Memorial Day is an American holiday, observed on the last Monday of May, honoring the men and women who died while while serving in the U.S. military. Originally known as Decoration Day, it originated in the years following the Civil War and became an official federal holiday in 1972

It was Memorial Day at my house, with the Flag flying high from the flag post in the front yard. We had all gathered around the pool in celebration of Memorial Day.  Nothing draws a crowd like a good old fashion cook out poolside. My granddaughter and lot’s of her friends had come to enjoy in the festivities.

The men folks were busy grilling hamburgers and hot-dogs to go with a sundry of other goodies to enjoy when I heard one young person say, “Why do we celebrate this day anyway.”

The hair on the back of my head stood up and the cockles of my spine stiffened. I gathered them all about me and this is what I told them.

“We American’s are from everywhere in the world. The world is a lovely place filled with all sorts of folks. Some good, some bad, just like here in American. Here in American we smell freedom. We smelled it back in the beginning when George Washington and his band of brothers went barefooted in the snow and crossed the freezing waters of the Delaware River under cover of darkness to fight for the fresh air of freedom.

We smelled it when covered wagons crossed the Blue Ridge Mountains and made peace with the Indians to settle ancestral land and in Plymouth Rock the heritage of ancestors from far to the North.

These builders of American came in all colors, creeds and forms of beliefs from all over the world. They built sod huts across the plains of the Dakota’s and far points to the west fueling our manifest destiny.

Thousands came crossing the ocean in wooden ships their hopes running high to breathe the air of freedom. They came from all over, the Europeans, Irish, Italians, Chinese, and Japan. They came from all corners of the world to settle in this grand new land and answer only to themselves, this land and their God.

We as a nation spread our wings as an eagle does and traveled west to conquer the frontier. It was our destiny. Those were the hardy and strong, they endeavored to preserve, and so they did.

Many wars fought and lives lost since then to protect this sweet air of freedom so you can enjoy this lovely day poolside in celebration of this fresh air we call Freedom. Wars and conflicts fought by every soul who has ever arrived sitting foot upon our shores committed to freedom. They gave of themselves and gave of their lives then and now so you my dears can continue to breathe the fresh air of freedom.

They come still upon our soil and as they work and strive because as we early ones did, they too smell the air we call freedom and want to breathe it as their own.

Some say we have lost our way and will soon be a second-class country to other places in the world. They know us not for we breathe freedom in our very veins flooding through our blood. Cemeteries are filled with the dead so that you can sit with me this day poolside and ask this very question. Why am I an American?

To be an American is to be responsible for yourself and your fellow man. To work, toil be creative and re-create repeatedly. Even take up arms if you must to protect or free a stranger you have never met, to rush into two falling towers on 911 eleven and give your life to save the one, the many none of whom you know not the names of because you are an American.

That is what Americans do. They move forward into the face of hell-fire burning torrents of misery never flinching never failing never quitting.

We right the wrongs and have the courage to put our booted foot in the strip,  grab the ear of this Thoroughbred we call American, throw our bodies over and onto its broad back sitting tall in the saddle and ride like the wind of an F-5 tornado to defend her. Moreover, that my darling young folks gathered here today poolside in celebration of Memorial Day is what it means to be an American.

America this wonder of all wonders we are all so blessed to call home.”

Pass the Knowledge On!!


A Bliss Busting Moment

This is for all the large busted women out there. I know you will understand and perhaps may have even experienced the ordeal I went through today.

I have a lovely slim fitting white dress with a zipper that goes from my tailbone to the back of my neck. It has a rounded high collar and the loveliest embroidery of summer flowers you have ever seen. I really love this dress. It however needs two people to get in the thing. Well, I can put it on by myself I think to myself even if I’ve never tried before it being the sort of dress where a helper comes in handy to zip the crapper up.

I decided to wear it out to a meeting I had scheduled. Home alone with no Ladies maid or husband to help get the thing on, I decided I could outsmart the lovely white dress which by the way comes down to just above my ankles and looks just grand with my new pair of stunning stiletto heels.

I showered, did my hair which by the way for once turned out perfect all the while rolling around in my mind how I could get my lovely dress on without help. Satisfied now I had figured the whole thing out, off the hanger it came as I gently lay in on the bed. With panties and my boulder holder in place, I unzipped the lovely white dress and with great care not to mess up my for once great looking hairstyle, I gently slipped the dress over my head.

All seems well and I began zipping up the back as far as my arms could reach. I used my left hand to pull the back of the dress up until I thought I might choke myself to death and began reaching for the zipper. Nothing, it wasn’t there. It was still too far down for my fingers to find it. Maybe if I use my other arm my hand will reach the zipper. Those were my thoughts at the time anyway. Releasing my grip from the back, I took a deep gasp of air and repeated the process. Nothing doing my arms being too short and I began mumbling words like Crapper, you can fill in the blanks on the other words.

Not wanting to accept defeat, I quickly moved to plan B. Plan B consisted of taking the dress off, zipping the back all the way up and slipping it over my head. It would mean a quick redo of my perfect hairstyle but I’m okay with that I thought and proceeded.

It took a great deal of effort but I managed to get the thing over my head pulling with all my strength it made it to half way over my boobs. What happened next is a real Bliss Buster of the highest order.

The lovely white dress with the exquisite embroidered collar was stuck and so was I. You see the dress I was so sure I could outwit had small arm holes. The dress is hanging half way down my boobs and for all my efforts my arms are flinging so high in the air they were flapping up against my ear lobes.

Somehow only God knows the dress had bundled itself up into rolls, bundled under more rolls followed by inside out knots between the dress and it’s lining. I’m no quitter I screamed loud enough to wake the dead things I can’t talk about at the moment and shuffled toward the kitchen.

I hate the dress so much at this point, I want to kill it but how I pondered? Kitchen shears that should do the trick those suckers will cut anything.

I squatted down trying to get one of my ear lobe flapping arms to reach and open the kitchen drawer holding the presently needed kitchen shears. It was a no go. Oh, I got the drawer open but naturally the one thing I needed was in the back of the drawer.

Crappers, double double crappers! I couldn’t get my arms down far enough to raffle through the other kitchen utensils and reach it. My ass can feel the draft from the air conditioner and I am so frustrated with the dress I’m not just going to kill it I’m going to bury it in an unmarked grave.

Screaming at the top of my lungs you fringing dress you you’re not going to leave me this way for some Jehovah Witness to find me and you’re not going to leave me this way for my husband to come home and laugh his rear off at me either.

Martin Luther King’s words began ringing in my ears, “we shall overcome”. Even my dog Braveheart had run for refuge to his pillow in the den to hide until it was over.

It took hours of bending squatting and crossing my legs so as not to pee my panties but I retrieved those kitchen shears. Somewhere during the process the zipper broke opening up the dress so it just hung there stuck to my butt in folds, rolls and knots.

My arms are free, my boobs feel like they’ve just been released from a carpenters clamp and I’m good to go to uncross my legs and high tail it to the bathroom.

Free now of the dress alone in my home in my panties and my boulder holder I begin to drink. Nooooooooo not water. I poured myself a glass of wine and then another until I felt the stress releasing me from my ordeal.

Later that afternoon I’m not sure of the time, I put on a pair of jeans and a loose fitting top. I and that once loved lovely slender fitting white dress with the exquisite lace collar made a visit to the garage where upon I retrieved the shovel and deep in the rear of the backyard where noisy neighbors couldn’t see I began digging a hole.

It must have been a really big hole I don’t recall any of the digging process. My husband’s voice bought me back to reality when he returned home in his big ass truck and said, “what in the hell are you doing woman digging a six foot deep four foot wide, eight feet long hole in the backyard? Have you lost your fringing mind?”

I looked up but never said a word. I gave him one of those looks. Ladies you know the look I’m referring too. Fear crossed his face then I heard him say, “you must be out of wine Dear I’ll go get you a bottle, maybe two or three. How many do you want Dear? Oh, never mind I’ll buy a case for you. Go on with what you’re doing Dear mum’s the word with me. My lips are sealed Dear never saw the hole don’t know who/what might be in it either. Be back later Dear” and off he went down the driveway disappearing out of sight.

He’s back now with the wine and I got to thinking for him to plunk out money for a case of my favorite Merlot maybe I should just keep that hole in the backyard and not bother covering it. Well except for a few shovels to cover the lovely slender fitting white dress with the exquisite lace collar.

Want more go to my web site

Do me a favor while you’re there download Buzzard’s Glory my novel available through Amazon.  It has some distressing funny crap also.

A knock upon my door!!

Yesterday late in the afternoon three young teenage boys walked up my long driveway and knocked upon my front door.

The afternoon had turned hot and humid and with skateboards in hand one ask for the three if they could please have a glass of water? Oh my yes I answered and ask if they would like to come in to rest and cool off before continuing on their way. No they answered we’re all hot and sweaty but if you can spare a glass of water please.

I returned with three of my largest glasses filled to the brim of cool spring water and handed one to each of them. The water disappeared in seconds so I ask if they would like another. Yes please they answered in unison and so I returned to my kitchen to refilled all three glasses for them to drink their fill. There was one banana left on the counter from my husband’s ritual morning treat. I decided I would cut it into three pieces to get a little potassium into these wandering worn torn souls.

I don’t think they understood the banana part when I returned with the refilled glasses of water but I do think they were hungry so they were glad for the treat.

“What brings you out to these parts”, I ask? “We were on our way to visit our friend and didn’t realize it was so far they told me. We flagged down a car about a mile down the road and ask if he had a bottle of water to spare or even just a sip from the one in his console but he said, see that swamp across the road; you boys go have at it there’s plenty of water over there, and drove off.”

They called their friend with their cell phone but his parents were still at work and so were these three young teenager’s parents that knocked upon my door. Thus, their modes of transportation were their only possession with wheels, their skateboards.

By the time they made it past the swamp and into my part of the Forest they were plum tuckered out. Hydrated but still not themselves yet I suggested they sit on the bench in the shade of two tremendous old Oak trees and rest for a spell.

Returning the glasses to the kitchen I took to my rocker wondering what these three were thinking and talking about as they rested in the shade of the two Oak’s their heads bowed while cooling their sweaty bottoms on my old stone bench.

I know what I was thinking. What kind of a person would tell three teenage boys to “have at it to quench their thirst in the black putrid water of old water logged swamp”?  I was hot under the collar and I don’t mind admitting it. I thought to myself probably the same sort that sucks up to his boss and derogates his wife and children that’s who?

We have all come these buggers in the course of our life. If you are one of these sorts, stop for a moment, take a breath and change your way of thinking toward others thereby changing the way you live your life. Imagine yourself parched for a simple sip of water standing next to a black water swamp. Drink the swamp water and become ill, possible die or call out for help from a stranger traveling in your mist. It occurred to me that when God was handing out Faith, Hope and Charity this fellow along with many others these days went “that’s going to cost me in time, effort and expense I could use to buy bigger toys. I’ll take Selfish, Pride and Arrogance and not worry about Slough catching up to me.”

Somewhere in the mist of my anger I began praying for the water hoarding stinker whom didn’t know how to share.

I suppose some would chastise me for opening the door to three young men carrying skateboards. “Good grief woman they could have robbed you and beaten you to death with their skateboards”, some would say. They could have but they would have had a hard time in  the doing of it trust me.

I’m like the old lady that gets pulled by the police with a colt 45 on the passenger’s seat next to her. The officer ask her if she had any other weapons and she said well yes one in the glove compartment, a shot gun under the quilt in the back seat and an AK 47 in the truck.” “Good Lord woman what are you afraid of the officer ask?” She answered, “not a damn thing sir how about you”?

I wear the Armor of Christ and have the most wonderful protection ever sitting on the top of my pre-War War II General Motors made porcelain cook-stove. My fifty-year-old well-seasoned cast iron frying pan and I know how to use it if the need ever arises. One whack with it and hell will come a calling for you.

Now to you the bad sort that went beyond rude to the three that knocked upon my door. If you’re thirsty, hungry or need to rest your weary head you will be welcome all the same at my door. Knock anytime.

After my talk it out time with God he ask me to give you a message. He loves you, he’s waiting for you to knock upon his door to hand you a receipt for the already paid for sin of Selfishness, Pride and Arrogant miserable self you think you are in total control of. It won’t cost you an earthly dime. It will grant you the peace you are so longing for.

God who took the lard?

Through the Whispering Pines

Soooooooooooo I’m standing over my before the war to end all wars, War War ll made by General Motors cooking range frying  ‘The New World Order’ water infused bacon this morning.
Stove still works fine. It has never taken a day off in all these years or needed a repairman or in today’s terms a technician.
I got to thinking. The bacon is shrinking and you have to fry up so much of it to have a bite or two that even the dog won’t eat it. Dogs are smarter than most people a great deal of the time.
Time is traveling by and my nice planned homemade bacon, egg and pancake breakfast is turning into brunch or as my husband calls it “blegin & cake” breakfast.
In the old days when my stove was new people out here in my Forest all enjoyed a nice Breakfast, Dinner and Supper…

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God who took the lard?

Soooooooooooo I’m standing over my before the war to end all wars, War War ll made by General Motors cooking range frying  ‘The New World Order’ water infused bacon this morning.

Stove still works fine. It has never taken a day off in all these years or needed a repairman or in today’s terms a technician.

I got to thinking. The bacon is shrinking and you have to fry up so much of it to have a bite or two that even the dog won’t eat it. Dogs are smarter than most people a great deal of the time.

Time is traveling by and my nice planned homemade bacon, egg and pancake breakfast is turning into brunch or as my husband calls it “blegin & cake” breakfast.

In the old days when my stove was new people out here in my Forest all enjoyed a nice Breakfast, Dinner and Supper. Today we have in this new age of knowledge a more refined version of breakfast/brunch,  and dinner. I did not capitalize them since they don’t count for much these days.

The sleepy heads were still snoozing toward brunch so I decided I would ask God a question. God what happened to Lard?
I miss lard God and I miss bacon you know the kind I’m talking about God?  The big thick slices of bacon cut from a hunk of side pork wrapped in cheesecloth hanging on a hook in the smoke house.


It was called it side pork back then and I actually knew the hog it came from. My goodness when frying up a pound of the good stuff it took an entire platter to hold it all not this little crapper of a desert looking plate these days. Well, the package that it came in didn’t actually say pound I confess it said twelve ounces. Are you listening God?

God where did the pound go?

And God what’s with eggs these days? They are all egg whites and have tiny little yolks. I like my eggs with big yolks you know from hens that eat bugs and such. Then there’s the cows for milk where’s the grassland God for the cows to graze?

The only thing that round-up hasn’t killed is the ragweed that makes me sneeze. Poor cows are all locked up eating Monsanto grown corn and strung out on extra hormones and such wishing they could all have been born buffalo and living somewhere in the black hills of South Dakota. If I were a milking cow that’s what I would be thinking.

Now God what’s up with the flour these days?

When I was a child it was up to my pappy’s shoulders come harvest time. Boy ole boy when you took it to the mill for them to grind it was real flour you got back.


It was grand back then God  before the wheat met the laboratory scientist’s who made it grow shorter than a midget in the so called effort to feed more of us folks.

I’m here God in front of my Frigidaire made only by General Motors cook range with the big four burners and the warming drawer, the large oven and the bottom you pull out to store your cast iron cooking pots,  pans and such.  Are you listening God?


Hello Child this is God speaking!!

I can tell you what you need to know but first you must leave and go to the nearest restaurant chain serving by various names the grand slam all you can eat breakfast/brunch. Don’t forget to get the hash browns with all the toppings, order eggs, bacon and the all you can eat pancakes.

Child make sure you get several orders of any assortment of petroleum based corn syrup infused glazed fruit toppings of your choice. Have them put on extra of the chemically treated real artificial whipped cream topping.

Do these worldly things Dear One and I’ll see you soon and tell you the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.

Oh, by the way Child I’m glad you kept your wonderful ol’ cook stove. Not many have you know! If you would like to stay a while longer upon the earth visiting with me over your wonderful ol’ cook stove  leave your near the city swamp infested  Forest and return to the  Valley of your birth. Set your hand to the good earth and once again plant the seeds I gave to humankind in the beginning.


Live long and prosper!!


Love from God!!

ps:  I’ll call for you up here when I’m ready Child but for now consider yourself still under construction!


A Hawk, a hen and a $5,000.00 Italian leather sofa

I think everyone knows by now I live in a Forest and walk among the whispering pines to keep my sanity in tack. I’m also a keeper of hens. Only two now because the Federal Park Service in it’s wisdom released coyotes which ate the other fifteen leaving me heart broken and driving the wise ol’ seventeen old Murcrow and her best friend ever Molly into the Cedar tree to live just outside my kitchen window.


Two frightened to go back in the hen house where the coyotes found a way in for their night of mayhem somehow they survived. Who could blame them for vacating the only home they had ever known. Sooooooo all winter they roosted in the snow, freezing ice and otherwise not fit for life of any kind and survived.


Murcrow and Molly would come down everyday when they felt the coast was clear and eat the food and have a drink of water I would put out for them only to return as fast as possible to their refuge, yea ol’ Cedar tree.


Yesterday we went from freezing to 72 degrees. The snow melted and this morning they came down scratching for the first worms and bugs that might happen above ground. I have no idea why they decided to bypass the nice cracked corn and other good grains I put out for them. I guess real food was just to tempting to turn down.


I sort of understand their thinking I pigged out on pizza myself last night followed by chocolate ice cream. Sorry I did that but that’s another story for another time.


Relaxing in my den sipping a nice cup of coffee  earlier than usual this morning because Nixon felt the need to screw with my sleeping habit twice a year I hear Murcrow screaming bloody damn murder.


I jumped up, throwing the den door open then the garage side door Braveheart my trusty Bishon in tow. It was a Hawk and the bastard had my Murcrow pinned to the ground. This protected wildlife crapper was in the process of killing my wise old Murcrow.


Somehow during the process the Hawk fled. I would have shot the bastard if I had had a gun but I didn’t and Braveheart did his job causing the dastardly beast to flee. Here’s were it gets interesting.


Murcrow takes off running like the wind wings flapping into the garage and yes straight into the den. She took up residence behind my fabulous five thousand dollar Italian leather sofa. Who could blame her but you can’t have a chicken for goodness sakes wanting to live with you in your den.


I consoled her, clucking to her a comforting tone. I’m not really sure what happened during the translation but now Murcrow feels the need to roost right there in the den and yes on the leather sofa. Good grief what a life. I love the ol’ bird and she has laid many an egg the family has enjoyed over a long period of time but my den is no home for a hen not even good ol’ Murcrow..

Time is passing and I’m thinking it’s only 10am in my Forest but it’s got to be five o’ clock somewhere. If there ever was a five o’ clock moment this is one. Miss Merlot to the rescue.


Graped up and ready I retrieve a towel from the bathroom and go Murcrow hunting. Over the leather sofa, atop the recliners, behind that big ass 52 inch gotta’ have television of my husbands, downed cases filled with hundreds of DVD’s flying in every direction later Murcrow and I came to an understanding.


I have no idea how I got my tiny hiny up off the floor with those wintered over skinny ass legs of mine  with Murcrow in tow but I did.


Murcrows locked in the hen house where the hawks can’t get to  her. The coyote have moved to better ground in another part of the county so she is safe now. That’s the good news.


The bad news is Molly her best friend keeps pecking at the garage door. She wants in and I’m out of Miss Merlot.


Soooooooooo how’s your Monday so far?

Beans, Greens and other things

Hello Folks,


I woke up this morning with an upset stomach. Don’t feel sorry for me I earned it. How you say, well my husband the type 2 diabetic came home with a box of donuts last evening. He knows he shouldn’t have them and picking up just one to crush his unrelenting desire for the sweets got the best of him. He needed back up and bought a dozen.  I could have thrown them in the trash and should have but in the dead of night I ate the remaining six to keep him from a feasting frenzy over coffee when he woke up this morning in need of another fix. My fault not his.


They have a pill/shots for that he says when his sugar shot up from the doing of what he knows better.  It seems they have a pill or a fix for everything these days.


Soooooo getting back to my upset stomach I pulled one of his ginger ales out of the fridg. . In my entire life time I doubt I’ve had ten soda pops but like I said my stomach was upset and we all know ginger is good for that sort of thing.


I popped the top  took a sip and looked at the label out of curiosity.  Carbonated water, high fructose corn syrup, citric acid, sodium benzoate (Preservative), caramel color, artificial ginger flavor. Yeppers I just took a sip of poison.


We are eating poison folks. I ask you what ever happened to beans, greens and such? What ever happen to the Holy water of the day, aka; Cod Liver Oil? When did we allow ourselves to turn our lives over to corporate farming and genetically modified food as our source for survival and say when we are fat and ill they’ve got a pill for that?


I remember pulling weeds from the fields on our farm as a kid not spraying them with Round-Up and passing them off as Organic.


Did you know you can get an organic label to sell your beef if you play music to all those cramped up cows in your feeder barns you just can’t get certified organic because you use chemicals on the field you grow the corn you feed them. Well hells bells there is no such thing in this country as non-Monsato corn anymore here. May as well spray agent orange on the crop. Makes the harvest easier, more money the farmers barn is encased in Mozart coming from a stereo system. Happy Happy Cows. Poor cows. Someone should let the barn door open hang a  GPS to the lead bull so he can lead them to some grass land if that even exists anymore.


Now back to the real artificial Ginger Ale I took a sip of. I threw it out mixed a little baking soda in a small glass of water, belched loud enough to wake the dead and waited on a good ol’ fashion double flusher.


I’m fine now.


Chew on that today when your waffling down your Mozart organic flavored petroleum based cheese burger, greenhouse controlled water cress salad and soda pop.

Day Two of driving Hubby to work!!

Well, it’s Tuesday, which means I’m into the second day of driving my Darling husband to work. You might want to read yesterday’s blog post to catch up. I don’t want anyone lost here trying to figure out why this strange woman posts crap you don’t fully understand.

I got up before daybreak this morning to a freezing rain. Good thing too because I for sure don’t want another mishap like yesterday. I want to make sure I’m not in my PJ’s again, mussed up hair and no make-up should another crisis occur of Biblical proportion revealing my age spots.

I drive a Pony. Anyone in his or her right mind knows the middle name of a Ford Mustang is ‘Fishtail’ so I don’t like taking it out except on top down sunny days. Well that’s anyone but me. I bought it because it had a stick shift and I was going through menopause at the time.

My husband the bean counter so sorry, the accountant has an extended cab, four-wheel drive truck you need a ladder to get into. It sports a King’s Ranch & Company’s custom-made leather seats and dash interior. It has taken up residence in the big garage staying pristine. Oh it does come out for show and tell occasionally but I’m not driving it, never ask never will. It’s for sure I’d put the first and only scratch it would ever get and I love my husband and would not like seeing him turn into a werewolf.

Sooooooooo, getting back on point here after dropping him off and heading home I see that same damn RED NECK’s pick- up truck. He’s pulled over half in and half out of the lane of traffic. Bent over it appears he’s trying to reattach what’s left of that rusted through bumper that fell off Monday nearly causing me to piss my pants when I hit it, blew my brand new tire resulting in a sundry of additional problems.

Refer to yesterday’s blog for all the details please.

I drove ever so slowly by him. Holy Shit I’d recognized that crack in his ass anywhere. He’s a public figure so to speak. I saw him on that Hoarders show on TV the one and only time I ever watched it. I wanted to stop and give him the what for but I wasn’t packing and he was. All I had with me was my Bishon, Braveheart and he’d lick the shoes of an IRS auditor.

I’ve tracked down his home address and from the google satellite he’s back to hoarding big time again. A very clever thought crosses my mind. You know all those books in the trunk of my car from yesterday. Well I’m going to pay him a visit and tell him a story. Then I’m going to sell him all fifty boxes of twelve novels to the box of that well written novel of mine so he can call himself an intellectual hoarder of books. Naturally that’s acceptable.

Brilliant, I’ll solve the problem of paying off the credit card bill from the girly bar I found myself in next to the Firestone Store whilst waiting hours in my PJ’s for it to be repaired.

The RED NECK Crapper will have a new hobby and I can pay off the credit card before my sweet husband wants an explanation as to why I spent over half a day in a girly bar in my PJ’s.

It’s all about timing

I drive my husband to work every morning and pick him up and bring him home every evening. The rest of the day is mine thank you very much!

I woke up late this morning and having no time to dress I decided since it’s a drop and go with the little Darling I drove him to work in my PJ’s. After all he was nice enough to warm up the car giving me time to pee and find my hat. My husband is familiar with the age spots on my face and since it’s a drop and go I simply hopped behind the wheel and off we went to his place of employment.

On the way back home to have MY Day I blew a tire. It wasn’t the tires fault they are all four six hundred and fifty dollars worth of NEW from the good ole Firestone Store. I accidentally ran over the rear bumper that fell off a RED NECK’s pick- up truck. The damn thing was tied on with baling wire which came loose causing said RED NECK’s rusted through bumper to land in my lane.

It took great skill mind you to avoid oncoming traffic. Composing myself hat now in hand I called for roadside service. Some alias of Triple Fucking A shows up. I pop my truck from inside where upon he sees all the boxes of my books that travel with me just in case a warm breathing body wants to buy one. Never leave home without your well-written novel is my motto.

He hooks me up and tows my tiny hinny to the very same Firestone Store from whence came those six hundred fifty dollar four new tires with less than three thousand miles use on them. Hat pulled way down in my PJ’s I give the Hottie behind the counter my warranty on said new tires. Now this is when I find out the warranty is for mileage coverage not for running over a rusted RED NECK’s bumper.

The Hottie at Firestone tells me in could be four hours or more. People are beginning to stare. I noticed coming in with the tow truck there was one of those 24-hour girly bars next door. Pulling my hat farther down in an effort to hide my face off I go, belly up to the bar in wait for the call on my cell phone my car is ready. I get the call all right. It needs a new tire, rim and the brake fluid or some shit like that needs flushing and there is a nick in my driver’s side windshield wiper. May as well replace them both he says.

Hours pass the bar tender has my credit card and the drinks keep coming, the crowd gets bigger but I’m the only one buying. I have a completely new set of friends and it’s all so confusing. Finally, my cell phone rings but I can’t remember how to get back to Hottie for my car. Bar tenders do a great service to humanity  helpping me find my Mr. Hottie next door at the good ole Firestone Store.

Hottie and the bartender lean into one another and talk but at this point I could care less whatever it is they are discussing. Hottie had already tapped my credit card into his computer so I’m thinking I’m good to go. Not so Hottie decides so with the help of his best mechanic they pour what to everyone must look to them like a homeless rag- a- muffin into the passage side of my own car and drive me home followed by Firestone’s best mechanic.

I’m not real clear on what happened next but two pots of black coffee and a cold shower later wearing mixed matched pants and shirt I cobble a salad together and throw two pot pies in the oven. Putting on my warmest coat and my hat a top a wet head of hair I feel sober enough to pick up dear ole hard working hubby.

Not wanting to look un- kept just in case there are more RED NECK’s on the road with tied on bumpers I quickly spray paint my face with one of those fast acting aerosols’ Bahamas’ Mamma tan to cover up the age spots on my face.

Once home and off with my coat the sweet thing I’m married too tells me something smells wonderful and what’s for dinner?

What happened next would make any wife proud. He gives me the once over and says “have a long day writing Dear, let me get you a glass of wine and I’ll serve dinner this evening”.

I’m not talking until the credit card bill comes in. Perhaps then I’ll tell him about the Monday from hell. We’ll laugh and I’ll have to sell a truck load of books to make it all go away.

And that friends was my Monday.


Whiskey for my men and beer for my horses. On my way home this morning from an early errand I found myself fiddling around with the radio in my Pony looking for a radio station when a song with the lyrics Whiskey for my men and beer for my horses came on.  It tells the story of America’s  strength, courage and taking care of business when freedom is threatened anyplace anytime where ever it may be  in the world.


Those that follow me know me also know I don’t go around hawking an opinion on this or on that as if to say I’m the only opinion in the universe. However this is different. The news is full of reports on the burning of the pilot by ISIS.


I say give the King of Jordan what he needs, more than he needs and whats more no more talk of the evil ISIS. Strike hard without declaration of war, talks, committees, sub-committees and more crap that burns the ears of a people fighting for existence.


This could and may become one of your sons or daughters and don’t doubt it if this evil is not eliminated. I don’t mean stop them in their tracks to regroup  I mean destroy the bastards out of existences. Hit them hard, long and continuous  unrelenting until they are no more.


Saddle up America and when it’s all over there will be Whiskey for our men and Beer for their horses.


That’s my say and I’m sticking to it!!

Thoughts from the Forest