoesWay back in the stone ages of my youth, there were a handful of things I absolutely despised doing, plantin’ and diggin’ taters were two of ’em.

Ya see, we always had a garden. Now I’m not talkin’ about some little rinky dink patch of ground with a few things planted in it. I’m talkin’ about a huge garden, with no less than four rows of any particular vegetable. These rows were LONG and on a hill to boot.

Where I lived, there’s very little actual flat ground, there’s slope everywhere. Some drastic, some barely there, but everywhere is either uphill or downhill to some extent. Our garden was somewhere between not so bad and oh my god.

The “upper garden” is where we planted our taters, corn, and some beans. Ever so often we would plant other things there too, but it was mainly the aforementioned veggies.

Now, if you’ve never had a vegetable garden, well, you just don’t know what you’re missin’ out on, especially when worked the old fashioned way. By that I mean, everything but the actual plowing was done by hand, and we don’t call it plowing a garden, we call it tilling.

I didn’t mind tillin’ the garden too awful bad until the muffler rusted off the tiller and my uncle screwed a piece of straight pipe in. Why I don’t know, because it really served no purpose, other than to blow really hot air and gas fumes back in my face. In 80 and 90 degree sunny days with a stray baby cloud passin’ by overhead, but nowhere near the sun mind you, made for some long, hot, headache makin’ days.

When it came time to start plantin’, we would always start in the lower garden, where we planted our ‘maters, lettuce, cabbage and such, which wasn’t so bad. The only really difficult thing we planted down there was onions. I was always the one that planted them and I wasn’t allowed to just drop ’em. Nope, I had to “set” ’em out and they had to be a certain distance apart, not too close, not too far apart.

Keep in mind that the rows in the lower garden were at least 40 yards long at the bottom, gettin’ gradually longer the further up the hill we went, and we always had no less than four rows of onions. These onions had to be set out on my hands and knees and I could only set out 6 or 8 within reach before I would have to move. Add that up folks, that’s at least 160 yards on my hands and knees, putting little onions in the ground.

Let’s make our way to the upper garden now. We had to till the ground deeper on the bottom of the upper garden, because that’s where we planted the taters. The average length of a row in the upper garden was at least 50 yards long. Now the fun part.

To lay off the rows for taters we used a horse-drawn plow with a spade bit attached to it.plough

The only problem with that? We didn’t have a horse. When I got big enough, well, you guessed it, I was the horse. Literally.

My uncle had a rope tied to the plow that I could put around my waist and I would pull that plow all the way across the garden, not once, but twice for each row. For the taters we usually had 6 rows. I learned what the terms “Gee” and “Haw” meant. That’s horse speak for left, “Gee”, and right. “Haw”, and of course, “Woah”. If I was pullin’ to far to the left, my uncle would holler out “Gee!!” and I would know to move back to the right some.

You might be askin’ yourself why we used a horse plow to start with. Well, taters ya see, have to be planted quite a bit deeper than anything else and it was really hard to just use the “push plow” to lay off the rows, so my uncle came up with the bright idea to use the horse plow and me to pull it because it would go deeper in the ground.

By the time we had all six rows laid off, I was plum tuckered out. My uncle, tryin’ to be funny, would offer me some dried grass. Ha ha.

After about 15 minutes of rest and a drink or two of water, it was time to drop the taters. If you’ve never planted taters, let me explain a bit on the procedure. The “seed” taters had to be cut into halves or thirds, dependin’ on their size. My mom and aunt would usually start cuttin’ ’em up when my uncle and I would start layin’ off the rows, and by the time we were done, they had enough cut up so that we could start droppin’ ’em in the ground.

Seein’ as how we didn’t have all the seed taters up there with us, yours truly had to hump up and down the hill with two 5 gallon buckets. Downhill wasn’t bad, uphill, after a few trips was another story entirely. They had to be dropped a certain distance apart, which was roughly 2 feet apart and in the very center of the row with two or three pieces of seed tater.

Once the taters were in the ground, they had to be covered. When I say covered, I actually mean they had to be mounded up, and it had to be just the right size mound too. I’m tellin’ y’all, that was a lot of moundin’ to do. All of this had to be done in one day, so we would start at the ungodly hour of 6 am usually and not finish till dusk or later.

OK, we got ’em planted and they’re all grown up now. It’s late summer, early fall and it’s time to dig ’em up. I didn’t do the diggin’ part, I got the wonderful job of pickin’ ’em up and puttin’ ’em in the same 5-gallon buckets we used to plant ’em.

Guess who had the job of trudgin’ up and down the hill to put ’em in the dairy? Yup. Me. Do you have any idea how heavy and unwieldy a 5-gallon bucket filled to overflowing in each hand is, going down hill? Some of the hill is steep too. More’n once my ass went scootin’ down the hill and then havin’ to pick the dern things up again , only this time, I had to hunt for most of ’em cause they rolled into the weeds or tall grass.

Of course, when I finally made it back up to the taters, my uncle, who had been diggin’ the whole time I was gone, smugly asked why it had taken me so long, knowin’ the whole time what I was doin’. Given the fact that he had been diggin’ while I was gone meant he was about a half row ahead of me and I never caught up. He would usually take pity on me after a while and stop diggin’ until I caught up. If I was too far behind, he would help me pick ’em up, but that just made the time shorter between trips.

GardenThis is where our garden was located. It’s all overgrown now. This view doesn’t show the elevation from the road to the top of the garden.

After a couple of days, and many trips up and down, we were finally done and I was one worn out hillbilly.

Even though I bitched and moaned the whole time, them fried taters, fresh canned green beans, and other suppers made with food grown with blood, sweat and tears, tasted mighty good when the snow was flyin’ on them long winter days.

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Posted in Memories Tagged with: , , , , , , , ,

Arguments! Everything Is An Argument!

w583h583_14860-how-to-write-an-argument-essayWhy? Why MUST people insist on arguing with every single word I say? And by people, I mean my mom and 6-year-old son.

I know what you’re gonna say, especially if you know my situation. Mom has Dementia and my son IS only 6 years old, that’s what they do. That’s totally not the point here. The point is … I’m sick of being argued with.

In fact, I’m sick of a whole lotta things, but the arguments and “back-talk”, the constant contradictions are taking their toll on me. To see life in their eyes, I’m an idiot and don’t know anything. I’m just stupid. Whatever I say, even if it’s an answer to a question that THEY ask ME, I still get argued with. “What color is that?” “It’s Black.” “No it ain’t, it’s White.”

I completely understand that my momma can’t help it. I understand that she doesn’t understand what she’s seein’, doin’ or sayin’ most of the time. I understand that she sees things that aren’t there. I understand that when she has a dream, it’s real to her.

It has gotten to the point that nothing I say or do consoles or satisfies her. I tell her she’s arguing with me and she argues that she’s not arguing. In turn, I start gettin’ upset and much more nervous and very soon I’m to the point that I can take no more and my perception of the world changes drastically.

My 6-year-old is another story altogether. Don’t go and get me wrong here, I love my boys with everything in me and I know that boys are gonna be boys. I used to be one. It’s true, I remember it.

I’m sure that most all parents that are reading this will know exactly what I’m talking about here. When a 50-year-old man tells a 6-year-old boy to do something, or to STOP doin’ something then the 6-year-old should, by all rights and means, do it or stop doin’ it, considerin’ the situation at hand.

Nope, not MY boy, oh no. All I get is a constant argument, and the sad part is, once I get it through to his still developing brain, he will STILL argue with me, just using different words, as if by stating something in a different way, it completely changes the context of the argument.

By the time that I’m about to lose my mind, usually momma will ask me something and then I’ve got TWO arguments goin’ at the same time.

This morning was awful. I seriously wanted mom’s aide to get here. I was going to leave for a while, just get my nerves settled, take a little bit of me time, you know, to just calm down, get everything back into perspective.

She quit this morning. Mom’s aide. She quit. Out of the blue. No reason, no advanced warning, no nothing. Just a text sayin’ how she hated to do it but she wasn’t going to be able to work anymore and she was, get this, sorry.

That apology did me a hell of a lot of good. Yes sir, that I’m sorry just lifted my spirits right on up and the world was all rosy again. It was such a fantastic apology that I forgot all of my worries and made the fact that I now had NO help what-so-ever just disappear.

You know what REALLY takes the cake? I have found myself arguing with MYSELF lately. Over stupid stuff too. “Should I eat now?” “No, you’re not hungry right now.” “But I feel hungry.” “That’s just your imagination, you’re not hungry yet.” “Wait, you ARE my imagination.” ” That’s beside the point, you’re still not hungry.”

My life has somehow, and without my permission, I might add, turned into one gigantic, never-ending argument.

Did you know that if you type the word argument enough times it starts looking funny?

So that’s about it. I’ve got an argument about to start so I better stop typin’ and pay close attention so I can get through this one with a smidgen of sanity left.

Posted in Family Tagged with: , , , ,


lonely_treeOver the last couple of days, I have gotten several comments about my writing. I’ve had people tell me that I have a gift for it. I’m not too sure about that, but I’m gonna give it a shot. I’m not gonna be so bold as to think I could write a book, but I will write.

The place to find that writing is here. It’s mainly dark writing because I am writing my feelings and emotions, attempting to put them into words. I have posted on here a couple of times with that genre and I have gotten pretty good feedback on the posts.

I’m not sure yet how active I will be there, I can only write like that at certain times, times when I’m especially depressed or just after an Anxiety episode. Other times are when I dwell on certain memories for an extended period of time, which I seem to be doing more of here lately.

So, if ya want to, you can hop over there and check it out. There’s only one post there so far, actually, it’s a copy of the last post on here, but you can go ahead and sign up for new post notification while you’re there.

Posted in General Tagged with: , ,