“Virtue signaling” is a catchphrase in the current cultural confusion. In the last few years, it has been exhausting to keep up with the new terms and re-definitions. I often wonder if some folks even know what they are saying or if they are just parroting the latest mantra from their side of the fence. By the way, virtue signaling is not a right or left problem, it is a human problem.Continue reading “Head-Nodders”
We were at a reunion gathering of our extended family when a distant cousin excitedly called his wife over to see my dad’s hands. He was amazed that Daddy’s hands looked like his deceased father’s hands. I looked at my hands and they looked like Dad’s. Two of my brother’s hands are also similar.Continue reading “Hands of My Father”
Some folks just don’t know how to be happy! They chase a dream that is just beyond their grasp and are blind to the blessings in their hand.Continue reading “Simple Pleasures”
I was raised in a working-class family who had risen out of Depression Era poverty. Most of our neighbors were either poor or slowly rising to middle-class status. Our exposure to rich people was rare.Continue reading “Work With Your Own Hands”
My daddy was born in 1914 in the ridges of Northeast Alabama. He was deserted by his father when he was a school-age boy and “raised” by his single mother in the midst of the Great Depression. He was raised dirt-poor.Continue reading “Daddy Bought a Nissan”
Our collective great-aunt, Governor Kay Ivey of Alabama just had a press conference with a “Stay-At-Home” order. Don’t you just love Aunt Kay with her South Alabama drawl; all our Southern politicians of old talked like this once upon a time, it was a requirement. I really like her, I really do. I would like to sit and have a chicken liver dinner with her, complete with potato salad, baked beans, and ice tea.
This subject has been incubating in my mind for a few years. I am quite qualified for this subject because I was reared in the midst of old men. My Dad was forty when I was born so by the time I could listen with good reason, I was saturated with the wit of “The Greatest Generation”. I am further qualified because now I am looked at, as that once revered title of, “Old Man”. I have been a “hoary head” since my forties.
Old men are not what they appear to be. They look weakened, wrinkled, frumpy, and a little dazed but that is not what they are at all. Inside is a spirit that can still run like lightning, pick up a rock and throw it beyond reason, and make some giggly girl tear off his chatty ring at recess in the Spring. He is old but still a boy deep inside.