Author: bdharrellauthor

A retired bellyacher, sometimes writer and guardian of the dog Filbrix.

Whose Birthday?

Whose Birthday?

Yesterday, I was struggling to recall exactly who was having a birthday today. The reminder from Facebook said it was Joni Hobbs. I know a Joni Hough from long ago, but I was unsure of Joni Hobbs. When my memory of Ms. Hobbs came back, it was because I remembered that the woman died at a very young age (in her forties – she was young to me) several years ago. She was one of two people I knew from my Geocaching hobby who died within a few months of each other. The other cacher was a fellow named Will Neinke. He and I shared an enthusiasm for The Prisoner, a 1960’s series starring Patrick McGoohan as a former secret agent being held in a remote village in an unknown location.

My Geocaching moniker as well as my sign-off phrase at the end of my blogs come from that show.

To continue.

I am at an age where, “Death has more definable features…” to paraphrase William Holden’s character in the movie Network. I’ve lost several good friends to the grim reaper… too many in my humble opinion. But one must keep in mind that one does not live forever. Eventually everyone passes from being a living being to being a story. Something we need to be aware of when we meet with other people is to listen to their stories while they are living. Appreciate what they have to offer. Listen. Remind yourself that no one walks the same walk. Even if a walk appears to be on the same path, it is, somehow different.

Ms. Hobbs and I met briefly in person on several occasions. We would occasionally cross paths on the internet. It wasn’t until the last month or so of her life that she opened up to let the Geocaching community know of her impending demise and of her life to that point.

And she will miss another birthday.

As will Norm Shor.

Norm and I had a mutual admiration society based on the fact that we both worked in radio. For the most part, he was a gypsy, working radio stations primarily in western Pennsylvania and eastern Ohio. He met and married Karen, a woman who, when Norm worked at a radio station in Erie, called him up to ask him who in the hell he was and what happened to the person who usually worked the shift he was working. They hit it off that first night they called and the rest, as they say, is history.

My first wife and I became good friends with Norm and Karen. When my first wife and I split, Karen quipped that she was glad that she got custody of me in the divorce. By the time of the split, Norm was already on his final voyage – early onset Alzheimer’s. Karen and I are still friends – she says that she has been friends with me longer than anyone else she’s known. I take that as a compliment.

I drove solo from Dallas to Pittsburgh to speak at Norm’s memorial. I had to.

The inevitability of death is always present, but at the same time, never really expected. Death of a friend can be soul crushing if we let it. I prefer thinking of death as a passage, from the living world to becoming a good story which can be told with a smile or a fond rememberance. That’s what funerals are for.

When my mother died nearly seven years ago, I made the trip to Ohio not knowing what to expect. I assisted my sibling (very little as it turned out – she did the heavy lifting) with a couple of little details about the memorial service, and for the most part hung out until the viewing and the service. It was at the viewing that I began to hear the stories. Over the few hours the funeral home was open for visitors, I came to realize just how important she was to the people outside of our family. Those stories continued before and after the service the next day. And I’ll be darned if I didn’t get more stories about my mother when I visited the home town a fortnight ago.

Good stories have a long shelf life as do memories of people we know and love.

At some point, we are all going to leave this planet behind, leaving but a memory to live on with others. It’s up to us to decide what we will leave behind – good memories, good stories, or will it be a bad taste in someone else’s mouth.

I prefer good stories.

Be Seeing You!

Fizzy Lifting Drinks

Fizzy Lifting Drinks

One more little bit of fallout from my recent trip to Ohio – I stepped into a Kroger store on Saturday afternoon for at least one item, my Caffeine Free Diet Pepsi. I had run out of the stock I brought with me and needed more to feed my habit. When I got to the checkout line, the clerk asked me if I only had the one box of pop.

Pop?

I did a double take.

My next younger brother and I had been playing a game for years, where we referred to carbonated cola-flavoured beverages as “Sodas,” just to confuse other people in a section of the country where those same beverages were called “Pop.” What those beverages are called depends on where you live. For instance, where I live in Texas, sodas are “cokes,” small “c.” Doesn’t matter if it’s Pepsi, or RC or even 7Up, it’s a coke. The only exception to that rule is Dr Pepper… a genuine Texas beverage if ever there was one.

The summer after I married my better half, we took a trip to Ohio and West Virginia with our two younger sons. Her son (my stepson) had only been out of Texas once before – that being when we took him into Oklahoma for about 10 minutes just to say that he had been out of the state of Texas. He had it in his mind that once one crossed the Red River, no one knew about or sold Dr Pepper. I recall stopping at a gas station in Missouri on the way up, and purchasing a carton of Dr Pepper just to show him that the beverage was, indeed, sold north of the Red River.

Anyhoo, I managed to purchase my soft-drink of choice despite my double take, and everything turned out all right.

Earlier in the day, the better half and I stopped in a specialty store which stocked a wide variety of soft drinks, including one I had heard of, but had never seen before. Moxie.

I’ve heard the phrase, “That person has a lot of Moxie,” used to describe someone (in my mind at least) who had a lot of chutzpah for much of my life. I became aware that there was a beverage called Moxie out there somewhere, sold primarily in the northeast United States. And here were several bottles of Moxie being sold at Grandpa Joe’s Candy Store in downtown Chillicothe Ohio being sold for two bucks a pop (or soda, or coke, take yer pick). I told the better half that I couldn’t rationalize the purchase of a $2 bottle of Moxie if that was all I was going to purchase. She suggested another item to purchase, and we walked out of the store with a bottle of Moxie and something else which will be used as a gift for someone who didn’t believe that Dr Pepper was sold north of the Red River.

As I undertstand it, there are quite a few local soft drinks with limited distribution patches.

In southern Ohio, that beverage is Ski. I never had it while I lived there, and will likely never have it. A person I know with means (and a serious addiction to Ski) had a Ski machine installed at his home so he could buy one for himself whenever he wanted. Now, there’s some dedication!

I have a like for a beverage known as Ale-8 (or Ale-8-1), bottled in Kentucky. I first tried it on a trip up north about five years ago when I was having lunch with one of my best friends at a restaurant near his home outside Versailles Kentucky. Basically, it’s ginger ale with a hint of citrus. Since that trip, I have made it a point to seek out Ale-8 whenever I’ve been out of Texas. The closest I’ve found it was in Illinois this past summer. The Kroger where I purchased the Pepsi didn’t have it, but the other Kroger in Chillicothe did have it.

I nabbed three cartons of Ale-8 on the way out of town. Score!

At each of the Krogers, I was able to score bags of Herr’s Salt and Vinegar potato chips. Herr’s doesn’t quite make it all the way to Texas – unusual in my mind because another of the southeastern Pennsylvania chip makers, Utz, HAS made it to the local grocery stores. The family has called Herr’s Salt and Vinegar chips “Juicy Chips” because of my niece. She was with us at the small family reunion we had in Columbus. When I mentioned that I snagged a couple of bags of Herr’s, she immediately lit up and and said, “Juicy Chips!”

The “Juicy Chips” will last until the end of next week if I’m lucky. The stash of Ale-8 might, just might, mind you, last until early next year with prudent rationing.

And the Moxie? Gone! It was the only cold beverage available at the time we needed a cold beverage when we were almost home. An interesting cola, with hints of root beer and cinnamon. Not bad at all. Worth $2 for the taste. Not worth going up to Maine to get more at a regular price.

I’ll stick with my Diet Pepsi.

Be Seeing You!

Assorted Other Gatherings

Assorted Other Gatherings

A week after having a whirlwind trip to Ohio, I’m still buzzing a little bit attempting to bring things back to some semblance of normal. I had a number of other encounters during the trip, and missed other opportunities to connect with some people I wanted to connect with.

When I started planning the trip about six months ago, I had some grand plans of heading further north than we did and meeting with a few friends and family.

A trip to Cleveland was under consideration. My sister’s youngest child lives somewhere on the east side, with his wife (a woman I had barely met) and two children I’ve yet to meet. There’s a cousin living south and west of the city, and a friend from Ohio University I would have loved to have spent time with, bending elbows and trading stories. Karen, my children’s “Jewish Godmother” would likely have come down from her home in Erie for a visit.

We could have spent a couple of days in the “Best Location in the Nation” quite easily. But it wasn’t to be.

Instead, including the two reunion events, we only spent 42 hours in Chillicothe with more than a few people and places we didn’t manage to go and see. For instance, I really wanted to check out the location of Chillicothe’s “Dickies Barbecue” in what used to be Pizza Hut out Western Avenue. “Dickies” is one of those places here in the DFW Metromess which pops up almost everywhere. Shoot, there’s a Dickies less than two miles from my own little corner of the Metromess. Who says that franchising doesn’t work? On the other hand, a visit to Dickies would be akin to taking a “Busman’s Holiday,” or like traveling to England and refusing to eat nowhere other than a KFC. Don’t laugh. I know of one person who did just that!

There were a few other friends from the internet who were missed on that visit. One I did not miss was Alex, a former co-worker and probably one of the funniest people I’ve ever met. He spent one of those 42 hours we had in Chillicothe regaling us with stories about his exploits. I had short visits with a pair of Nancies who happened in on our celebrations – both doing well and both connected with our class almost at the hips.

There was also a nice surprise when I went to the Baptist church to drop off books for the American Association of University Women book sale which was being organized on Saturday morning. My mom had worked the sale for quite a few years before her demise and one of my sisters had taken advantage of a scholarship from the AAUW. I found that the sale was imminent and I felt that I should at least make a token contribution to honor my mother and my sister. The nice surprise was that there were people working sorting the books who fondly remembered my mother – we spent the better part of an hour trading stories and catching up. The time spent was worth more than the books I donated.

Mom was well remembered when we went to services at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church Sunday morning. Among the conversations I had was one with a well-regarded author who hailed from the small Ross County village of Knockemstiff. I had met him a couple of times before – it was good to see him again.

We wheeled out of town after services at St. Paul’s, pausing only long enough for a trip into Krogers to purchase several six-packs of my favorite carbonated beverage (Ale-8 – a regional soft drink sold mostly in Kentucky). Stopped for lunch in Columbus, where we met my sisters for a mini family reunion, and then it was back on the road again, headed back to my little corner of the DFW Metromess by way of Fayetteville Arkansas.

All in all, we had a very good trip. Wish we had more time for other people and other places. Give it a few months. I may be willing to do that trip again!

Be Seeing You!

Getting Together Several Final Times

Getting Together Several Final Times

My recent trip to Ohio had one primary purpose, the 50th anniversary of my matriculation from Chillicothe High School. The reunion featured several events between Thursday and Sunday – my interest focused on the two big events on Friday and Saturday nights.

With 50 years behind us, us being about 18 at the time, we are in Medicare/Social Security territory – having existed longer than we expect to exist. Indeed, many of us have ceased to be between 1972 and 2022. It’s just a fact of life. Getting together on that 50th anniversary will, for many, be the last time some of us will see each other.

The first “Party” was just that. A party, held at the Elk’s Hall in downtown Chillicothe. The good news is that the Elks can accommodate a large crowd. Very good, considering the number of people who actually showed up. The bad news is that the acoustics were terrible, as would be expected in a large room. Add to that, everyone talking with each other at once, and an alumni band, and you have a cacaphony which may get noise complaints from the local airport.

A month or two before the first party, I was asked to speak for a few minutes to the assembled throng. I had spent a few years as a radio announcer and had a way with words. When we got to the point where I was supposed to perform, I decided it better to tell anyone listening to go ahead and keep doing what they were doing. Which they did.

At one point in my life, my ego would have been crushed. But, not this time. I was happier just getting together with friends and going with the flow than I would have been with making a dull and boring speech. After all, it had been fifty years. Some of us had a lot to catch up on.

After the Friday party, there were a couple of events I was going to make on Saturday, the first being on Saturday morning when a few classmates would gather to take a walk on the city’s flood wall. It wasn’t until after the better half and I did our walk did we learn the reason no one else showed up was that the organized walk didn’t happen until half an hour later than we started.

The other event was the “Formal” dinner at the Chillicothe Country Club. Again, a large room, but with better acoustics. I was more than happy just to attend and not have to worry about making speeches or offering entertainment. The company at our table was amicable, and we had a good time chatting about this, that and the other before and after dinner.

Both evenings were enjoyable, despite the din. I got to see a few of my favorite people, got to meet some people I don’t remember ever meeting, and heard bunches of interesting stories from classmates from every walk of life. It wasn’t until after I got home that I discovered that there were a few other people there I didn’t get to at least speak with, despite being in the same room. I’m sorry to have missed them, although maybe some of them were deliberately avoiding me. Nah… wouldn’t happen!

The only regret I had was that some of the classmates living in Florida didn’t make it, due to the recent passing of the hurricane Ian. It was a darn shame, really. Oh, and there was at least one who didn’t make the reunion because she had been going through Cancer treatment.

Other than that, I had a really good time. Hope to be able to do it again in another five years!

Be Seeing You!

Sports Trucks and Carnies

Sports Trucks and Carnies

Before starting out on this tale, allow me to apologize in advance to long-haul truck drivers and carnival workers. You gotta make a living somehow. It’s just that some of us have a harder time understanding than others.

Anyhoo.

The other half and I took off from the homestead early last Thursday morning headed to Ohio for my high school reunion. A little less than twelve hours later, we were in Carbondale Illinois at an Italian fast food place called Fazoli’s, sucking on something resembling chicken and having a good time with the grandchild, the step-daughter and her husband, and the step-son. Was I frazzled after the drive? A little. Between the sports trucks and the “Carnies” on Interstate 40 between Little Rock and West Memphis, we had an adventure.

I have been told time and again that adventure is where you find it. What made the first day of the trip an adventure were the long-haul truckers in what my father used to call “Sports Trucks”, trying to get past a convoy of carnival food trucks headed east.

I’m not going to rag on the truckers too much. They have a lot on their plate, what with limits as to how long they can be on the road and having families back home who want them home a few hours earlier then they usually arrive. I get that. But getting around a convoy of any sort can be frustrating when the fellow in front of you is passing that convoy doing, say, 68 and the truck he’s driving can only do 69. Not only frustrating to the truck drivers, but frustrating to drivers like me, headed to see children and grandchildren in another state.

We managed.

After fighting the clog for nearly an hour and passing the carnie convoy, we decided to pull over at a rest stop and have lunch. I figured that by the time we finished having lunch, the convoy would be past us and we would be clear of the mess, headed to our first destination. No problems.

Until the convoy showed up at the rest stop just as we were having our lunch.

Wouldn’t you know it, every available parking space in the truck side of the lot was full, and one of the vehicles belonging to the convoy was taking up a couple of parking spaces on the cars only side of the rest area. And then came the oversized load which could not get past the vehicle from the convoy taking up a couple of parking spaces on the cars only side of the rest area.

My plan to exit, stage right, was impeded by the truck which couldn’t move because of the other vehicle parked in his way. It took about 5 minutes for the vehicle’s driver to realize that he was impeding traffic. We waited another five minutes after the lane was cleared before moving on.

Fortunately, that was the most frustrating moment for most of the rest of the trip up and back. There were moments spent with orange barrels (still in-season) and the usual idiots deciding that they preferred driving in the left lane – that is, until 100 yards from where they need to exit. But that’s another story.

I had a chat with Dave, a friend of mine from high school, over lunch at a small family cafe in Kentucky. He and I came to the conclusion that sometimes, getting off the Interstate and using federal or state highways is the way to go.

Even going long distances.

I’ll have to try it sometime.

On the other hand, you miss some of the more interesting roadside attractions, like Uranus Missouri.

It’s a tourist trap. Plain and simple. I’ve been there twice in the past four months because of the wordplay involved.

I’m a sucker for wordplay.

With slogans like, “The best fudge in the world comes from Uranus,” you can understand the number of jokes coming out of the place. Some people may be offended. I get it. There are others like me who appreciate the word play, offensive as the word play may seem. At any rate, the place is colorful and kitschy all at once. And the fudge, well, it’s passable. The fudge at Mackinac Island seemed better, but the last time I went there was many moons ago and another thousand miles out of our way for this trip.

At any rate, we’re back. The fudge is gone, and what we have are memories… something I will blog about in another day or two.

Be Seeing You!

Irony

Irony

As a follow up to yesterday’s post – Numbers – the little red car with the 188881 odometer reading apparently didn’t care to be written about on this page. It whined in protest nearly all the way to the dealership where we were picking up the car undergoing repairs. At one point, the better half suggested leaving the thing in a parking lot and taking an Uber to the dealership.

Long story short, the little red car was replaced by an even smaller gray car with considerably fewer miles on it. Looks like I might have to monetize my blog to help pay for it.

And that, my friends, is irony.

We are surrounded by irony.

Irony is the stuff of O’Henry stories – for that matter, many short stories make their mark because of irony. Same with some novels.

Sorting through some of my book collection so I can make a donation to a worthy cause (An AAUW Book Sale – proceeds to help sponsor a scholarship for a young woman to attend a women’s college in Missouri) I ran across The End of the Road by Tom Bodett. The book follows people in a small Alaska fishing town at “The end of the road” with a series of vignettes which end up tying together as the reader progresses throught the novel. My favorite scenario in the book has to do with a pair of couples, very good and close friends, who are just out of town enjoying time in a sauna, and then running out of the sauna naked as jaybirds in the snow to cool off before going back in to sweat it out in the sauna again.

One of the friends inadvertently locked the door of the sauna behind them. The sauna burned down and they had no recourse other than to strap on their skis and head to town before hypothermia set in. When they got to the road, they flagged down the first car they saw – driven by the prudish preacher’s wife – piling in when she stopped.

That was, indeed, irony.

Another notable piece of irony popped up in yesterday’s news. Texas’ Attorney General reportedly ran out his back door when a process server came to his front door to deliver a subpoena. The irony there is that the state’s lead attorney would avoid being served a subpoena, seeing as how he has had issued more than his share. Add to that the fact that the same state attorney general has been under indictment for most, if not all of the time he has been the attorney general. And he’s running for reelection.

The irony just oozes. And he’s not the only official with questionable backgrounds or motives. While officials from both parties can lay claim to having been involved in skullduggery, it seems as if most of those officials have a little (R) behind their names.

And from what I have observed over the years, politicians with the little (R) behind their names seem to lack the ability to understand the concept of irony… as do many of their followers.

The January 6th Commission hearings happen live tomorrow. The hearing room will be oozing with irony.

Be Seeing You!

(In another irony, it will now be noted that we have a red, or scarlet vehicle and a gray vehicle. Scarlet and Grey being Ohio State University’s school colors. I attended Ohio University. Green and white. And there was a time when we were first married, that our vehicles were green and white!)

Numbers

Numbers

I have an obsessive/compulsive relationships with numbers.

For instance, this morning, I was almost home from a doctor’s appointment when I saw the odometer on the better half’s car reading 188880. Less than two blocks from the house. I just HAD to take a turn through the neighborhood until the odometer read 188881. Seriously. Now it does. Now I’m happy. The next goal is 199991, followed by 200002. If we can quit playing whack-a-mole with the car’s cooling system, I’ll be as happy as a pig in mud!

As for my car, the odometer read 62622 when I dropped it off at the dealership for some repair work before taking a trip later this week. I’m paying more than enough for the work to be done, and am looking forward to seeing 62626 when I pick it up later today. If the dealership’s service deparment runs it over that magic number, I’ll certainly let them know.

Car odometers aren’t the only numbers I am obsessed with. Take the trip I’m about to take. I have several entertainments lined up.

One of them – “Are we there yet?” – has to do with mileage stickers on Interstate highways. I’ll see a sign saying “East Smorgaswitch – 103”, and then look for one of the mileage stickers posted along the highway. I will then calculate what the sticker will say when I arrive at East Smorgaswitch and for fun, will guesstimate the amount of time it will take me to get there at my current speed.

Oh, and I calculate what the odometer will read when I get there.

When I’m not calculating miles to go in my head, I’m listening to old radio shows on the satellite radio station, keeping up with the body count on the mystery shows.

And as a fan of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I know the ultimate answer to the ultimate question about life, the universe and everything is 42. Problem is that no one knows the question, so, 42 remains an interesting enigma.

I suppose my obsession with numbers may have started when I was on the radio. We dealt with minutes and seconds and had to make sure that each message was accurately timed. We also worked it so that we would “hit the post” at the top of the hour to merge into network news. Disc-Jockey jargon. Hope you’ll understand.

Anyway, as I am counting it, I will be taking the dog Filbrix to “Doggie Camp” in 48 hours, 7 minutes and 18 seconds from the time I complete this sentence. (18 is another favorite number which came up while I was in college) When I head to the gym later today, I plan to be on the treadmill for 44 minutes and 44 seconds and/or just go for 45 minutes even. I’ll only be 16 seconds short of that second goal, you see.

Maybe I’ll stretch it out to 45:54 just to make things even!

Be Seeing You!

That’s the Ticket!

That’s the Ticket!

Last night, the better half and I went to pick up a prescription at the local pharmacy. I should have known better than to arrive at around six with the hopes of getting back home in a short amount of time. During the wait, a couple of people came to spend time in the line for their purchase – a small, older woman and an overweight know-it-all who regaled the older woman with fantastic stories about how well connected he was.

Just overhearing the man (he was loud as well as obnoxious – couldn’t help but to overhear him), I came to think that the stories he told should be taken with a pillar of salt. He reminded me of the Jon Lovitz character, the pathological liar. Yeah! That’s the ticket!

I’ve run into the type most of my life. Worked with (or for) a few. Not that I haven’t told a tall tale or two in my life. We all have from time to time. It’s just that sometimes the stories get out of hand.

I recall a snowy day at one place I worked when the boss requested that they let him know when the snow was ten-inches deep so that he could go out and measure it. There was a peer who constantly bragged about what he did before we knew him. After graduation, we never heard from him again except to hear that he had joined the Navy. I’ve always surmised that his shipmates might have grown tired of his constant bragging, saw to it that he took a walk off deck and didn’t bother to report his going overboard until three days later. I doubt that it really happened, but, it make for a good story.

One fellow I really liked listening to was a co-worker from southern Ohio who came up with some fairly credible stories. He was a natural.

One day he started spinning a tale about a neighbor who somehow or another managed to bathe the cat. Instead of going the conventional route of using towels to dry off the creature, they decided to put the cat in the microwave with the predictable, unfortunate ending. No, it didn’t happen. It was one of those “Urban Legends” involving a “Friend of a Friend.” Still, the story was entertaining. Cruel, but entertaining.

Another story he told might be true, as it involves Paul Williams, the singer, actor, and songwriter who recently celebrated a birthday (his 82nd on September 19th). According to the story, Williams’ father worked at a government atomic plant in Piketon Ohio and lived in Portsmouth when the younger Mr. Williams graduated from high school. The story is somewhat credible, considering that construction of the plant required tons of people to build it. Skilled tradesmen were likely in strong demand with not enough local laborers to do the job. It might well be that the senior Mr. Williams would have traveled with his family to live in Portsmouth while working on the project. I’ll leave the story at that.

Perhaps Portsmouth High School has Mr. Williams in its hall of fame. Two of Portsmouth’s more famous sons are celebrated on murals on the floodwall (Branch Rickey and Roy Rogers). Portsmouth’s claim to fame as one of the first NFL teams is evident as Portsmouth Trojans stadium, built for the pro team still stands today… the oldest NFL stadium still standing. The Trojans, by the way, played for just a few seasons before being purchased and moved to Detroit – becoming the Detroit Lions.

Something I’ve maintained is that sometimes stretching the boundaries just a bit for the sake of a good story is acceptable. Just as long as the story isn’t too outlandish!

Happy Trails – er – Be Seeing You!

(Photo taken by the author at the Portsmouth Ohio floodwall. Thanks to Jim Patterson for his company on the day this was taken.)

Banned Books

Banned Books

The big news this past week has been about a book published by someone no one knows which proclaims the former President is no less than the Second Coming of the Christ. Friends of mine who find the premise utterly ridiculous, have suggested that the book be banned or burned.

This in spite of the fact that one of the bigger topics these days is the banning of books by certain right-wing advocacy groups. The question comes up in my mind about the proverbial “Slippery Slope.” Have we started down that slope, or what?

We all have something in the back of our minds which we really don’t want to know about. Things like how candy corn is made, or how the economy of some Pacific Islands is based on bird poop. We are wired in such a way that we are easily “curated” to think in ways we are told to think. Heaven forbid that we read something which may be foreign, yet challenging to the way we are told to think.

In a discussion I had this morning, I recalled the time when the Harry Potter books were first published. Cries of “Witchcraft!” or “Wizardry” were heard far and wide, mostly from people who probably hadn’t read the books. I read them out loud, to my children. I saw nothing wrong with the stories, nor did most of the other people in my circle at that time.

Classics, like Mark Twain’s “Huckleberry Finn” are on some contemporary banned books lists – probably because the black character in that story was humanized.

Books are not necessarily pretty. Just looking at my bookshelf now, I’m looking at a couple – “The Devil All The Time” and “The Heavenly Table” – both of which would be considered “Depraved” by some. My mother turned me on to author, Donald Ray Pollock, after she read his first book, “Knockemstiff.” I’ve met the man. Quiet, unassuming. But what he wrote was entertaining and filled with incidents which makes one wonder what’s really going on in the author’s mind. In contrast, my Pollyannish attempts to come up with a decent, saleable novel don’t hold a candle to what Mr. Pollock has already written.

I may have strayed a bit.

Part of my point is that there is plenty of literature out there which is offensive to one group or another. Just because I don’t like something, I don’t have the right to keep you from enjoying something I don’t care for. For that matter, there is plenty of other media out there which can be deemed offensive. Almost daily, I catch bits and pieces of people who don’t like Fox News, or who complain that the big three networks are biased and need to go away. Sometimes I agree with a particular opinion, other times I don’t.

Agree or disagree, it’s important that various viewpoints are out there. Maybe there are times when someone will cross a line and find that the viewpoint they once held in contempt really isn’t that bad after all.

Minds can change, if you let them.

Be Seeing You!