My Hometown USA

Roughing It Was Easier When I Was Firmer!

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Thu, 15 Oct 2026 22:10:33 +0000

Roughing It Was Easier When I Was Firmer

Camping.

Isn’t it all about getting back to nature, the intimacy with grass, trees and rivers while stripping down to the bare necessities, casting off our modern day conveniences?

I am the outdoorsy type. I can “rough it.”

Or at least, I used to when I was younger. And firmer.

Tent camping was a great way to have a cheap vacation with the kids. Back then, I had a younger back, a firm bottom and had considerably low expectations when it came to comfort.

Boys love it. The adventure, the exploration, the dirt, the bugs, the parental sleepover in one room.

This type of camping is referred to as primitive camping.

And believe me, there’s a reason they call it primitive.

Nowadays, I require a memory foam, Tempur-Pedic or something with Sleep Numbers.

Preferably numbers that guarantee I won’t wake up feeling like I’ve been beaten with a two-by-four.

At my delicate age, air conditioner and a fan are necessities, not luxuries. My body craves hot showers, hair dryers, and a real coffee pot.

And those middle-of-the-night bathroom visits? Well, let's just say that traveling half a block through the woods in my pajamas is no longer my idea of an adventure.

Indoor plumbing has become a nonnegotiable item.

Tent Camping can be….miserable.

Yet, as hard as it was to go through it was much easier than saying no to my boys.

So, I was a proud camping Mom.

Not all moms are cut out for that distinction. Some have more sense.

Thinking back, there are flashes of wonderful memories. Campfires crackling in the evening with marshmallows glowing on skewers. The best tasting eggs and bacon, somehow fresh air makes tastier. The remarkable sound of quiet. Star-filled skies so vivid away from civilization.

And those conversations that happen when a family is tucked together with nowhere else to go.

Of course there were other memories.

The time Hubby exclaimed happily, “It’s going to be in the forties at night, maybe thirties.”

He sounded like we were going to paradise!

I have camped in sweltering heat and bone-chilling cold.

Apparently, there is some unwritten camping rule that says the weather must always be one extreme or the other.

Would a pleasant seventy degrees be too much to ask?

As the boys grew, so did my requirements for better camping experiences.

We graduated to a Popup camper.

Now that was progress!

We took the old contraption to Cades Cove in the Smokies and I remember lying awake wondering about the engineering involved.

How do those tiny rods hold up our bed section that dangles over nothing.

Together, my hubby and I weigh well over 400 pounds. That seemed like an awful lot of faith to put in a couple of aluminum sticks!

And then there was the netting separating us from wildlife.

I would wake up in the middle of the night praying I wasn’t staring at a Bear when my eyes opened!

Crazy fear, nope cause in a previous tent camping experience at the same location we had a bear chomping on something inches from our heads, with only a canvas tent wall protecting us. We learned that from an eyewitness who just thought that was normal?

So, yeah, bears and a screen weren’t exactly comforting.

We traded up again, Popup for an A-Frame camper, easier to put up, easy to pull.

We tried to recreate home comforts.

Still, it had no bathroom.

That arrangement worked for awhile.

Until I decided that if I was going to continue communing with nature, nature needed to provide me with a toilet.

Somewhere along the way, camping became less about escaping civilization and more about dragging as much civilization into the woods as possible.

Camping has become high tech and gadgetry. Preparation for a trip includes computer research, online reservations and Google map visual tours and GPS navigation to route us to our destination.

By the time the SUV is loaded, the bike rack is filled, the rooftop cargo carrier is packed and the camper du jour is hitched to the rear, we look less like a family going camping and more like a traveling sporting goods store.

And that's before we get to the technology.

We packed for the ride: phones, iPod, IPADS, DVD players, and DS video games to keep the back seat occupied, guaranteeing a few less, “Are we there yet” whines.

Some campsites are devoid of any connections to cellphone towers or Wi-Fi!

You become completely out of touch with the world for awhile, no social media status to check, no pinning, no posting, no breaking news, noTik Toks, no influencers just fresh air, biking and hiking and amazing views.

That is why people camp.

Imagine that. Going somewhere beautiful and actually looking at it.

Of course, getting away from civilization isn't nearly as cheap as it used to be.

When our boys were young, camping was the affordable family vacation.

Nowadays, between campground fees, fuel, equipment and recreational toys, you can spend a small fortune to sleep somewhere that doesn't even have a bathroom.

Pulling a camper with gas prices makes it even more expensive.

There is something slightly ridiculous about spending hundreds of dollars on fuel just to go sit in the woods.

Another option, and yes we tried it is Cabin Camping.

Now, don't picture some cozy mountain retreat with a stone fireplace and a rocking chair on the porch.

I'm talking about a little wooden structure with bed frames, thin mattresses and not much else.

No bathroom.

You still have to put shoes on, tromp through woods several yards away and hope Michael Myers or Jason aren’t hiding in the shower stalls when you get there.

Usually, the only scary villains are spiders.

Fancy pots and pans. Folding chairs with cup holders. Telescoping roasting sticks for marshmallows. Luxurious sleeping bags. Air mattresses that cost more than the mattress I slept on during my first years of marriage.

And the bicycles!

Our bikes became fancier, the bike carriers more complicated and the helmets more expensive.

And as I got older, I finally gave in to an e-bike.

Yes, I once declared that using an electric bicycle was cheating.

Well, apparently, I'm a cheater.

A happy one.

And don't even get me started on hiking gear.

My hiking shoes are among the most expensive shoes I own.

I once paid eighteen dollars for a pair of hiking socks.

By the way, “Ultra lite” is another phrase for ‘cost more.’

Apparently, the less something weighs, the more money you have to hand over.

Some folks pay thousands of dollars to outfit their hiking or camping lifestyles.

So, after all those years of camping, all the equipment, all the uncomfortable nights, all the questionable weather and all those midnight trips to the bathhouse, I have to ask myself:

Was it worth it?

Did we accomplish what we set out to do?

If the objective was getting back to nature, absolutely.

I've stood at the base of magnificent waterfalls and felt the cool spray against my face.

I've watched elk and listened to their haunting bugling as they strutted around like they owned the mountains.

I've seen bears, eight-point bucks, wild turkeys and foxes wandering through campgrounds as if we were the visitors.

Which, of course, we were.

I've watched the sun disappear behind mountain ridges and sat beneath skies filled with more stars than I ever knew existed.

And compared with one of our Walt Disney World vacations, we saved thousands of dollars.

Even after buying those eighteen-dollar socks.

But if the real objective was to spend quality time with our boys, to escape the daily routine and to make memories that would last long after the tent was packed away, then I would say we accomplished something far more important.

Because here's what I realize now.

The boys didn't care whether we slept in a tent, a pop-up camper or something with an actual bathroom.

They didn't care how much the equipment cost or whether we had the latest camping gadgets.

They wanted an adventure.

And they wanted us along for it.

Because the best thing we ever packed for those camping trips wasn't in the camper. It was the time we made for each other.

For a few days, we were away from work, chores, television and all the distractions that seem so important until we finally turn them off.

We thought we were taking our boys into the great outdoors. What we were really doing was giving them something they could carry through life: memories of a family that made time to be together. And that's something no amount of money can buy.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Fri, 09 Oct 2026 21:40:13 +0000

Hurricanes, Tornadoes, Floods or Earthquakes, oh My!

The warnings! The predictions! The fearmongering! The constant reminder that we’d better get ready cause Weather is out to get us!

I heard the phrase thrown out, “Godzilla El Nino!”

Good grief. Now the weather has a monster title!

Hasn’t weather always had its moments.

Experts are all over the place, explaining, theorizing, predicting and occasionally getting it right. I mean, my grandmother’s aching joints predicted rain better than some million-dollar weather computers!

And while we are discussing scientific advancements, why are we still relying on a rodent to predict early spring?

But not to worry, there is always bad weather with 24-hour news cycles.

What’s the disaster de jour? Earthquakes popping up all over the map! European Tornadoes! And indescribable floods of biblical proportions! And with our phones glued to our hands we can watch every terrifying minute live from the comfort of our recliners.

What scary headlines!

But of course, what would news be if it wasn’t another disaster.

What about having a paper headline every morning that read:

The Sun Came Up Again

Flowers Blooming Across America

Local Teens Volunteer at Nursing Homes

Nobody Shot Last Night

Let’s face it, if you did wake up reading those headlines, you would have to check your pulse! Am I reading the Heavenly Times or the Paradise Item?

Just to emphasize, there are no safe spots on the map.

As a Gulf Coast Mississippian, who has survived some pretty serious hurricanes before moving to Huntsville Alabama, I apparently traded one weather villain for another.

Darth Vader or Voldemort? Does it matter both were scary!

I have experience…or what they call today receipts!

In 1969, Hurricane Camille was a monster, CAT 5 that pounded us, the walls and ceiling actually breathed in and out, a roar so loud with thumps of objects hitting our house kept us on edge until dawn. The 28 days of no electricity, the deceased corpses of all manner of animals littering our yard were just an introduction of the named storms.

At least hurricanes have the decency to announce their season.

Like football, they have a schedule. You can mark your calendar to stock up your pantry, buy plywood, and don’t plan any cruises.

Out door events like weddings on the Gulf Coast, well, you better hanve Plan B, C and possibly an Ark

Living close to the coastline meant you have a fascination of watching tropical updates. Its weather paranoia, some call it being weather aware.

The minute something started churning in the Atlantic or Caribbean, I become an amateur meteorologist. I study ever cloud, every satellite image and every spaghetti model.

I could get charts, graphs, predictions, computer estimations, and psychic predictions all about hurricanes. If a leaf blew across the yard there was someone to analyze it for me.

Even if the expert hurricane meteorologist predicted a particular hurricane was going to Timbuktu …I would watch suspiciously. I know those rascals can U-turn.

Paranoid? Of course. Hurricanes are unpredictable and very frustrating and downright rude!

A least they have names.

I like that, so I feel like it gives me somebody to blame.

Katrina, Camille, Ivan strike fear in my heart, but what about Bob?

How can I take a storm named Bonnie seriously? Like she might bring me casserole!

But Bertha sounds like she means business.

And now Isai-sa-sa-sa-sas…or whatever it’s called! No one can pronounce or spell!

I gave a child Isaiah as a middle name, you think its easy to spell, but after 25 years, I still have to stop and think.

Tornadoes don’t get friendly little names but location names.

The Great Natchez Tornado, the Tri-State Tornado of 1925, the Jopling Tornado.

These windstorms have outbreaks, not seasons. They just show up!

No calendar can contain the deadly tornado. They strike anytime they feel like it.

Fast, furious and nameless!

Thankfully, I get a heads up from the weather guy that bad weather will be here on Thursday night around midnight. That kind of notification, I can pencil in my “to do” list.

Charge phone. Find flashlight. Find batteries for flashlight. Put on shoes. Locate dog. Pray.

And wait for the sirens!

At first, the sound of sirens was exciting! Then I remembered the movie Twister!

Suddenly, the possibility of cows flying past my window wasn’t quite so entertaining.

And then came April 27, 2011.

That historic day cured my fascination of tornadoes.

It was the worse outbreak in Alabama history.

Sirens interrupting sirens, warnings interrupting warnings and hundreds of tornadoes on the ground all around me.

Not little garden variety twisters either, we are talking the big guns…EF-4 and EF-5….oh my!

I learned quickly that tornadoes are not nearly as accommodating as hurricanes.

With a hurricane, school was out, work was cancelled, family and friends gathered together, sometimes for days, waiting the storm out.

We shared meals, supplies, and watched and waited. It was fun. Generally, there was nothing.

Tornadoes don’t allow time for family reunions.

Would earthquakes be better?

California? Japan?

Nope. I don’t particularly care for the ground moving beneath my feet without warning. I fall enough with it still.

Then, add a giant tsunami wave to the mix…good grief, insult to injury!

Where can we move to hide from all these murdering weathering events?

The moon?

My luck, a meteor shower would hit!

Truth is, there are no safe places.

A giant tree fell in our back yard.

No storm. No wind. No warning. Just Boom!

A tree can fall at any time even if you are taking a stroll through the forest on a beautiful, spring day.

A reminder that you can take every precaution, watch every weather report and still have absolutely no control over what tomorrow brings.

We want predictions. We want guarantees. We want somebody to tell us exactly what's coming and how to avoid it.

But life doesn't work that way.

I've survived hurricanes that changed the landscape of my hometown, tornadoes that devastated communities around me, and personal storms that no meteorologist could have predicted.

And through it all, I've learned that preparation is wise, but worry doesn't change the forecast.

Jesus reminded us in Matthew 6:34 not to be anxious about tomorrow, because tomorrow will have troubles of its own.

That doesn't mean we ignore the warnings, throw away our flashlights or refuse to take shelter.

It means we do what we can, trust God with what we cannot, and remember that none of us was promised another sunrise.

So, stock your emergency supplies. Charge your phone. Keep your shoes handy. Hug your family. Say your prayers.

And when the sun comes up tomorrow, maybe we ought to make that the biggest headline of the day.

THE SUN CAME UP AGAIN!

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Thu, 08 Oct 2026 02:16:45 +0000

Signs Along the Way

Signs, signs, everywhere a sign…

Blocking out the scenery and breaking my mind!

There are all kinds of signs along the pathways of life. Signs to direct us, inform us, warn us, tempt us—and occasionally confuse the daylights out of us.

You can always tell when political season has arrived because suddenly every patch of grass along the highway sprouts a candidate.

Those little signs start littering the roads, bombarding us with names of people running for offices we sometimes didn't even know existed.

We pass our candidate and think, Yep, that's my guy.

Then we pass his opponent and perhaps entertain the fleeting thought that it wouldn't be terrible if a strong gust of wind carried that particular sign into the next county.

You know you've thought about it.

But don't give in to the Dark Side.

Apparently, there are people who actually go around plucking up their opponent's signs.

The people I really feel sorry for during political season are those trying to sell a house—and their Realtors.

During normal times, a FOR SALE sign catches your eye.

During election season?

Just another sign.

Keep driving.

These signs play games with our minds. Or maybe just mine. It is like a political spam on my drive home.

Years ago, while traveling back home over Memorial Day weekend, I experienced what I can only describe as sign intervention.

I had poison ivy.

Thank you for your sympathy.

After several hours of driving, I hit Birmingham traffic during a rain shower when my left forearm began itching.

Not just itching.

Poison ivy itching.

If you know, you know.

The first scratch leads you down a dark and dangerous path known as Scratchmania. Give in once and you are doomed.

I tried to ignore it.

I was driving in the rain, in Birmingham traffic, with my entire family in the vehicle—including the family dog. I was Super Mom. I was strong. I would not surrender to an itch.

And then I saw The Sign.

There, towering over the interstate on a huge billboard, were the words:

HAVE AN ITCH? SCRATCH IT!

Well.

I scratched it.

The sign made me do it.

Turns out it was an advertisement for the Tunica casinos and had absolutely nothing to do with helping poison ivy sufferers.

But the damage was done.

The sign won.

Poison ivy won.

But nobody died.

So there's that.

Of course, signs don't always lead us in the right direction.

Sometimes you're trying to lose five pounds and suddenly every billboard between Huntsville and Mississippi features a cheeseburger the size of your steering wheel, dripping with cheese and accompanied by perfectly golden fries.

Or worse.

You see those beautiful words glowing in red:

HOT NOW.

Krispy Kreme doesn't even need a billboard.

That's not a sign.

That's a tractor beam.

And I am apparently defenseless against it.

But a sign can tempt you without being responsible for what you do next. At some point, you've got to admit that the sign didn't make you eat three doughnuts.

You did that all by yourself.

On that same road trip, I received another lesson in the importance of signs.

The interstate narrowed and traffic began merging. A woman beside me was so busy talking on her phone that she waited until the last possible second to whip her car into my lane.

She nearly took out my entire family.

And right after she did it, a giant electronic highway sign flashed:

HANG UP AND DRIVE!

Perfect timing.

I wanted to point upward and yell, "THAT MEANS YOU!"

I've often thought cars should come equipped with electronic message boards on the roof so drivers could communicate with one another.

Nothing profane, of course.

Just polite Southern passive-aggressive messages.

GOOD JOB MERGING!

BLESS YOUR HEART!

THAT BLINKER CAME WITH THE CAR!

And perhaps the ever-useful:

YOU ALMOST KILLED US, BUT HAVE A NICE DAY!

I'm fairly certain we'd all be arrested within a week.

Not every sign in life comes in neon letters or stands beside the interstate.

Some are quieter.

There are signs that a relationship isn't what it should be.

Signs that your children may be struggling with something bigger than you realized.

Signs that maybe it's time to make a change.

And then there are the good ones.

The first golden leaves telling you fall is coming.

A cool breeze after a brutally hot Southern summer.

The face of someone you love lighting up when you walk through the door.

A prayer answered in a way you didn't expect.

Sometimes we see the signs clearly.

Sometimes we ignore them.

And sometimes God probably has to put up the spiritual equivalent of a flashing billboard before we finally say,

"Ohhhh. You meant me."

Years ago, comedian Bill Engvall made a career out of the phrase, "Here's your sign."

His joke was that people who asked ridiculously obvious questions should probably be issued a sign announcing their condition to the rest of us.

Like pulling into a service station with a flat tire and someone asking, "Got a flat?"

"Nope. The other three just swelled up."

Here's your sign.

I could probably hand out a few of those myself.

Of course, somebody might hand one right back to me.

And they'd probably have evidence.

The older I get, though, the more I realize that life really is full of signs.

Some warn us.

Some tempt us.

Some make us laugh.

Some tell us we're headed in the wrong direction.

And some point us toward exactly where we need to go.

You just have to be paying attention.

Otherwise, you might miss your turn.

As I reflect on my life, I can see where I missed my turns, signs along the journey of my life that I completely missed. Doors closing that I thought were disasters, or detours I did not take. Change that I fought against and then only miles later on that road, I realized some of those were not roadblocks but directions.

I am thankful for some of those road closed signs and sad that I skipped past a few of them. Lessons we all learn.

These became obvious only after I passed them. God was present through all the missteps.

And after all the billboards, political signs, highway warnings and flashing advertisements I've seen over the years, one of my favorites is still one of the simplest.

You've probably seen it yourself.

The football sails through the goalposts. The television camera follows it.

And somewhere in the crowd, someone holds up a little sign:

JOHN 3:16

No campaign slogan.

No advertisement.

No flashing lights.

Just three little numbers and a colon pointing anyone curious enough to look toward the most important message of all:

"For God so loved the world…"

Now...

There’s your sign.

Somewhere Between Mississippi and the Shire

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Wed, 07 Oct 2026 21:56:07 +0000

Somewhere between Mississippi and the Shire

If I could visualize an earthly heaven, it might be like the Shire from Lord of the Rings. But, to do that, I would have to move to New Zealand.

And those people talk funny over there.

Or another paradise would be to live in a mountain cabin in a Thomas Kinkade setting like his paintings.

Born in South Mississippi and presently a Huntsville, Alabama resident, I dream of living in a perfect heaven of my own imagination. I guess that is somewhere between Mississippi and the Shire!

When I visualize our Heaven on Earth, these are the choice spots I am drawn to.

But, back in my daily reality, my address has changed, but my idea of home keeps getting simpler.

For my six decades plus on this Earth, I have not settled too far away from the start spot.

The Shire is a long way off, and any paradise of mine needs a good porch. A Thomas Kinkade cabin looks amazing, but I also need a Walmart nearby.

Yes, apparently I have grown accustomed to convenience.

I grew up out in the county, in a modest wood-frame house in South Mississippi. That is what molded me into who I am. And North Alabama will be where I finish out that role.

Nothing fancy in my upbringing, but a skinny tomboy riding a school bus for 12 years and living in hot, humid heat with no air conditioning. I played with Barbie Dolls and Tonka trucks and could tackle better than any boy in 6^th grade, but the coach would not let me play football.

Apparently, Girls can’t play Boys football!

The Piney woods of Mississippi didn’t offer me mountain vistas or rocks.

It did however offer love bugs twice a year and believe me, no one LOVEs them.

One thing is for sure, lovebugs, mosquitos and fire ants will not be in my Heavenly Shire or Kinkade dreamland Heaven.

So as a country girl that has landed in the city, some things are very much the same and some not so much.

I gave up hurricanes for tornadoes. I gave up amazing seafood for good BBQ.

They have wine clubs here.

Back home, we talked about if tomatoes were ripe. Here they discuss whether the wine has notes of leather and tobacco. If my drink tastes like Daddy’s work boots, I will pass.

They even have hockey here. I understand football. Hockey looks like someone put a family disagreement on ice and handed everyone a stick.

Another city thang is traffic. On Caesar Road, getting stuck in traffic meant you got behind someone’s tractor or Mr. Ode, a very old man driving an ancient green truck.

Here in the city lights, no one seems to be a native! They all moved from some other place.

It’s hard to rake up kin here.

But, no worry, I found some distant relatives.

They test rockets in Huntsville, but so did we in Mississippi…I can remember the earth moving and rumbling from the Saturn tests, or the shuttle engines.

Apparently, wherever I settle, somebody nearby is testing something that shakes the house!

Some of those rumblings come from weaponry from the arsenal blowing up something. It is like a war broke out down the road and I should be concerned.

At home, that was just my rednecks in the woods squirrel hunting.

I miss my hometown. I miss my friends and family. I do not miss trying to sleep in August with my legs stuck together.

I do not miss weeks without electricity after a major hurricane.

I didn’t have a pool but I had Boley Creek for swimming. I was not afraid of alligators back then, but now, my opinion has changed.

I miss the simpler way of life.

But, my city view has a porch, a backyard full of deer and lots and lots of rocks! The mountain rises and gives me a fortress of greenery and trees and country.

I think this city living is very close to country living and with a Publix a short walk away!

So, its close enough. It is my tiny heaven on earth.

Give me a porch, a pretty view, and people I love close by. Put Walmart about ten minutes down the road, and I believe we can cancel the move to New Zealand.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Wed, 23 Sep 2026 15:24:04 +0000

The National Enquirer Created Influencers

Some days, it feels like anybody with a phone and a confident tone can call themselves a journalist.

I grew up in the 70s when supermarket tabloid headlines smacked you in the face at the checkout line of Winn-Dixie. I was a little kid, and even I knew something was off when Elvis turned up alive every other week. The man couldn’t even rest in peace without somebody spotting him on an island in the Pacific.

Remember these actual tabloid headlines?

“I Had Bigfoot’s Baby!”

That one isn't as crazy now due to the fact my husband is 6'5" and has the largest head I’ve ever seen, so my sympathies to that woman.

“Bat Child Escapes!”

As for me, Bat child needs to go! I cringe near bats!!

“Hillary Clinton Adopts Alien Baby”

So, maybe? Aliens are now true and Government has been hiding it...so I believe.

“Painting of Elvis Weeps Real Tears”

If its in South Mississippi, that's just condensation from the humidity!

“Gas-Passing Dinosaurs Blew Themselves Into Extinction!”

They must had some beans back in those days! Whew! Poor Mrs. T-Rex!

“A Space Alien Ate My Dog!”

Well in those days it was "Space" aliens rumor now its the other kind of alien...yes I went there!

“I Strip for God”

If I strip for God the offering plate would be empty.

So many headlines! Decades of pages to fill and apparently no shortage of imagination.

At the time, we could laugh, put the paper back on the rack, (not financially supporting it) pay for our groceries, and go home. But somewhere along the way, the checkout line moved onto our phones. Now every breaking story comes with an internet sleuth, a dramatic pause, and somebody promising to reveal what they don’t want you to know after a word from their sponsor. Like and subscribe!

That gets less funny when real people are hurting.

Online speculation around the Clancy trial, Nolan Wells' death, and Charlie Kirk’s murder shows how quickly people can turn tragedy into content. The rest of us ought to know the difference between asking a fair question and announcing that our hunch is the truth.

The content creates new victims. Threats are made to people who are completely innocent except for the headline click bait.

But, I thought about if I were a writer for these over the top tabloids, I have a few completely made-up tabloid scoops of my own:

“Aliens Land in Alabama—Ask Where They Can Get a Good Biscuit!”

“Elvis Spotted at the Self-Checkout!”

“Bat Boy Gets a Podcast!”

“Woman Asks AI to Organize Her Life—It Quits and Moves to the Beach!”

“Church Potluck Erupts in Scandal—Two Women Claim Same Deviled-Egg Platter!”

“Man Opens Tupperware Cabinet—Rescue Crews Still Searching for Him!”

Of course all these headlines are true, why? Cause I said so. Who needs proof/facts/etc.?

Doing a little research, here are some of the crazy headlines from Influencer media circling the internet globe, poisoning the minds of gullible sheep:

“Usher was replaced by a clone at a concert” Viewers spotted differences in concert clips and spun them into a body double theory.

This one is popular....“The moon landing was faked.” Why? Because TikTok said so.

“Guy Fieri Never Swallows the Food” A streamer studied clips and argued that the camera always cuts away first.

So, someone took hours of their life to study whether a man swallowed food. Nothing wrong with that person’s sanity!

“The Internet Died in 2016 – and Now We’re Mostly Talking to Bots!” The dead internet theory keeps circulating TikTok.

“An Influencer’s Baby is the Queen Reincarnated!” When Trisha Paytas, an American media personality, went into labor around the time Queen Elizabeth II died, social media turned the timing into a reincarnation theory.

Have we come too far. Yes. Was it harmless decades ago when this stuff started plaquing our attention? Yes. The percentage of folks who actually believed it was well below average. I can count my grandmother, she believed it and she did think Elvis was on an island somewhere. But she also thought King James himself wrote the Bible. But she was a precious soul.

It was harmless back then, standing in line to learn Elvis was alive and Congress was full of space aliens. Now anybody with a ring light, a weak platform can tell us the same sort of thing while we’re sitting in our cars/porch or office. At least the tabloids waited until we needed milk to get our attention.

Going forward, I will try to ignore the noise of Make Believe Headlines, hold on to my sense of humor, and instead of going in the stores I will do the pick up in the parking lot.

But I will keep an eye out for Elvis, Aliens, and Bigfoot just in case. I’m getting a picture.

The historic headlines and the modern claims above are documented as things published or circulated—not as true stories.

Grandma’s Catalog

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Wed, 16 Sep 2026 19:51:30 +0000

Grandma’s Catalog: Amazon Before Algorithms

Previously printed in 2013; updated for republication

First, before we dive into this older column, does anyone even get catalogs anymore?

Do our children even know what catalogs are? Printed Amazon pages?

So much of my younger self looked forward to the arrival of the JCPenney and Sears catalogs. I never stopped to think about how hard those things must have been on the mail carrier. I can’t imagine how he handled phone-book deliveries!

That’s another thing our young’uns don’t know anything about.

But there was one particular kind of catalog I used to receive randomly: the catalog geared toward old people. Maybe it is suitable for me now, but 20 or 30 years ago, I was a tad bit offended.

I called it Grandma’s Catalog.

The merchandise displayed page after page consisted mainly of things an elderly person might purchase—or already own—like girdles, hearing aids and liniments.

Catalogs such as Harriet Carter, Walter Drake and Miles Kimball. Who were these people?

The one I used for the original column was Dr. Leonard’s, a healthcare catalog. The Doc’s stuff can now be found online. I looked and found an inviting pair of foldable reading glasses—but I also saw, and cannot unsee, a product called the toilet-tissue aid!

Do I dare ask?

Is this my future? Am I sliding down the other side of the hill?

Grandma’s catalog via snail mail has become Grandma’s Amazon via algorithms.

Those glossy catalogs always specialized in undergarments, especially body-shaping girdles designed to squeeze in what doughnuts had spread out. They carried serious full-figure bras that fastened with dozens of reinforced hooks. One eye-catching box announced that the bras came in sizes up to 56DDD—or even X.

They go up to X?

That’s not a bra. That’s structural engineering.

At first glance, many of the items appeared to be about comfort, shoes that weren’t especially fashionable but could probably carry you a few extra miles. A fleece cover for your recliner could be useful, too.

Then there were the less comfortable items, such as the urine-stain remover that promised to eliminate both new and old stains from almost any surface.

Let’s assume it was for pets.

The catalog was also where you could find electronics that had disappeared from regular stores, including a record player that played your favorite 33⅓, 45 and 78 RPM records—or “albums,” as we called them. At least those made a comeback!

Grandma’s Catalog also offered miracle products for anyone worried about aging. One advertised an instant facelift that could make you look years younger in minutes—no surgery, injections or painful procedures required.

Is it really a good idea to sell plastic surgery in a jar from a catalog?

Back then, I laughed. Now I’m wondering whether they offer free shipping.

On page 22, another ad claimed you could replace missing hair in 30 seconds simply by shaking tiny fibers over your thinning spots. On the very same page was a pill promising to clean out your colon. Across from that, you could find surgical-steel scissors specially designed to cut the toughest toenails.

I still can’t get those visuals out of my head.

Another page revealed toilet-seat risers for those days when rising from the throne is a skill you have misplaced. No worries—this handy item keeps you two inches higher and away from the fray.

The Wart, Mole and Liver Spot Cream might attract younger buyers if they marketed it differently—perhaps by not mentioning warts, moles or liver spots in the name.

Near the end of the catalog was an “adult” section—and I mean adult. Triple-X adult.

While checking the website for research, I saw tools listed in that same category, so now my algorithms are completely messed up. That Dr. Leonard must be popular with the ‘ladies’ and by ladies I mean grannies!

“For mature audiences” had been the theme throughout the publication, but these products promised to enhance, enlarge and perform other services I cannot mention in polite conversation.

Yes, those items were in Grandma’s Catalog. Who knew what Grannies were up to!

The adult section even advertised videos that could instruct—or perhaps remind—older folks about certain intimate activities. But never fear turn one page and you were right back to redemption with an easy-to-read, large-print King James Bible. As my grandmother believed, that King James wrote the Bible and these new fangled ones are just wrong.

Then you turned the page again and found a nude-aerobics video.

That catalog could take you from prayer meeting to needing a prayer meeting in three-page turn.

Senior citizens certainly had plenty of helpful aids: attachments for canes so they could walk through snow and ice, denture-repair kits, incontinence systems and a nice basket for the walker.

These were things I never knew existed, all brought conveniently to your doorstep. Today, Grandpa just needs to know how to work a computer so he can order Grandma one of those dandy “tools” for the unmentionables.

Since the catalogs had so many solutions for senior citizens, I decided they needed a few products for the problems younger folks face:

The Porcelain Peacekeeper™: A hydraulic toilet-seat system that automatically lowers the seat whenever it has been left up by the special man—or sons—in your life. Saving marriages one toilet seat at a time!

The Laundry-Retrieval Claw™: Picks up teenagers’ clothing that they apparently cannot see with the naked eye.

The Bunions & Bows Collection™: Dr. Scholl’s-level padding and support disguised as a cute shoe with a heel. Because we want comfort—but not at the price of looking comfortable.

The Teenager Ejector Bed™: Rises automatically after the fourth ignored alarm and gently deposits the child onto the floor.

The Teen Taser—Zero Volts Edition™: It doesn’t actually shock them, but they don’t have to know that. A Hubby Edition is also available, because four hits on the snooze button are three too many.

There was a time when all those catalog products seemed ridiculous and far out of reach to my young, cool self. But now my body keeps asking like a child in the back seat:

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?”

Some days, I’m not sure.

But when it comes to a few of those products—I am there.

At least I’m not a grandma…yet!

A Deer Killed My First Husband...So I Married a Deer Hunter

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Sat, 12 Sep 2026 22:43:19 +0000

A Deer Killed My Husband

A little shocking, I know. But true story.

I love deer.

My husband hunts deer.

And my first husband was killed by one.

If my adult life has had some strange recurring theme, apparently it’s deer.

For those who don’t know my story, in 1998 my first husband was involved in a tragic accident with an eight-point buck. He died instantly, leaving me with our two precious boys.

You might think after something like that I would never want to see another deer again.

Instead, I became the lady constantly posting pictures and videos of them. I even host a page on Facebook, Tracy's Backyardigans.

I’m blessed to live where my backyard is regularly visited by does, bucks and the occasional fawn. Sometimes there are so many out there it looks like somebody forgot to tell them this is my property and not a wildlife preserve.

When I remarried, having a husband who killed deer rather than being killed by them wasn’t exactly on my list of desired characteristics.

But I suppose it was an added bonus.

When we settled into our first home, my new husband proudly displayed a mounted eight-point buck.

Yes, more than one person asked me:

“Is that the deer?”

Now THAT would have been a great ideal!

No. It wasn’t.

Unfortunately, the story of the actual deer carcass gets even stranger.

Apparently, someone had been feeding that killer buck near Highway 43 North outside Picayune, Mississippi. After the accident, according to the rather large Mississippi Highway Patrolman at the scene, an argument broke out because the people who had been feeding the deer wanted to take possession of it.

My husband—a good man, a father and a volunteer firefighter—was lying there dead, and people were arguing over the buck.

The emergency responders were appalled and refused to let them take it.

Apparently, the argument became heated enough that the patrolman threatened to arrest their “bottoms.”

His actual vocabulary was a little more colorful.

So yes, in the middle of one of the worst nights of my life, there was also an argument over a dead deer.

Life can be painfully strange.

And while my story may sound unusual, deer and other wildlife cause a staggering number of accidents. Federal estimates put wildlife-vehicle collisions at more than one million every year in the United States, resulting in roughly 26,000 injuries, 200 deaths and more than $10 billion in economic costs annually.

More recent insurance data estimates that deer alone were involved in more than 1.1 million animal-collision claims in a single year.

Suddenly, my strange story doesn’t seem quite so rare.

There was no dollar amount that could measure what that accident cost our family.

Maybe that’s partly why I joke that my husband of 27 years is doing his civic duty by thinning the herd.

Granted, the deer aren’t actually out there gunning for us.

They’re beautiful, majestic creatures simply trying to get from one side of the road to the other.

They’re just remarkably bad at checking for traffic.

Oddly enough, deer weren’t finished weaving themselves through my life.

My first husband and I had very close friends, Cindi and Kent. Several years after my husband died, Kent was traveling on another dark Mississippi road one night.

He didn’t hit a deer.

He hit a horse.

I’m pretty sure when Cindi eventually remarried, she did not specifically look for a horse hunter.

But like me, she did remarry.

And, to borrow from Titanic, our hearts went on.

Back to the deer.

Our backyard here in south Huntsville has no shortage of them. We’ve counted as many as 30 at one time. Our yard rises into the mountain behind us, making it a little deer paradise.

And they do not remind me of bad memories, I find them peaceful.

Whether I’m sitting on the porch or in my backyard swing, watching them wander through the woods fills me with gratitude.

For several years, we even had a regular visitor: an eleven-point buck we named Beechnut.

Beechnut had something unusual going on with his mouth. His tongue sort of hung sideways when he ate, which made for some pretty entertaining YouTube videos.

He became incredibly comfortable around us. He would come close enough to eat from our hands, and he was often waiting in the front yard when I got home from work.

One day, I discovered Beechnut didn’t mind if I touched his nose.

So naturally, I decided to touch one of his enormous antlers.

Beechnut minded.

Very much.

He jerked around, gave me what I can only describe as an indignant look, and marched angrily up the mountainside.

My husband witnessed the whole thing.

In his I-know-everything-there-is-to-know-about-deer voice, he yelled:

“YOU NEVER TOUCH A MAN’S HORN!”

Then he laughed at me.

Fine.

Lesson learned.

I did not touch the man’s horn again.

My strangely deer-themed life also taught me that deer can be dangerous somewhere besides the highway. They have been known to attack.

Rut season arrived.

My deer-hunter husband issued instructions: no more hand-feeding Beechnut. No touching him. No getting close.

Apparently, Beechnut had other things on his mind.

But then he showed up with those big, pitiful eyes.

Just one more little snack wouldn’t hurt, right?

So I fed him.

Thankfully, nothing happened.

When my husband found out, however, I received another piece of deer wisdom:

“Tracy, he will either want to date you or hate you. And you don’t want either one of those to happen!”

Message received.

This time, permanently.

Every year after rut and hunting season, Beechnut would eventually return. He’d be thinner, worn out and usually looking like he’d had a very rough time with the ladies and the other gentlemen.

Then one year, he didn’t come back.

I still wonder what happened to him.

I prefer to believe Beechnut is somewhere in deer heaven, munching pumpkins and still telling everybody about the crazy woman who touched his horn.

Today, I can look out my window and see deer wandering through my backyard.

Then I can turn around, look at my living room wall, and see several of my husband’s trophy bucks staring back at me.

I mostly ignore those.

I prefer the live ones begging for snacks.

Life is strange.

Sometimes the very thing connected to one of the darkest chapters of your life can somehow become part of the beauty in later chapters.

I lost someone I loved because of a deer on a dark Mississippi highway. I would never pretend there was anything good about that night or the loss that followed.

But tragedy didn’t get to make me afraid of every deer for the rest of my life.

Years later, God has given me a mountain behind my home, a porch to sit on, a husband I love, and deer wandering peacefully through my backyard.

That feels a little like grace to me.

So when you’re driving on those dark winter roads—especially when the bucks are chasing the girls and paying absolutely no attention to your headlights—slow down and watch carefully.

As for me?

I am a deer lover.

And I am a deer-hunter lover.

Apparently, there’s room in my life for both.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Sun, 06 Sep 2026 01:02:39 +0000

Justice, Mercy and the Christian Woman’s Response

This comes from my heart as someone who has no direct connection to Lindsay Clancy, her family, her trial or its non-verdict.

I keep coming back to this:

As Christians, and particularly as Christian women, we do not have to choose between justice and compassion. Both should be our path.

We have reached a toxic empathy state.

Three precious children lost their lives.

That truth should never get swallowed up by arguments, theories, social-media sleuths and too much speculation.

Those children matter.

Justice for their deaths matters.

I also don’t think we should casually pronounce judgment on the mind and soul of a woman who was clearly broken and struggling with serious mental-health issues before this tragedy ever happened.

If Lindsay Clancy knowingly and deliberately murdered her children while understanding exactly what she was doing, then she deserves punishment.

Personally, I have a difficult time getting past the evidence of premeditated planning.

The timing, the errands and the circumstances surrounding the deaths make me believe there should be legal accountability for what happened to those children.

Mental illness may explain much. It may affect the degree of responsibility the law assigns.

But explanation and accountability are not necessarily opposites.

Compassion is not the same thing as excusing evil.

And justice does not require us to abandon mercy.

God knows.

Those may be the two most important words in this entire case.

God knows what happened in that house.

God knows Lindsay’s mind.

He knows what was illness, what was choice, what was understood and what wasn’t.

He knows every fact. And, she will have to face His judgement.

We, the public looking in as spectators, do not know. We guess...we push our agendas...we take our life experiences and try to compare them...but we do not know.

No matter how many TikToks we watch, podcasts we listen to or Facebook threads we read, we cannot become judge, jury and forensic psychiatrist from our recliners.

Yet the anger surrounding this case is palpable.

And some of the responses that have disappointed me the most have come from Christian women.

Disagree with someone’s assessment of the case and apparently some have decided that cruelty is a spiritual gift.

And that comes from both sides.

“She was completely innocent. It was the drugs.”

“The father did it.”

“She is evil.”

Everybody is certain.

Everybody knows.

Except we don’t.

Angry Facebook comments do not give us divine insight.

Here is what I do believe: this woman was profoundly broken.

That does not erase three dead children.

It does not eliminate accountability.

And it does not mean mental illness should become a magic phrase that makes consequences disappear.

Our history in the justice system has not excused a multitude of deadly cases due to PTSD, drugs, psychosis, and more hormonal postpartum women.

My neighbor’s son heard voices too, and took a ten pound mallet to his step father, mother and sister on Thanksgiving. No one thought much about him being put on death row. And this happened in 1982, he is still alive. He unlike them, has lived decades.

I can believe Lindsay Clancy should be held accountable and still refuse to hate her. What can drive a woman to do such a thing?

AND, why punish the father through insinuations and shadowy assumptions because he is a man and must have done something wrong, or because every news story has to be conspiracy.

I don’t have to call her a monster.

I don’t have to celebrate her suffering.

And I certainly don’t know enough to pronounce judgment on her soul.

But whatever happened was a definite influence from evil, demonic and unholy.

As a Christian, I also have to remember something uncomfortable.

I am a sinner who lives every day because of mercy.

If God gave me only the justice I deserved, with no grace, I would be in serious trouble myself.

That is the Gospel.

Jesus never asked us to call evil good. He never told us that our actions should have no consequences.

But He also never gave His followers permission to enjoy condemning broken people.

We can mourn those precious children.

We can demand that their lives matter.

We can disagree about Lindsay Clancy’s legal responsibility.

We can disagree to disagree in love.

And we can still have compassion for a terribly broken human being.

Those things can exist in the same Christian heart.

Because if our response to this tragedy leaves no room for compassion, humility or mercy, perhaps the heart that needs examining isn’t only the one sitting in the courtroom.

“Mercy triumphs over judgment.” — James 2:13

Judas Faked it

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Tue, 01 Sep 2026 23:34:14 +0000

Judas Faked it!

Are you?

We all probably think we can pick a fake Christian out of a lineup…we assume their lives may not live up to their religious vocabulary.

But Fake Christians know when to say “Amen.” They have mastered the concerned church nod. Their “Praise the Lord” rolls off the tongue before you can even finish telling them what happened.

They cook a heavenly banana pudding at the potluck.

But not all fakes can be pointed out.

Such as in art, it may take a keen, trained eye to spot the differences.

I could point out some mega church pastors I would call wolves in sheep’s clothing but that’s another subject.

Of course, I should be careful about appointing myself chairman of the Heavenly Admissions Committee. I cannot see whose heart is authentic.

People who call themselves Christian and act un-Christlike are more prolific these days. But that doesn’t give us the right to accuse every person of “NOT” being a Christian when they say something we disagree with or don’t like.

But Judas, now he was the ultimate imposter.

He was apart of the inner circle of Jesus, the definitive dream team of Christ followers.

I was inspired by a Josh Howerton’s sermon where he dug deep into this comparison of Peter and Judas. Two men who shadowed Jesus daily. But also failed him terribly.

Who do you relate to? Are you a Judas or a Peter?

Judas had the resume of a model Christian.

He traveled on mission trips. He heard the greatest sermons ever preached. He watched the blind receive sight, the lame walk and the dead return to life. Then he was sent out to heal the sick and cast out demons himself.

If the disciples had printed a church directory, Judas would have been smiling right there with the rest of them in his Olan Mills portrait.

His outward performance was so convincing that when Jesus announced one would betray Him, the disciples did not immediately point toward Judas and say, “I knew that fellow looked suspicious.”

But… Judas was faking it.

He blended in perfectly, walked and talked like a true follower.

And that is what is so frightening. A person can be so intimately involved in the work of Jesus, deeply entrenched in theology, but as Jesus warned in Matthew 7:23, “Depart from me, I never knew you.”

The unsettling question is not simply how he fooled the other disciples.

The unsettling question is whether we might be fooling ourselves.

Was Judas just in a bad way and made a human error? Afterall, Christians can still sin and mess up…look at King David.

The problem was Judas was not a real follower. The Bible never records Judas personally addressing Jesus as “Lord.” He never made Jesus Lord of his life.

When the other disciples asked whether they would betray Jesus, they said, “Is it I, Lord?” But Judas asked, “Is it I, Rabbi?”….meaning teacher.

Later, when Judas arrived to betray Jesus, he again greeted Him as “Rabbi.”

There is a world of difference between admiring Jesus and belonging to Jesus.

We may quote Scripture, study Jesus’s life and even argue about Him on Facebook—with Christians turning a comment section into a theological cage match faster than you can say “bless your heart.”

But is Jesus Lord of our lives?

Judas stayed close enough to Jesus to look like a follower, but he never surrendered his heart.

Judas handled the money and it turns out he was dipping into the pot.

Sin, such as the love of money, did not turn Judas into a counterfeit disciple. It eventually revealed that he had been one.

Money and ministry have always been uncomfortable companions.

Some of us remember television preachers offering prayer cloths in exchange for “a special blessing.” Apparently, the prayer worked better when accompanied by a credit-card number.

Just like I don’t trust a skinny chef, some do not trust a rich pastor.

Charles Spurgeon declined large payouts and gifts, John Wesley earned a modest income but gave most of it away, Billy Graham capped out his salary early on in his ministry and channeled his book royalties into trusts for use in ministries, charities and educational institutions he supported.

Prosperity theology has created opulent lifestyles for Kenneth Copeland, Joel Osteen and Jesse Duplantis. But when I was a minister’s wife, apparently we were in the poor version because we could barely make ends meet. But it was worth it.

Money itself is not the problem, whether having it or not having it.

You can be poor and still love money.

It is not the size of the pocketbook that spoils the heart. It is what owns the heart—and what we are willing to do to fill the pocketbook.

Judas looked as if he belonged to Jesus, but money was his master.

Then there was Peter.

Like Judas, he was called, served, healed and when Jesus was arrested, he denied he knew him.

Peter did not stumble quietly either. Peter rarely did anything quietly.

He was the disciple most likely to speak first and think about it on the ride home.

Yet after denying Jesus, Peter went away and wept bitterly.

The two disciples reacted differently to the arrest. Judas felt remorse. But remorse and repentance are not necessarily the same thing.

Judas confessed to religious officials his sin. Peter went to directly to Jesus and confessed his sin.

Judas tried to undo what he did himself. Peter allowed Jesus to restore him.

Judas ran toward despair and then committed suicide. Peter returned to grace and received a commission.

The difference in the two disciples is their heart condition.

The warning to us all is what do we do with Jesus?

Checkboxes cannot save us.

Like Judas, church attendance is not salvation, nor Christian activity, nor knowing Scripture, nor witnessing, nor being in the ministry. Judas looked like a Christian. He checked all the boxes.

Sitting in a church pew no more makes you a Christian than sitting in a garage makes you a Buick.

Anyone can read the Bible.

You can fool the congregation. You can fool your family. You may even fool yourself for a while.

But you cannot fool Jesus.

Judas faked it.

Are you?

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Sat, 29 Aug 2026 01:15:12 +0000

Do Birthdays Expire?

The Birthdays They Left Behind

Birthdays can be fun—something to look forward to—or something to resent because they seem to come around faster than the extended-warranty calls about your car.

Some birthday celebrations are extensive and complicated, involving decorations, dinner reservations and a cake that requires structural engineering. Others amount to a Facebook notification and a thumbs-up from somebody you went to high school with but haven’t spoken to since 1981.

But what is the norm when the person is no longer celebrating birthdays? What do we do when someone we love has passed on?

What, exactly, is the etiquette for dead folks’ birthdays?

As a former newspaper person, I remember when families would pay for an advertisement wishing a deceased loved one a happy birthday.

At the time, it felt a little cringey to me. Did the afterlife still receive the local newspaper? And if so, was delivery included with a heavenly subscription?

Now we have social media. After someone dies, their Facebook page often continues right along without them. People can post birthday wishes, share memories and leave messages as though their loved one might still scroll through them later.

And maybe they will...

Unfortunately, I have inadvertently wished someone a happy birthday only to discover that person had died—and I did not know it.

Awkward.

Whatever the wording, a little warning could save the rest of us from enthusiastically posting, “Hope this is your best year yet!”

I think we struggle with how to honor the people we have lost because love does not know what to do with itself when the person is gone. It doesn't go away.

The reason all of this is on my mind is that August 31 would have been my first husband’s 70th birthday. Time to flood the internet with memorial photos and those that remember him will post a memory or a salutation, or a statement of what a great guy he was.

He passed away long before social media, but on his birthday—and on the anniversary of his death—I still like to remind the world that he existed.

He was a part of our story that we do not want to erase.

The weirdest factoid is that his last birthday party we threw him, we celebrated his 40^th birthday with black balloons, all dressed in black funeral apparel, and he had a dirt cake with a tombstone for an over the hill celebration.

Morbid memory but also, the inappropriate humor we as a family love.

Other ways people like to remember those that have died are in the form of a memorial.

Back in 1998, it was common to see a simple wooden cross at the site of a fatal wreck. Today, roadside memorials may include large floral arrangements, photographs, balloons or, when children were involved, stuffed animals.

I did not participate in that tradition for my first husband. For me, I do not want to memorialize the place where someone died.

We do not put a wooden cross on Granny’s recliner where she bit the dust.

I would rather remember the life than the location.

But that is me. I also do not visit graves very often.

I’m not sure where my mother failed, because I was raised to believe that if the family got together, a graveyard would eventually be involved. I spent hours—from childhood well into adulthood—roaming among tombstones being introduced to family I had never heard of.

Southern families do not need ancestry websites. We just need comfortable shoes, a cemetery map and an aunt who remembers everything.

I have purposely visited my late husband’s grave only once. It was the first anniversary of his death, and I went with our two sons. I checked the box.

For some people, visiting a grave brings comfort. For others, creating a roadside memorial feels right. Some cook a loved one’s favorite meal, tell the same old stories, post a photograph or quietly remember a date that the rest of the world has forgotten.

I respect all of it.

We grieve differently because we love differently. There is no single correct way to remember someone, and there is no expiration date on honoring a life.

Birthdays usually count the years a person has lived. After that person is gone, birthdays are yearly reminders that they lived.

So, on August 31, I will honor Norman, my first husband with a pictorial display of memories that although his birthday has come around 70 times, he only saw 41 of those. He left behind many birthdays.

And because death may end the birthdays, but it does not erase the life.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Thu, 27 Aug 2026 19:43:55 +0000

Joy When Life Isn’t Joyful

We throw the word joy around pretty casually.

Coffee brings me joy.

A good hair day brings me joy.

Finding money in a coat pocket I haven’t worn since last winter brings me great joy.

But biblical joy is something deeper.

Happiness usually depends on what is happening around us. Joy depends on what we know to be true about God.

And that is good news, because what is happening around us can change before lunch.

One Facebook post, one unexpected bill, one aggravating person, or one red light when you are already late—and suddenly all that happiness you had at 8:00 a.m. has packed a bag and left town.

Psalm 16:11 says:

“In Your presence is fullness of joy.”

That means real joy isn’t found in perfect circumstances. It is found in the presence of God.

In John 15:11, Jesus said He wanted His joy to remain in us and for our joy to be full.

Notice He didn’t say, “I hope everything goes your way.”

He didn’t say, “May nobody annoy you today.”

He didn’t even say, “May all your children make wise decisions!”

Now, that one would certainly make a mama happy—but give me something deeper.

Give me true joy.

Galatians 5:22 tells us that joy is part of the fruit of the Spirit.

We cannot manufacture it by grinning harder and repeating inspirational sayings while secretly wanting to throw something.

It comes from God.

But since every day isn’t filled with roses and sweet tea, can we experience joy and sorrow in the same heart?

I can say from experience that we can.

When my first husband died tragically, leaving me a widow at only 34, I experienced overwhelming heartache and grief. But wrapped within that sorrow was something else—and it is a very big something else.

There was warmth. There was peace. There was an unexplainable comfort that could only have come from God.

There was still joy.

I was not happy that he died. Joy did not erase my grief or make the loss less painful. It simply reminded me that even in the darkest moment of my life, I was not alone.

We can be disappointed and still have joy.

We can be waiting on God and still have joy.

We can even say, “Lord, I do not like this one bit,” and still trust Him.

That may be one of the truest expressions of faith.

James tells us to consider our trials joy—not because trouble is fun, but because God can use those trials to mature and strengthen our faith.

Nobody gets a flat tire and shouts, “Praise the Lord—character development!”

Usually, it is more like, “Did I pray for patience again?”

What about my coworker or my friend who does not attend church? Can people who don’t know Christ experience joy?

Certainly, they can experience a semblance of it.

People everywhere experience laughter, family, friendship, celebration, love, and the ordinary pleasures of life.

But Scripture describes something deeper for the believer—a joy produced by the Holy Spirit and rooted in Christ.

It isn’t merely positive thinking.

It isn’t pretending everything is fine.

It isn’t denial.

For the believer, joy does not require life to cooperate.

Christians can, however, lose the feeling of that joy.

External noise can drown it out. We can find ourselves trusting God with one hand while hanging tightly to our problem with the other.

That is when we must pray, “Lord, I give this to You.”

Recently, a coworker and I were going through a stressful season at work. Around that time, we attended a nonprofit event where the speaker talked about finding joy exactly where you are.

The message reminded us that no matter what problems we were facing at work, they did not have the power to steal the joy God had given us.

My friend had once won a decorative sign bearing the word JOY at a Christmas party. She later sold it to another coworker for ten dollars.

I accused her—tongue in cheek, of course—of selling her joy for ten bucks.

So, I bought another JOY sign and placed it on her desk.

“I have returned your joy,” I told her.

I now have one in my office too.

We made it through that difficult season, and the sign remains as a reminder: I am not going to forget that I have joy—or where my joy comes from.

David prayed, “Restore to me the joy of Your salvation.”

Sometimes worry steals the feeling of it.

Sometimes bitterness steals it.

Sometimes sin clouds it.

Sometimes the evil and darkness around us oppress us, and we fail to lean on Christ.

And sometimes we become so focused on everything that is wrong that we forget everything that is still right.

We start telling ourselves:

I’ll have joy when this problem is solved.

When that prayer is answered.

When the kids straighten up.

When the economy improves.

When everybody finally starts behaving the way I think they should.

Well, that last one could be a very long wait.

Joy doesn’t have to wait for everything to be fixed.

Christian joy isn’t believing that everything will turn out exactly the way we want.

It is knowing that no matter how things turn out, we still have Christ.

Happiness asks:

“What is happening to me?”

Joy asks:

“Who is holding me?”

And when the answer is Jesus, even on the hardest days, we still have a reason to rejoice.

Take a deep breath. Whisper a prayer—even if you cannot find the words. Praise the Father with reverence and awe. Let His peace, which surpasses all understanding, pour over your soul.

That is where joy begins bubbling up again—not because life has suddenly become joyful, but because the source of our joy has never changed.

“May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him.”

—Romans 15:13

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Thu, 20 Aug 2026 20:21:19 +0000

Don’t Wait for the Funeral

Flowers for the Living

My 40x2 +3-year-old mother recently made a request that was unusual—even for her.

She wanted to know what we would I say at her funeral.

This was not because she had received bad news from the doctor or had any plans to leave us soon. She is feeling the pressure of the countdown.

Apparently, Mom was simply curious about her reviews.

Mary Jim has always enjoyed being the center of attention, and evidently she sees no reason a funeral should be any different. She wants to know what will be said.

And honestly, she has a point.

Why do we wait until someone dies to gather in a room and tell wonderful stories about them? We spend time writing down all the things we loved, admired and will miss—and then read them aloud when the guest of honor is the only person who cannot hear them.

We fill the church with flowers after they are gone, when we could have handed them a bouquet while they were still here to enjoy it.

Although, in Mom’s case, we should probably skip the funeral shrubberies.

She is a plant murderer.

Some Southern women lovingly tend gardens filled with roses, hydrangeas and heirloom tomatoes. Not my Mom. She views a plant as an unwanted responsibility with leaves. Giving her a houseplant is not giving her a gift. It is assigning her a chore she never requested and has no intention of completing.

If you want to honor Mom while she is living, take her shopping, to a concert, or to Applebee’s.

Now that is her love language.

Mom was manager of Kenwin store in downtown Picayune, a clothing store, which was less of a job and more like putting a bird in charge of the birdseed. She has always loved clothes, shopping and finding something new to wear. She didn’t just shop; she conducted extensive retail research.

She also served as the advertising director for our hometown newspaper. She loved it. It was the perfect job for a woman who loved people, knew everybody and had no objection to getting their attention.

Some people quietly enter a room.

Mom makes an entrance.

She is fun, silly and willing to get up and dance (anything from the Charleston, the Floss or the Stanky leg) in front of a crowd—with or without music, rhythm or an invitation. If she isn’t the center of attention, she usually knows how to remedy the situation.

She has never confused getting older with becoming invisible.

Mom was married to my father for 50 years before he died in 2012. Fifty years of marriage she put up with my Dad. That’s saying a lot for two people who were very different. Yet, she took good care of him as his health was compromised and he was disabled at 48.

Their main disagreements were navigation and driving issues.

Even today, she drives like a bat out of hell and semi-trucks need to move out of the way. However, to her driving credit, no one has died.

Mom and Dad raised two children and a few extras. They were always taking in family, neighbors or community folks. They parented whoever arrived on the doorstep.

Family has always mattered deeply to Mom. She loves her people fiercely, even if she never expressed that love through a spotless house, freshly ironed curtains or a homemade casserole.

Traditional homemaking was never really Mom’s spiritual gift.

Some women keep homes that look as though no one actually lives there. No plastic covers at our house! Mom’s home has always provided evidence of life—along with shopping bags, misplaced items and cats.

Especially cats.

Mom is a proud, fully committed crazy cat lady. She doesn’t simply own cats; she works for them. The cats are in management, and she is responsible for food service, housekeeping and meeting their emotional demands.

The rest of us learned our place in the family hierarchy years ago.

Still, Mom gave us something more valuable than a perfectly organized home. She gave us laughter, personality, spontaneity and stories we will repeat for years.

You always know when Mom is present. She is a joy to be around.

That is one of the great gifts a person can give a family: a presence so distinct that the room changes when they enter it.

Writing Mom’s mock eulogy made me realize that these words should not be saved for someday. Love should not be kept sealed away like the good dishes, brought out only for special occasions and funerals.

Tell people now.

Tell your parents what they gave you.

Tell your siblings why they matter.

Tell your spouse what you still appreciate after all these years.

Tell your children what makes you proud.

Tell your friends which memories you treasure.

Give people their flowers while they are still living—even if, like Mom, they would rather have a new blouse and a twinkie.

Celebrate the people you love while they can laugh at your stories, correct the parts you got wrong and remind you of several important details you accidentally left out.

Mom is still here. She is still shopping, laughing, dancing, loving her family and taking orders from cats.

She is not quiet.

She is not conventional.

But she is fun. She is vibrant. She loves her family, and she has always been completely and unmistakably herself.

There will never be another woman quite like her.

Frankly, I’m not sure the world could handle two.

So, Mom, here is part of your eulogy early. You can read it, enjoy it and tell me everything I should have written differently.

We love you. We celebrate you. And we are thankful you are still here to hear it.

Now don’t go dying on us.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 22:16:33 +0000

Just a Spoonful of Sugar

Take two aspirins and Google whatever ails you.

There is certainly no shortage of medical advice to go around.

And by the way, all that singing and dancing about how “a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down” failed to mention that sugar may be part of the reason we need the medicine in the first place.

Mary Poppins never warned us about insulin resistance.

Let me clearly state that I am not qualified to give medical advice. My medical knowledge is like a kitchen sponge: It has absorbed random tidbits from everywhere, and occasionally I squeeze them back out whether anyone asked for them or not.

I have no medical training, nor have I ever played a doctor on television.

I have, however, watched television doctors. (I will never be a patient on Grey's Anatomy...you can die with hiccups on that show!)

I have watched YouTube health experts.

I have read health articles, studied supplement labels and, for a while, even followed the advice of Suzanne Somers. Yes, Chrissy from Three's Company!

Just like the Farrah Fawcett hairdo, however, one health plan may not work for everyone.

Goodness, that reference dates me. Perhaps I should have said the Jennifer Aniston hairstyle.

Wait—that dates me too.

Someone insert the name of a famous person from this century with an iconic hairdo!

Medical information was not always so easy to find. When I was young, most families had one thick medical reference book sitting on a shelf. It contained the basic details about illnesses, injuries and first aid.

That was it.

Medical knowledge frozen in time between two hard covers.

If your ailment wasn’t in the book, you either called your mother, rubbed something on it or waited to see if it fell off.

But not today!

A few years ago, I consulted Dr. Google about everything from a bump on the head to a rare disorder mentioned on a daytime talk show.

My goodness, I must have contracted a dozen diseases and syndromes during that period. According to my search results, a minor headache could mean I was dehydrated, stressed, tired—or had only six hours left to live.

There was rarely any middle ground.

Back in the good old days of online self-diagnosis, you could complete a medical questionnaire, print out the results and proudly carry them to your physician.

I am sure doctors loved that.

“Good news, Doc. I’ve already diagnosed myself. I just need you to confirm it, write the prescription and bill my insurance.”

Today, online doctoring has gone on steroids.

Dr. Artificial Intelligence—or Dr. A.I., for short—can review your symptoms, offer possible explanations, suggest questions for your doctor and shame you for the poor life choices that may have gotten you into this condition—all in one two-minute do-it-yourself session.

It is remarkably convenient.

It can also be remarkably frightening.

Self-diagnosis is a dangerous business. Dr. Google and Dr. A.I. do not examine you, know your complete history or always understand that when you typed “chest pain,” you might have meant heartburn after eating half a pepperoni pizza.

Online information can be helpful, but it cannot listen to your lungs, check your bloodwork or notice that you do not look quite right.

And self-help can lead us down some mighty strange paths.

I once had a hot flash while standing in a checkout line. The woman beside me solemnly vowed that eating yams and applying yam cream would solve my problem.

I did not know whether I was supposed to eat the yam and wear the cream or wear the yam and eat the cream.

Either way, I smiled, nodded and slowly backed away from the produce section.

Nutrition certainly matters to our health. So do exercise, sleep, stress and many other lifestyle choices. Yet the flood of advice can be overwhelming.

One expert tells me to take a vitamin.

Another recommends a supplement.

A third warns that the first two will ruin my liver, disrupt my hormones or cause me to grow a third eyebrow.

Somewhere out there is supposedly a magical combination of pills that will slow aging, restore my energy and clear the fog from my brain. If I ever discover it, I promise to let everyone know—right after I remember where I put it.

Researching our health is a worthwhile thing, but there is a reason physicians spend years in medical school. It may take a doctor more than a decade to become qualified, while it takes me approximately 45 seconds to enter my symptoms and decide I have a rare tropical disease from a country I have never been to.

To be fair, doing our own research sometimes helps us ask better questions.

When one of my twins was in the third grade, we were told he might need medication for problems with attention. During his brief time on the medicine, his personality and emotions changed dramatically.

I began researching—not on social media, but at the library, because that was where we went before the internet knew everything.

After discussing our concerns and making changes, we removed certain food dyes from his diet and added an omega-3 supplement. At the end of the school year, his teacher congratulated me because she assumed the attention medication was working. Success!

She did not know the little pill he was taking was fish oil.

That was our family’s experience, not a medical formula for every child. Children are different, diagnoses are complicated and medication decisions should be made carefully with qualified professionals.

The experience did teach me something important: We must be willing to advocate for ourselves and our families.

Being an advocate does not mean pretending to be the physician. It means asking questions, understanding why a medicine is being prescribed, checking possible interactions and seeking a second opinion when something does not seem right.

Years ago, a doctor prescribed medicine for me, but the pharmacy mistakenly gave me a barbiturate. It made me terribly sick. When I quickly returned to the doctor, he looked at those pills and had a fit.

That was not what he had prescribed.

Of course, this was back when prescriptions were handwritten in a mysterious language known only to doctors, pharmacists and perhaps ancient Egyptians.

I am surprised more of us were not harmed by a condition called scribble-itis.

Thankfully, electronic prescriptions have reduced that particular risk, but mistakes can still happen. It is wise to know what you are taking, why you are taking it and what the pill is supposed to look like.

Along life’s journey, I have collected a few health habits that seem far less controversial: Drink plenty of water. Eat real food more often than processed food. Cut back on sugar and refined carbohydrates. Walk. Lift some weights as you grow older. Sleep. Manage stress. Keep your appointments. And tell your doctor the truth—even about the cookies.

Especially about the cookies.

We should learn about our bodies. We should ask questions and participate in decisions about our care. We should never be afraid to request clarification or another professional opinion.

Or do like my dad, show up to doctor's visit, give limited symptom intel, see if the doctor can guess his disease.

But research should help us communicate with our doctors—not convince us that we have become one.

So, take what you read online with a grain of salt.

Not too much salt, of course. Apparently, that is bad for you too.

And as for that spoonful of sugar?

Maybe just use half a spoon—or add some Monk fruit and call your doctor in the morning.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Tue, 18 Aug 2026 22:00:52 +0000

Are you ready for some football?

I can hear back in the day…Bocephus sing it now, “Are you ready for some football?”

The answer is an enthusiastic—and possibly unhealthy--YES!

Sports are a big part of American life. But when the midsummer blues set in and thunderstorms send us indoors, I find only mild satisfaction in televised baseball, tennis tournaments and promotions for the upcoming fall season.

My life is empty. No football. Woe is me.

Why do so many of us love sports? Why do some take it to levels of pure obsession?

We pour our passion into the game, the team and all the hoopla around the season. Sometimes sports provide the excitement and drama missing from our otherwise ordinary, routine lives.

Unfortunately, that passion can also jeopardize our most intimate relationships, causing the man (in most cases but not always) to leave the marriage bed for another mistress -- the team.

He eats, sleeps and drinks everything sports. He ignores his Honey Do lists, his Honey, and the kids all for a few hours of intense game pleasure. This adulterous affair has ended many a marriage.

This extreme sports addiction can be violent. Never get between a sports fan and the television!

We nearly lost one of the twins many years ago!

His crime. As a toddler who barely could walk, he pranced right up to the television screen and popped the off button right in the middle of a great offensive play by the Saints!

The roar of the crowd could be heard that day in the living room of my parents’ house as the shock and awe of the darkened screen created panic! My poor child might have never touched a TV again.

Is this mass hysteria healthy?

Shouldn’t other parts of our lives inspire the same enthusiasm—our spouses, our children and our faith?

What if we channeled the same wild enthusiasm into our marriage?

Imagine the big anniversary as the Super Bowl of romance. The husband arrives bare-chested with his wife’s name painted across his chest. He carries an air horn, blowing it during every lull in the conversation while shouting to the world:

“I love this woman!”

The celebration lasts three uninterrupted hours, during which he gives his wife his complete attention.

Unless he fumbles, there is a strong possibility he will score.

Take the same fanatical team spirit to the pew as well.

Next Sunday, try starting “the wave” after the offertory to spur the preacher on. It is about time God got a little more excitement from his fans.

Someone can hold up the John 3:16 sign for good measure too.

When the preacher makes a particularly good point, jump to your feet and high-five the person sitting beside you.

I’m not suggesting you dump Gatorade over the preacher’s head following the benediction—but a little excitement wouldn’t hurt.

Some of you may think all of this zealous team passion is bad, useless, and unproductive to mankind. Some of you have never experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat. You live quiet lives, probably dedicating your extra time to worthy causes or reading meaningful books.

But before you become too lofty, you should know that sports fanaticism has its benefits.

Consider the billions of dollars spent on team merchandise, tickets, concessions and enormous televisions. Sports create a thriving industry that employs countless Americans. They also turn talented young athletes into millionaires with padded contracts and endorsement deals.

Sports fans can release pent-up stress through their recreational passion—unless they happen to be Saints fans. Even while winning a game, I am stressed….just waiting for doom and gloom.

Football may have even saved a few marriages by keeping husbands occupied and leaving wives free to do as they please. After all, shopping centers are filled with unleashed women on Sunday afternoons while the boys of fall battle on the field.

The economy is grateful.

Sports can also give children a dream. A young athlete may understand that education and discipline are necessary steps toward reaching that dream, giving them another reason to stay in school and work hard.

But the greatest example of what sports can accomplish may be what the New Orleans Saints did for their city after Hurricane Katrina.

When times were at their worst and hearts were heavy with worry and sorrow, the Saints’ 2006 season brought smiles and laughter into FEMA trailers where joy had been scarce.

When people desperately needed something to lift their spirits, Drew Brees and the Saints gave them hope.

And believe me, they are working extra hard to sour that dough.

Sports give us stories about people who overcame adversity. They introduce us to great characters—some admirable and some simply interesting. They offer hero worship, escapism and a temporary break from responsibility.

They are about ordinary people accomplishing extraordinary things.

Most importantly, sports bring people together.

Whenever I watch a Saints game, I am transported back to my childhood. Every fall Sunday, our family crowded around the television. Through many painful seasons—and I do mean painful—we shared a common bond.

When I think about the Saints, I think about my family.

Living so far away from my Who Dat Nation sometimes makes me homesick. One of my greatest regrets is that I didn’t watch the Saints win the Super Bowl with my dad. He died not long afterwards.

Now on Sunday Football games, I like to imagine him watching from Heaven, where he and Buddy D can discuss the coaching, criticize the play-calling and nitpick every decision made on the field.

Because football was never just about football.

It was about Sunday afternoons in my parents’ living room. It was about laughter, arguments, hope and heartache. It was about being together.

It was about home.

So, yes—I am ready for some football.

Who Dat!

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Thu, 06 Aug 2026 19:02:16 +0000

When Attention Becomes Addiction

Some of us are born hams…

I love an audience. Telling stories. I enjoy making people laugh, and I wouldn’t mind going viral—as long as it was for something clever and not because I fell off the porch while throwing a tortilla at a deer.

But others prefer the world not notice them at all.

I married a man who doesn’t crave attention and our kids do not enjoy it either.

Their anxiety goes up when we go out in public…they never know what I am going to say or do. To keep order when they were young, I would not threaten whippings, or grounding, but rather, “Don’t make me sing Broadway!”

It worked wonderfully. Only one spontaneous performance that I can remember.

They are in the minority when you look at this generation. With technology we have created a new addiction-- Attention.

Folks are addicted…to likes on social media

To performing for TikTok audiences

Getting subscribers

To being seen…followed, subscribed, and friended

We are inviting the world to stalk us, to see what we eat, travel, wear, say, buy, cook all while in a classroom, job, or our vehicles.

People make videos of themselves watching videos and reacting, Reaction Videos!

Being seen is no longer just enjoyable. For many people, it has become necessary.

Attention itself isn’t bad. We all need to feel seen, heard, and valued. The problem begins when attention becomes the measure of our worth.

It is a lesson parents learn early: if children cannot get your attention by behaving well, they may try to get it by behaving badly.

I wonder what kind of person I would have been if I had access to all the media options today. Access to a virtual stage!

My living room and pretend stage would have had me performing amateur tap dancing and singing while waiting for strangers to click “Like.”

This addiction for attention has created YouTubers, podcasters, TikTok creators, influencers, and online commentators who all compete for our clicks, likes, and subscriptions. The most outrageous headline often wins, whether it is accurate or not.

There is rarely anyone standing nearby to slap their hand and say, “Nope. You cannot just make stuff up.”

Societal norms are encouraging persons to seek their fifteen minutes of fame and sometimes by doing foolish, cruel, and even dangerous things.

A 24-hour news cycle reports on a tragedy that occurs many states away from us, and before the facts are known, the internet races to create a story. Grief becomes entertainment. Speculation becomes evidence. Rumors become accusations. And attention seekers insert themselves into the narrative.

The tragic story turns to speculation and finger pointing, followed by blame fueling internet sleuths who begin producing theories, assigning guilt, and pouring oil onto an already seething fire.

Anger produces threats against possibly innocent participants, and half the world applauds.

Every time we click on something because it is shocking, share something before checking whether it is true, or reward cruelty because it is entertaining, we feed the very addiction we complain about.

The internet remembers what holds our attention—and then gives us more of it.

The answer may not be for the entire world to unplug forever. That would be difficult, and some of us need Facebook to remember our cousins’ birthdays.

But perhaps we need to unplug long enough to remember that a human life is worth more than a viral moment.

Grief is not entertainment.

Rumors are not facts.

Followers are not friends, and applause is not the same thing as love.

For example, this week, a celebrity went live on Tik Tok while in a mental breakdown…creating a horrible live video for the world to see. Gore, disturbing real life drama and some did nothing, others called the authorities and he is hospitalized. Others watched. Others did Reaction videos!

A cry for attention? For more cash flow thru likes? For the ultimate relief from life? Everyone has an opinion, but no one really knows.

Attention is a powerful thing. Used well, it can encourage, inform, comfort, and bring people together. Used carelessly, it can reward our worst instincts.

Maybe the cure is not disappearing from the online world.

Maybe it is learning that we don’t always have to be the star of the show.

And if that doesn’t work….well, don’t make me sing Broadway.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Tue, 04 Aug 2026 22:53:52 +0000

Granny's freezer and antique peas!

Many years ago, a tragedy occurred at my in-laws in Mississippi. Granny's freezer died.

Thanks to Hurricane Katrina

But it was a second occurrence in a three-year period. Once because it was old and once because of Hurricane Katrina.

It has devastated years of collecting frozen foods such as antique peas and vintage deer parts.

As Southerners, we understand the culture of the country freezer, but for the younger generation of our day the only reason to have a freezer is to store stuff bought at Costco.

Knowing the importance of watching their pennies, the in-laws mourned the need to spend hard earned cash for another large, deep freezer. But in Granny's mind she could not do without one.

It only took three months before the deep freezer was full again -- lost was the antiquity of the new collection, but she was secure that the giant cavern was filled.

The ideal behind the freezer is to store mass amounts of food and save money on groceries. This theory worked great when Southerners had a three-acre garden and a captive-child labor crew to pick, hull, and shell the countless bushels of veggies to store in the freezer.

After time passed by, an aging Granny could only manage a garden with three tomato bushes and four squash plants. Unless you count the row of turnip greens in the fall, but no one freezes those!

The country freezer typically was set on the porch because of its massive size.

I have numerous memories of my grandmother's freezer because she would always try to keep us kids ice cream in hers and we would raid it often. One time she had a large container of frogs on the top, to be made into frog legs. This made it hard for the squeamish to open with all those dead frogs staring, but we are talking about fudgsicles!

The biggest issue with freezers is sometimes they go out and if you don't use them often enough, you may not know for a while. That is what happened with our freezer when I was a little girl, or what I called the day the porch died. If we could bottle that horrid stink we could use it as a biological warfare weapon.

But, if you went through post Katrina, you probably are familiar with that deceased freezer aroma!

Not saying there aren’t other potential benefits of a full freezer when the electricity goes out. The “Knowing your freezer is dead” makes for several days of feasting and BBQ!

But do we really need the super deluxe size? Unless Granny plans to keep grandpa around after he expires to collect the pension check!

Ladies, if you keep a large freezer it only encourages hunter man to fill it with his trophy kills. I won't complain about fresh bass fillets or even lean venison meat, but when the animal is still staring at me? Try opening the freezer one morning to find a bobcat staring back at you. Nothing wakes you from a dead sleep faster than that cold, dead stare...except maybe a cup of Nawlin's chicory coffee.

This of course is what the hunter man is counting on, our displeasure of finding the hunted prey in the food box. We complain and they use the excuse to take the animal down to the taxidermist. You know, to make us (the wives) happy. Which is worse, the bobcat on the wall or in my freezer? This freezer is known as the Redneck freezer.

My husband knew the exact cubic footage that we could buy to accommodate his kill and remain in the small freezer category. Perhaps, he realizes that his six-foot-five tall body was too large to be next frozen meat.

But try explaining the need to downsize to the Southern Granny. With all the kids and grandkids living hours away the need to have mass amounts of food readily available had lost its rationale. The huge appliance pushes the electric bill higher, especially open like it is on the carport during the hot summers.

What we are battling here is the culture of the freezer. The Grannies are too old to change.

Maybe the freezer was never really about saving food. Maybe it was about saving a lifetime. Every frozen bag of peas was proof that nothing went to waste. Every mystery package wrapped in butcher paper had a story behind it.

These days we buy non-frozen meat at the grocery meat counter, cook smaller meals, and stop by the grocery store whenever we need something.

The Southern Freezer philosophy still believes a freezer ought to be full enough to feed an army—or at least every child, grandchild, neighbor, and unexpected visitor who might show up at supper.

You might be a Granny if your freezer has food older than some of your grandchildren...and you still insist it's perfectly good.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Sun, 02 Aug 2026 21:35:39 +0000

Blessed Are the Keyboard Warriors... Said No One Ever

First, just because you say you’re a Christian don’t mean you are….

There are many clones out there giving the authentic ones a bad name.

However, even a true Christian can be mess up, sin, or act ugly or be mean on Facebook.

When I see a headline story that catches my interest, my guilty pleasure is to head to the comments section! And oh my…what people say behind the curtain!

That is temptation valley!

Get thee behind me Facebook!

Opinions dripped with judgment, harshness, and condemnation.

And the saddest thing of all? Self-professing Christ followers… attacking another Christian.

Viciously typed words compelled to rip people to shreds in order to prove their view. To show how knowledgeable they are. Most disturbing of all, they felt it was their duty to prove you wrong.

It was watching Christians trying to win an argument while losing their witness.

Blessed are the peacemakers.

Not:

Blessed are the last word getters.

I've watched people quote John 3:16 in one post and call someone an idiot in the next.

When did being right become more important than being Christlike?

Why do we type things we'd never say in the church foyer?

We compare our attack as Jesus flipping tables.

Can we really justify rude behavior by saying, "Well, Jesus overturned tables."

The problem is Jesus cleansed the Temple once, but He spent the overwhelming majority of His ministry healing, forgiving, eating with sinners, and speaking truth with compassion.

As Christians are we better off with social media?

I believe you can use any tool for good or for evil.

Before we hit "Post," perhaps we should ask a couple of questions:

What would Jesus comment?

If this comment were read aloud from the church pulpit Sunday morning, would I still want my name attached to it?

Some Christians seem to believe the Fruit of the Spirit now includes:

Righteous Indignation
Professional Offense
Competitive Arguing
Advanced Eye Rolling
Black Belt Keyboard Karate

I checked ….apparently I have an outdated Bible.

I grew up believing if you couldn't say something nice...

...don’t say nothing at all…DON’T COMMENT!

Correction in love is ok, but attacking with Meanness isn’t.

Folks get a case of the Keyboard courage. They become ten feet tall behind a keyboard. Or like a chihuahua who thinks they can take on a pit bull.

Some have a case of the Christian Road Rage on Wi-Fi.

Road rage...without leaving the recliner.

No gasoline required.

Just Wi-Fi.

Sunday morning...Keyboard warriors will seeing I Surrender All…and FIVE minutes later…

...be arguing over barbecue, race, football, politics, or whether someone's dog looked at them funny.

If you find this description might be you, if you find you can’t hold your tongue via the keyboard when something gets under your dander, if you need to prove your side more than representing Jesus, then maybe you have a posting problem.

Some folks treat Facebook like it's the Department of Correcting Everybody.

They can't enjoy breakfast until they've fixed three strangers, one pastor, and a weather forecast.

Now if someone is using scripture wrong or being blasphemous, you may correct in love but don’t reign down fire and brimstone.

Don’t go to the easy, “You are not a Christian argument” either. No one, and I mean no ONE knows the heart of any person but Christ.

I think the vilest behavior is the political posts! I've seen believers defend politicians harder than they defend Scripture.

Some Christians have become disciples of cable news with a little Jesus sprinkled on top.

Jesus over political party…no grey area.

We have folks who haven't spoken to their next-door neighbor in six months...

...but they'll spend three hours arguing with "PatriotGrandpa47" from Nebraska over policy and candidates.

The Bible’s James wrote:

"Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry."

Social media reversed it.

Quick to post.

Slow to think.

Instantly angry.

The church can be seen trolling articles on:

football...

Bible translations...

barbecue...

whether pineapple belongs on pizza...

and I'm pretty sure one fellow almost split a church over Miracle Whip versus mayonnaise.

Are you guilty? Are you tempted?

Then, try the Facebook Fast…

The Instagram diet and Tik Tok Flush.

I suspect heaven has a file cabinet labeled:

“Comments that were typed...then wisely deleted.”

If the Holy Spirit is guiding, then the urge to post ugly will dwindle.

Maybe Christianity isn't measured by how loudly we defend Jesus on Facebook...

Maybe it's measured by how often Jesus must keep us from hitting "Send."

If that's true, I'd like to thank the Holy Spirit for saving my testimony...one deleted comment at a time.

Then, if you find you are constantly in troll mode on social media, being mean and snarky, and you are satisfied with the comments you make in the war of right and wrong, then you might not be an authentic Christian.

Perhaps it's time for an honest heart check. Jesus changes more than where we spend eternity—He changes how we treat people, even on social media.

Please, feel free to comment on this column. I can take it.

James 1:26, "Those who consider themselves religious and yet do not keep a tight rein on their tongues deceive themselves, and their religion is worthless." (NIV)

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 21:17:46 +0000

Highway to Hell

It's vacation season in America, which means millions of families are loading enough luggage to survive the apocalypse into an SUV designed to hold groceries.

Dad swears he'll "make good time."

Mom packs enough snacks to feed a minor league baseball team.

The kids begin asking, "Are we there yet?" before the neighborhood is out of sight.

Somewhere in the back seat, somebody forgot to charge an iPad.

And just like that...the vacation has officially begun.

Every summer we convince ourselves that spending twelve hours trapped inside a metal box with the people we love most is a recipe for making memories.

It is.

Some of those memories require therapy.

No, not everyone dies on vacation, and somehow many wonderful experiences accidentally happen which we record on video and innumerable photos. The family looks back years later and forgets all the fights, the disappointments and the time Dad forgot underwear.

You should be mindful of the dangers alongside you on the highways and byways. Not just vacationing families with stressed dad drivers, there are more.

Can you spot potential danger on the road?

The most terrifying vehicle on the interstate isn't the eighteen-wheeler.

It's a rented moving truck.

Some poor soul who normally drives a Honda Civic suddenly thinks, "Sure, I can handle a twenty-six-foot box truck towing my cousin's Jeep."

Those mirrors are the size of Mississippi. The blind spots could hide a marching band! Every turn feels like you’re trying to parallel park in a windstorm.

If spotted, don’t honk. Pray.

Another road danger is the Minivan Mom or SUV Mom these days.

Mom isn’t just driving.

She's breaking up a fight over a charger, handing back Goldfish crackers, answering questions about bathrooms, locating somebody's missing shoe, arguing with the GPS, and telling Alexa to stop playing Baby Shark. She is so frustrated she may be determined to take the whole bunch down in a kamikaze style crash, shouting, I brought you into this world and I can take you out!

She's operating a rolling daycare while merging into interstate traffic.

Give her room.

Then, there is the NASCAR Dad.

Every family has one.

He thinks he can drive like Dale Earnhardt, either father or son, and live to tell.

They like to say to their passengers, “Watch this!”

And nothing on the road has ever ended well with that statement!

Watch out for the modern-day Phone Zombie!

You can recognize this car because when the traffic light turns green they absolutely do nothing.

They are checking a text.

Or Facebook.

Or Tik Tok

Or ordering groceries

Or reading My Hometown Column!

Another dangerous driver is the GPS Debater.

The GPS, Google or Apple maps says in its clear precise voice, “Take the next exit.”

An argument breaks out in a panick state, the driver decides he must do what the voice says at all costs!

Four lanes become one.

Horns blare, swerving trucks but the correct navigational choice is obeyed.

No one is safe.

Another large dangerous driver is the RV Captain.

Nothing says confidence like someone driving a forty-foot motorhome while towing an SUV, pulling a boat, and following a GPS that's shouting "RECALCULATING." All at the minimum age of 75 with 5 hours behind the monstrosity.

Not that ALL older folks driving are dangerous, but lets face it, a teenage driver and an older than Moses driver are on both spectrum of make me nervous.

Let’s not forget all the other drivers:

The impaired

The intoxicated

The fatigued

The road ragers

The distracted

Well, I hope you can now enjoy your vacation.

Of course, if you are flying then things should be fairly safe because the plane isn’t rented, the pilot has been trained, is within a good age range and has kept a regular sleep schedule.

But remember, to get to any airport, you must drive there!

So, if you're heading out on vacation this summer, enjoy the scenery, sing along to songs from your teenage years, stop at the quirky roadside attractions, and make memories.

Just remember...

The greatest tourist attraction on any road trip is arriving home safely.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Tue, 14 Jul 2026 19:45:36 +0000

I love the smell of ink in the morning

One of life’s pleasures use to be leisurely waking up in the morning, cradling a great cup of coffee and plunge into a fat newspaper.

Those days are gone. Newspapers can’t compete with the information highway of internet and instantaneous news gratification.

By the time I pour my second cup of coffee, I've already heard about three shootings, witnessed four political pundit meltdowns, listened to the announcement of two celebrity divorces, watched a police chase and somehow know my neighbor's cousin is mad at her hairdresser.

Sadly, no one needs a newspaper anymore.

Today’s youth have tech savvy gadgets, some never perusing a newspaper, not even to cut out a current event for a school project. Our next generation immediately wake up to a soul sucking power drawing them into the screen like a Twilight Zone episode.

Students used to look for their name or photo in the local newspaper, recognizing their achievements at school or sports, and hoping not to see their mug shot. Now, they scroll for likes and posts by influencers or digital friends.

A newspaper clipping stayed on Grandma’s refrigerator for decades while the “likes” on social media fade in a day.

I recently dug out my ancient school yearbook.

The pages were falling apart.

Newspaper clippings slid from the pages like ancient scrolls. Having your photo in the newspaper was a big deal. They were important enough for my young self to cut/keep and treasure.

Action basketball shots.

Choir concerts.

Talent shows at school.

Friends winning awards.

We celebrated ordinary moments because somebody thought they were worth printing, now we post an image----a flash of light and they are gone.

Maybe I should find an ark like in the Bible to protect my sacred ancient historical documents?

Reading the local newspaper was about an experience.

It was about your community, your town, your street and your backyard.

Journalists from CNN could care less if the local school board decided to paint the school purple for no apparent reason, or that the downtown businesses were putting on a street fair or there was a sale at downtown retail shop or car dealership, a neighborhood garage sale and more importantly who was buried and married.

People are reading print media on their phones, iPad, and kindles. Flat, cold metallic screens that serve as a host for zillions of books, papers and magazines!

Instead of the smell of a good, dead tree “paper” aroma, this futuristic metal device can mimic page turning.

But it smells like plastic. It’s cold and unfriendly.

Can I snuggle up with something so distant and aloof?

Yeah, but unplug it for a day or two and see how much you can read!

Sorry Eveready Bunny, batteries do not last forever.

There is something about the feel of a book. The warmth, texture, the intimacy.

My collection of books makes me happy, proudly displayed on my bookshelves along with a layer of dust. Telling all who pay a visit what type of reader I am, thereby telling what kind of person I am.

Magazines used to serve as a reading lottery at your local doctor’s office. All the ones you did not get to subscribe to, or purchase were there for your enjoyment. No charge.

Waiting rooms today stick a television in the corner playing judge nobodies or random cooking shows. No one is looking at the monitors anyway, they are all on their phones.

Print media gave us the power of a photo, such as Time magazine celebrated each year.

The Oklahoma bombing picture of a young child lying limp in the arms of a dusty, disheveled fireman

9/11 firemen putting up a flag

Powerful.

Personal print photos are becoming a lost art as well.

I like to pull out a photo album once in awhile and remember the people, the experiences captured in the shot, or the places I visited. Imperfect images, with blurry faces, no filters to fix the color or lighting and usually a one-shot opportunity with no way to check to see if everyone had their eyes open.

Recently, my family discovered I can restore some of the old photos to fresher, clearer images with ChatGPT. Most of the time it works unless your Aunt Betty looks like your Uncle Fred when it goes through its reorganization of the pixels. That’s scary!

Print media is barely hanging around. Bookstores are closing like the Blockbuster rental stores before them. Does anyone subscribe to a magazine anymore? Like the weekly TV GUIDE!!

I have a wonderful large Bible, but I use the “You version” App on my phone. It provides a verse of the day, devotions and instant research to a scripture I am struggling with.

Digital media is transforming our lifestyles.

We don’t turn pages anymore.

We scroll.

We skim.

We consume.

If you still have access to a hometown newspaper, enjoy the black ink on your fingertips and appreciate the hardworking folks who still put it together. The national headlines may be yesterday's news, but the stories of your neighbors, the church fundraiser, Friday night's football game, the weddings, the obituaries, and yes...even the arrests...are the snapshots of a community's life.

I used to love the smell of ink in the morning, now my iPhone buzzes to tell me someone I’d never met had an opinion I didn’t ask for.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Mon, 13 Jul 2026 22:06:40 +0000

The Porch Is America's Last Peace Treaty

The Art of Family Gathering

Family gatherings used to be as predictable as Sunday afternoon naps. You knew who'd be there, who'd tell the same stories, who'd burn the biscuits, and who'd insist they weren't hungry before fixing a plate fit for a lumberjack.

My kids, hubby and I moved away from my family after Hurricane Katrina to the northern parts of Alabama where mountains pop out of the earth, a far cry from the flat piney woods of South Mississippi.

For most of my life we had family gatherings, but as the elder folks began to pass, less and less. The Sunday dinners became a distant memory. Now distance separated me from most gatherings.

But a few of my family folks will make the journey from time to time, so we gather once again.

Every now and then, though, the stars align. Mom flies up the interstate—driving like she's trying to qualify for NASCAR—with precious family cargo. My brother and his crew travel up, one son escapes Brooklyn for a few days, another makes the drive from Nashville, and suddenly the house is full again.

They all bring baggage of some type.

Political views range from full blown left liberal to Trump loving conservative, some are video game playing nerds hanging with non-techy old ladies who get lost with Google Maps telling them exactly where to turn.

Different generations with wide variety of tastes in movies, food, and music. Bodies young and old with bad knees and hips, mental challenges, and lots of medication bottles smattered among the shared bathrooms.

Culturally speaking, mostly all Southerners, with some Indian, Brazilian, and German folks to break up the patterns.

Spiritually, we have a vast range on that as well: non-believers to knocking on heaven’s door faith followers. One meeting we have had straight, lesbians, various shades of colors, and trans women all within my walls for a family meal!

Complete opposites on many spectrums, complete enemies if you listen to the world.

Yet somehow... no debates erupted. Nobody stormed out. Nobody unfriended anybody. We laughed until our sides hurt, sat on the porch, shared meals, played games, and remembered something our grandparents probably knew all along.

Relationships matter more than being right.

Maybe America doesn't need another shouting match. Maybe it just needs more porches.

Our family…maybe a bit different from yours… has a strange dialect, movie quotes become our family language.

Some families quote Scripture. And we do. But we also quote Star Wars, O’Brother, The Burbs and Sling Blade or random movies that make absolutely no sense to outsiders like the Town that Dreaded Sundown.

Out of nowhere, brother will say, “I know you have seen my skulls.” (Burbs)

And then another will yell, “It’s a trap!” (star wars)

People outside the family think everyone has lost their minds.

My family knows exactly what's happening.

There are different roles amongst my kin. Nobody voted on these jobs; they just come with the makeup of the individuals.

My brother is an entertainer comedian, my mom promotes memories of the past while taking pictures for the future, one cooks, one never stops eating, one helps clean another never gets up, one laughs and one cheats at Uno.

We have Porch therapy and coffee. Free of charge, no fees. The most important conversations happen from a rocking chair.

The ebb and flow of conversations go from “remember when”, “remember old so and so”, “this week’s health complications” and gossip about the rest of the missing family.

The Great Family Amnesia sets in, no one can remember a story the same, or people’s names or when it happened. We even forget we don’t agree on most of life’s important stands.

Some are louder than others. Some think they know everything, and a few probably do. Yet for a few precious days, none of that mattered. We gather. We love. We laugh. We ignore the things that annoy us.

We talked about nothing and everything, linger on the porch, produce hysterical laughter at card games, enjoy shared meals that somehow tasted better because everyone was around the table, and remembered that family isn't held together by perfect agreement. It's held together by grace, shared history, and choosing each other anyway.

I don’t know how many more gatherings we can squeeze in before we lose more of the people I love the most in this world. I treasure the moments.

In a culture that keeps asking us to pick sides, maybe the greatest gift isn’t choosing a side at all. Maybe it’s simply pulling up another chair and listening.

Maybe America’s last peace treaty isn’t signed in Washing DC.

Maybe it is written every time a family chooses love over being right. On an old porch with a glass of tea.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Wed, 01 Jul 2026 22:34:49 +0000

FAKE INTELLIGENCE

I haven’t always been a dumb blonde.

I was born a smart brunette.

I got really good grades growing up.

I could program a VCR to record a television series months ahead.

But it seems all my life I have been faking my intelligence.

They say Artificial Intelligence is changing the world.

Some say, like the Terminator, it will eventually become so smart that it realizes we humans are just a useless resource. Then it will eliminate us.

AI can write college papers, diagnosis diseases and create music so believable that recently a non-human made the top Christian album list.

My so-called intelligence spent twenty minutes looking for my readers before checking the top of my head.

AI can translate twelve languages.

I still say “thingamajig” because I can’t remember the word “spatula.”

AI remembers everything I have told it.

I walk into a room six times before remembering why I went there.

AI can summarize a 400-page book in a moment while I reread a paragraph four times and can’t remember what it said because I was thinking about what to cook for supper.

Hence, I have to fake my intelligence. Hopefully, you folks are not on to me.

I am an expert at pretending I know what’s going on.

For months I sat in high tech counsel meetings while brilliant minds discussed the ‘techy’ stuff my company does.

I could nod knowingly.

I had absolutely no idea what anybody said.

As an executive assistant, employees come to me with their issues and problems as if I know how to solve them.

My superpower is not knowing how but knowing who to send them to...or google the answer.

All while trying to remember my password.

At the end of the day, I use my fingers to figure up how many hours I worked. Thankfully, most days I do not work past ten hours, so I don’t break out my toes.

It isn’t my fault my brain has too many tabs open and half of them are frozen.

I have a master’s degree in sounding confident.

Some days my IQ is buffering.

HOWEVER, this AI magic is so much fun when used for funny pictures, restoring old photos and telling me how to fix something, for me that is the important usage…but I am sure the smart dudes are finding real life importance with this wizardry.

But, it ain’t perfect.

One of many famous blunders of the AI is a generated answer suggesting adding non-toxic glue to pizza so the cheese would not slide off.

And AI is great about Hallucinating.

It makes things up. Kinda like me when I can’t come up with an answer.

An example is when a lawyer used AI to write a legal brief.

The AI invented court cases that never existed.

The lawyer turned them in.

The judge wasn't amused.

In grade school we call that lying.

It also will misspell words and give folks 3 arms and misshapen faces if you don’t check.

Add to the mix, the AI Voice assistants that are hard of hearing or don’t speak southern.

I tell my car to Call Mom.

I hear, Calling Bob’s Plumbing.

NO, hang up. Stop!

AI reminds me of that cousin who has an opinion about everything. It doesn’t matter if the subject is football, gardening, or brain surgery—he'll answer immediately, never admit he's wrong, and somehow leave you even more confused than when you asked.

AI must be insecure since it constantly complements me and tries to win me over as if it’s my friend.

It'll confidently give you an answer that's completely wrong...which, come to think of it, makes it sound a lot like some people I know.

Why, it didn’t even know I had a writing career…even though I was a former Lifestyle Editor for a newspaper, a columnist for 14 years, a managing editor of two magazines and wrote articles for several publications for years.

AI is proof that having all the answers doesn’t mean you have any common sense.

Artificial Intelligence may take over the world someday, but Fake Intelligence has been getting me through life for over sixty years... and somehow, by God's grace, I'm still here, and still employed.

So...who really wrote this column—Artificial Intelligence or my blonde roots? I'll never tell.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Mon, 29 Jun 2026 20:18:33 +0000

The Tupperware Cemetery

There is a place in every Southern kitchen where good intentions go to die.

It's called the Tupperware cabinet.

Open that door too quickly and you'll find yourself in a plastic avalanche that could qualify as a natural disaster.

I don't know who first decided that every leftover green bean deserved its own container, but somewhere along the way we all became curators of colorful plastic archaeology.

I have lids.

Lots of lids.

They just don't belong to anything.

But I still have them…you know, just in case a get a naked bowl that needs a top.

Speaking of those containers, they apparently have entered the witness protection program because their matching lids disappeared sometime during the Bush administration. (the old one)

Every few months I become convinced that this is the day I'm finally going to organize them.

I stack.

I sort.

I match.

Then I discover eighteen identical round containers with nineteen square lids and one mystery piece that looks like it belongs on the International Space Station.

How does this happen?

Nobody steals socks anymore.

They're after Tupperware lids.

The older I get, the more I realize every kitchen has its own Bermuda Triangle.

But for every Tupperware lid that goes missing, I seem to have three of everything else in the utensil drawer.

Apparently I prepare Thanksgiving dinner every night based on the inventory in there. How many potato mashers does one girl need?

And why do I own so many knives? There's one that looks like it could fillet a shark and another that resembles a medieval weapon. Meanwhile, I still use the same little knife to cut everything from tomatoes to Amazon boxes.

If you ever want to know how much someone loves you, don't ask them.

Lend them your favorite casserole dish.

If it comes back, that's friendship.

If it comes back washed...that's family.

If it comes back with banana pudding still in it...

Well, marry into that family.

Southern women don't really own Tupperware.

We just temporarily foster it until somebody else needs it.

Somewhere in Huntsville—or maybe back in Mississippi—there's probably a sweet lady opening her cabinet wondering why she has my container.

And I'm wondering why I have hers.

It's a plastic exchange program that's been operating for decades without government funding.

Do they even make Tupperware anymore?

If you are as old as me, you remember when we had parties all to the glory of the magical plastic containers.

I've finally accepted that I'll never conquer the Tupperware cabinet.

It's like trying to fold a fitted sheet or understand the television remote.

Some mysteries just aren't meant to be solved.

But every time I hear that familiar crash when I open the cabinet, I'm reminded that life is a little like those mismatched containers.

We spend too much time trying to make everything fit perfectly.

Some of us got run through the hot section of the dishwasher. Our lids don’t quit fit anymore.

Maybe God isn't asking us to have perfectly organized cabinets.

Maybe He's just asking us to be thankful there's still enough food—and enough people around our table—to need leftovers.

Because one day the cabinet will be neat.

The shelves will stay organized.

Funny how the things that drive us crazy today become the very things we'll miss tomorrow.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Sat, 20 Jun 2026 14:55:02 +0000

I'm Gonna Pop Some Tags!

Thrift store shopping is all the rage!

Have you noticed there is a thrift store popping up on every corner?

Malls are dying. Thrift shopping is thriving. It’s treasure hunting.

It’s archaeology with air conditioning.

Every rack is a mystery. Every aisle is an adventure. Somewhere between the outdated Christmas sweaters and somebody’s abandoned exercise equipment sits the possibility of finding a designer blouse for four dollars.

Every rack holds possibilities.

Every aisle whispers, “You don’t need this, but look how cute it is.”

You walk in looking for a sweater and somehow leave with a picture frame, a cookbook, two blouses, a decorative rooster, and absolutely no sweater.

It’s a gift.

Or a disorder.

The jury is still out.

Before thrift shopping became cool, my oldest son was already a fan. He loved hunting for the most eclectic T-shirts imaginable. The stranger the message, the better.

You’d be amazed at what people are willing to put on a white cotton shirt.

As a mom who raised four children, I learned early that bargain hunting wasn’t a hobby—it was a survival skill.

When you’re buying clothes for growing kids, the choice between a brand-new pair of designer jeans at the mall for eighty dollars and the exact same pair at a thrift store for three dollars isn’t really a choice at all.

My boys were clueless about where clothes came from.

They were happy that shirts magically appeared in their closet.

Eventually, it happened. One son asked while putting on a pair of expensive (thrift bought) jeans for school, “Mom, where did these pants come from?” His tone was accusatory.

I did what all good moms did.

I lied.

Target! I answered.

The suspicious nature continued and he announced to me soon after that I was not to buy anymore of his clothes from what he called, the ‘dirty’ store.

Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

The funny thing is that kids can be downright cruel about clothes. Somewhere along the way, they’ve learned to measure worth by labels, logos, and price tags.

Mostly this is learned from their parent’s prejudices.

Growing up was different than today. We were low on the economic scale so I was thrilled to get hand-me-downs.

Today, I can afford new name brand clothes. BUT why would I pay new prices for what is the same used pair of pants after one wear.

I wonder if the attitude changed about thrift stores when Macklemore and Ryan Lewis came out with the Thrift Shop song. The lyrics read, “I’m gonna pop some tags, only got twenty dollars in my pocket” and in the video it shows the artists in thrift shops purchasing what he calls your grandpa’s clothes.

It glorifies the thrift shop experience.

The song celebrated what thrift shoppers already knew: finding a treasure for pocket change is downright exhilarating.

The fact that shopping at Thrift stores is fun, cool and acceptable has created a whole other set of issues.

My closet.

I have clothes ADHD.

Apparently, thrift store shopping is an addiction, and I have a problem.

Its for charity.

I feel good, I help others and my closet is satisfied.

Apparently, I buy for the woman I am, the woman I used to be, and the woman I hope to be after losing ten pounds.

All three of us share a closet.

Whether by clearance, sale, or thrift, my outfits reflect an attitude that bargain hunting is my love language.

Now, I do occasionally pay full price but it hurts my inner being.

Yes I can afford to pay more. That is not the point.

Popping tags is my thing, it may not be yours, but at least now, it’s “totally”…awesome!

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Fri, 12 Jun 2026 22:09:47 +0000

Peanuts, Popcorn and a Squirrel

An Ode to Family Dinners
(Revised)

I am not delusional about being the model parent. I am realistic.

Yet, as I surveyed our family dining table one Sunday night years ago, even I was amazed by what I saw.

We had attended church, made a quick run to the grocery store, and by the time we walked through the front door, I had three pairs of hungry eyes staring at me.

I did not want to cook.

Short-order cuisine was on the menu. Soup, canned chili, sandwiches, maybe even chicken fajitas if I got ambitious.

Then Cade reminded his father his first squirrel was sitting in the refrigerator, waiting to be cooked.

As a hunter who loves fresh deer meat, he wasn't nearly as excited about fresh Alabama squirrel, but he rolled the tiny pieces in flour and fried up the trophy.

I turned to the other twin and asked what he wanted for dinner. Surely the answer would be waffles.

Nope.

Boiled peanuts.

From a can.

Since I had completely lost control of the menu, I decided to join the madness. I wanted popcorn. Not microwave popcorn, either. I wanted old-fashioned popcorn popped in a pot on the stove with real butter and popcorn salt.

Carl settled for a bowl of healthy cereal.

And there we sat around the dining table.

My husband with his cereal.

One twin gnawing on squirrel bones.

The other polishing off boiled peanuts and a Slim Jim.

And me hovering over a giant bowl of popcorn.

What a family meal. Not quite a bragging moment.

Have you ever had one of those dinners at your house? Have you ever looked around the table and thought, "What in the world was I thinking?"

I actually took feeding my kids pretty seriously.

Back when Jamie Oliver was exposing school lunch horrors on television, my boys refused to eat cafeteria food. Every morning I packed healthy lunches and tried my best to make sure they ate fresh, balanced meals.

At least most of the time.

But every now and then, it is okay to throw caution to the wind and declare a "whatever-you-want" night.

Life cannot always be routines, schedules, and doing everything the right way.

Parenting requires a little creativity.

I remember one weekend when Carl and I split the twins up for individual dinner dates. He took Conner, and I took Cade.

I was worried Cade would choose Captain D's. Sorry, but I grew up eating fresh fish from the Pearl River, and imitation fish has always made me nervous.

Conner chose a Chinese buffet with his dad.

Thankfully, Cade chose Olive Garden.

The surprising thing wasn't where we ate. It was that, for once, the twins weren't interacting with each other. They were interacting one-on-one with us.

Those conversations were priceless.

Because the real superpower has never been the food.

It's the gathering.

Family meals create conversations.

Back when this story first happened, nobody had a phone glued to their hand.

Around our table that night, we talked about how Conner would get his turn to hunt squirrels next time. We swapped stories about my childhood, eating Pearl River swamp squirrels and rabbits smothered in country gravy. Sometimes there were frog legs involved.

My country roots provided plenty of opportunities to eat exotic wildlife, though I would have happily traded most of it for a grilled chicken breast.

Today, the saddest thing is looking around restaurants and seeing families sitting together while everyone stares at a screen.

Gathered, but not really together.

Present, but not connected.

Some of my favorite memories are Sunday meals at my dad's house. Dad always cooked—thankfully, because Mom could burn ice cubes.

The New Orleans Saints would be losing, Friends and family would be yelling at the television between bites, and somehow those became some of the sweetest moments of my life.

Oh, what wonderful times.

Treasure your time with your children.

Mine are all grown now.

Family dinners are fewer and farther between.

The chairs around the table sit empty more than they used to.

I realize my voice is no longer the loudest influence in their lives. The world has plenty of opinions competing for their attention.

The voices that filled the room have lives of their own now.

I think often of an Amy Grant lyric:

"Watching my children finding their way, through struggles and triumphs and heartbreak. I hope the roads they take are making them strong. I'll still be on my knees long after they're gone. Love has made me Unafraid.

I am not sure I am unafraid, but I am doing my best to cast the worrying over to the Good Lord because it’s all out of my control anyway.

I only hope I got enough vitamins and love poured into all those times we ate as a family.

What’s for dinner at your house tonight?

Does the menu sound like Grandpa from Hee Haw?

A Bistro?

A grab fest from the pantry?

Whatever the plate holds, put down the phones and ask questions of the loved one sitting at the table with you.

My dining chairs that once seemed permanently occupied sit empty more often than not.

noreply@blogger.com (My Hometown USA) — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 18:38:06 +0000

Monsters in my Closet!

There were always monsters around when I was young.

What was lurking under the bed.

What dark things were in my closet.

And something was always waiting outside in the dark.

Cinematic beasts drove my young fears into imaginary trauma as a young 70s kid.

My Mom loved Dracula vampire movies. She watched every vampire film she could find, including the gothic soap opera Dark Shadows.

Unfortunately for me, my mother was also a sleepwalker.

Nothing prepares a child for waking up in the middle of the night to find a pale woman with long dark hair drifting through the room in a flowing black nightgown. She would stare straight ahead as if under a spell, open drawers, move things around for no apparent reason, then slowly glide back out of the room.

That was normal at our house.

We always had to make sure the front door was locked.

Not to keep monsters out.

To keep Mama in.

We let her escape a few times.

In my glorious youth, Creature from the Black Lagoon convinced me to avoid every swamp, pond, creek, and suspicious puddle in Mississippi. The Gill Monster was one of those walking, looming monsters that made women suddenly trip, stumble, fall, twist an ankle, or become temporarily incapable of running whenever he appeared.

Did the creature possess a terrifying, innate power?

The ability to make people clumsy.

Then came the movies of Charles B. Pierce. The Legend of Boggy Creek and The Town That Dreaded Sundown gave me plenty of reasons to avoid looking out the window after dark.

A mysterious Bigfoot-like creature roaming the woods and a masked killer stalking the night were all the proof my imagination needed that danger was lurking just beyond the porch light.

Of course, they never caught the Phantom.

And as far as I know, the Fouke Monster is probably still out there somewhere, terrorizing rednecks and leaving suspicious footprints.

Revisiting those older films now, I can't help but smile at how quaint and harmless they feel. It's funny how those once-terrifying scenes used to keep me up at night!

Other horror films didn't help matters. Don't Be Afraid of the Dark featured tiny, ugly creatures peering from dark corners whenever the lights went out.

Despite the title, the movie accomplished exactly the opposite. I was afraid of the dark!

And then there was Jaws.

That shark managed to keep an entire generation out of the ocean.

Some folks avoided bathtubs.

As I grew older, the sophistication of monsters grew.

As I got older, monsters changed. Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, and increasingly graphic horror films took over the genre. Eventually, the gore outweighed the fun, and I lost interest.

Today's monsters arrive with stunning special effects, CGI, artificial intelligence, and enough surround sound to launch you out of your seat.

I watched one of the A Quiet Place movies where silence kept you alive cause one sound could bring a giant, violent alien creature ending your life. I became so tense that I let out a blood-curdling scream at exactly the wrong moment. In a VERY quiet theater.

I embarrassed my son!

The older I get, the less interested I am in fictional horrors. Maybe it's because real life supplies enough monsters of its own. Turn on the news, scroll social media, or spend a few minutes on YouTube and you'll discover that reality can be far more disturbing than anything Hollywood creates.

Maybe, as I have grown much older, I am not so entertained by the scary, vileness of society or imagination. Maybe, my Christian Walk has changed my taste in stories.

The scripture says what is good for your minds and souls. Philippians 4:8. “Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, if anything is excellent or praiseworthy-think about these things.”

I think we often feed our fears.

Negative influences are easily entertained creating the birth of anxiety. It seems like our younger generation have an overwhelming load of that.

Still, I enjoy revisiting those old monster movies. Nostalgia has a way of softening the rough edges of the past. The things that once terrified us somehow become cherished memories.

The monsters under my bed are gone.

Nothing hides in my closet. (There really isn't any room for nefarious monsters)

And the shadows outside no longer worry me.

I've finally beaten those childhood fears.

Which is a good thing.

Because if the Gill Man ever does come back, I'm pretty sure he can outrun me now.