I was just 8 years old that year. I was a true country girl at heart. My other little friends were listening to the latest popular songs, but oh no - not me. I was too busy recording myself with my Grandpa’s old tape recorder singing “Mountain of Love” by Charley Pride and relishing in my old country tunes. Not entirely sure why that song was tops on my list, but in reality it was just one of many.

I loved Dolly when I was a little girl. I knew many of her songs and sang them repeatedly.

I loved her so much that in 1981 I declared I wanted to be Dolly for Halloween. Once again, I was separating myself from my peers who were busy snatching up store-bought costumes of their favorite cartoon characters and comic book heroes. Noticing a theme here? I tend to only hear my drumbeat.

Now, how does an 8-year old go about dressing up as Dolly? Let me enlighten you.

It was a collaborative effort between me and my mother. Two balloons were procured. The most important aspect of the costume and definitely no doubt what those were for. Then I needed: a blonde wig - check; a cowgirl hat - check; a snug, but not too snug top so my “balloons” had plenty of breathing room - check; sassy jeans and cowgirl boots - check; and finally a fancy belt of sorts - check.

On went the purple top and sassy jeans. Next came the blonde wig and cowgirl hat. I slipped into my cowgirl boots and tied off my fancy belt. THEN, the “chef’s kiss” of my outfit was last but certainly NOT LEAST. My two balloons were carefully slipped into my purple shirt and adjusted to line up evenly. Don’t want one balloon higher than the other, right ladies?

Ah yes - I WAS DOLLY!

I posed for my one and only Polaroid pic. It was a side shot so my “balloons” were captured in all their glory. Right hand on right hip, left hand on left hip, and a mischievous smile. It was a classic Dolly pose, and has lived on in infamy as my BEST Halloween costume.

Off I went with my candy bag in hand. My one and only goal was to fill it to the brim and not pop my balloon boobies. I can only imagine the reactions of the candy passer-outers as they doled out sugary goodness to Spiderman, Batman, Minnie Mouse and…a chesty 8 year old in a blonde wig. Hopefully my attempt at a Dolly impersonation was not lost on them. Oddly enough, that was the biggest candy haul of my trick-or-treating career.

My heart broke when I heard the news that our sweet, beautiful, extremely talented and giving Dolly had passed. I always likened her as one of my hillbilly sisters.

Dolly taught me to never underestimate a little country gal. She was tough, a force to be reckoned with, and she had a heart that was bigger than we could ever imagine.

“I never tried quitting, and I never quit trying.” ~ Dolly Parton

Wise words to live by.

Rest in Peace Dolly. The world lost a truly beautiful soul, but your songs and love for life will continue to thrive and inspire many.

Until next time…

hum a Dolly tune or two.

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This morning started out in a somewhat Goldilocks-like fashion. The clouds overhead shielded me from the penetrating sun that I knew would eventually be roasting my little homestead in a mere few hours. It wasn’t too hot and it wasn’t too cold. It was juuuuust right. I was finalizing some outdoor tasks before the sweat-fest took its hold on me.

Little did I know the morning would turn into despair and solemn resignation.

Fast forward to the task at hand. It was time to find a final resting place for 13 years worth of homestead “collections”. I, along with my brother, made the short trip to that place where the unwanted is tossed into oblivion. This place is not for the faint of heart. It is not where you ponder whether you hold on to something that may still eek out a few more breaths of life. It’s where you simply let go and free yourself from the albatross of excess and the no-longer-useful trappings of life.

Yes. It’s called the dump.

We made our way to the top of the hill as directed by the kind lady at the entrance window. We were even given a map should we fail to read the signs and follow our intuition to the most logical area to dump our wares.

Down went the back ramp on the trailer. We arrived just in time. Rigs were starting to line up waiting for a slot to open. Everyone was trying to beat the heat.

Things were going swimmingly. We were the masters of our trash domain. My brother and I worked in fluid harmony as we unloaded the things we had made good use of, but now needed to rest in peace. I was lost in the moment and never expected what would come next.

Then it happened.

I grabbed a hold of some old pieces of wood. I turned to my left and heftily tossed them into the ever-growing pile. But it didn’t end there. My over-zealous nature and sheer mortal strength sent me spinning further to the left than I anticipated.

My legs buckled, and I felt my body slowly listing to the left. I knew what lie ahead. I knew the red clay ground was my fate, so I just went with it. Slowly, knowingly, limply…went with it.

Like a slow-motion train wreck, this middle-aged homestead gal in shorts and Muck boots rolled down and off the side of the trailer ramp, and plopped on her back onto the dumpy dirt. Right there, in front of the multitudes of rigs lined up waiting for my slot, and several more to my west already adding to the hill of crap. Right in front of the guy sitting in that monstrosity of bulldozer waiting for my ass to get out of the way so he could scrape all my junk into the bigger pile.

For 4.36 seconds, I laid on my back with my legs and arms sprawled like I was preparing to make a dust angel mixed in with some plastic bags, nefarious particles, chunks of rotten wood, and empty hazardous waste containers. If I had a white flag, I would have waved it. For those mere seconds I contemplated giving up on life and living as a scavenger amongst the forgotten and tossed wares of mortal beings.

Finally I came to my senses. I remembered my recent post preaching how important “forward motion” is. Admittedly, I snickered and thought “forward motion my ass”. BUT, then I chastised myself. How could I not practice what I preach?? So I pulled myself up by my muck boots and carried on. I had put on a show for the dump goers, and I powered through a moment where I thought all was lost. Well, where at least my ego was lost.

So, that is the end of my deeply personal tale. I hope my story inspires someone out there.

I hope it reveals that even if life hands you a crap sandwich at the dump, and you want to stay lying vulnerably IN the dump of life: grab your muck boots, pull your dusty ass up, bow to the crowd, and carry on.

Until next time,

stay upright.

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If you have ever had the pleasure of being in the presence of an English Bulldog, then you know just how charismatic and endearing they are. If you haven’t spent time with one, then let me paint you a picture of a typical day in the life of a “bully”…

Eat.

Fart.

Snore.

Fart.

Go for a ride in the car.

Snore.

Eat.

Fart.

Snore.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Yup, that pretty much sums it up. I am blessed to have a “Bully” in my motley pack of dogs, and he is appropriately named “Dozer”. Oh, my dear sweet Doz Doz. Thanks to him, I have had to repaint my walls repeatedly because the stench of his farts keeps peeling the paint off. Yes - they are that fragrant. But who could blame him. If your nose was crammed up into your face and your mouth was as wide as the Grand Canyon, you would suck in some serious air too. The only place for that air to exit is from his cute derrière. What is most entertaining is when he sits down next to me, a fart eeks out and he looks at me as if to say “What?? You fart too ya’ know”.

He has a face only a mother could love (and I do!), and teeth that – if they ever existed – a doggy orthodontist could retire early just from fixing Doz’s “toofers”. Yet, despite his glorious underbite he manages to lick his bowl clean. Although it does take him standing with a paw in the bowl to keep it in place while he shows it who’s boss with his 6-foot wide head.

I don’t know what it is about bullies, but they LOVE anything with wheels. I am sure you have seen many a video of a bulldog on a skateboard. In Dozer’s younger days he would try to eat the lawn tractor tires while I mowed, and it seemed just about anything that moved he needed to attach his mouth to.

Speaking of wheels, he insists on riding along in the car and thinks he should go on EVERY trip. He knows when I am getting ready to leave and he stealthily places himself either by the front door so I can’t exit unless he goes first, or by the car door to send a clear and distinct message – “I am going with you, and you will just deal with it. Oh, and will you please lift me up into the backseat?”. Once in the backseat, he promptly lays down and carries on with his daily routine – snore, fart, snore…fart some more. MAYBE sit up and look out the window to see if we are somewhere he deems worthy of taking a gander at. It’s a miracle I have not passed out while driving from the aromatic puffs of air that exit his nether regions. I could just imagine that patrol stop.

Officer - “Ma’am, we found you in the ditch on the side of the highway. You were passed out and drooling. Do you care to explain what happened?”.

Me – “Officer, I am so sorry. I was merely heading to the store with my trusty bully “Dozer”. He let an epic fart loose and next thing I knew…you were waking me up from a fart-induced blackout.”

Officer – “I have been patrolling this highway for 30 years, and that is the first time I have found someone in a ditch due to a fart blackout. I am going to let you go on this one, but please do me one favor."

Me –“Oh, of course officer…whatever you say”.

Officer – “Crack a window or two when you are chauffeuring your handsome beast around”.

By the way, Dozer is truly a lady’s man. Any time I take him somewhere he mercilessly flirts with every woman and they just gush over his handsome mug. He is a people magnet for sure. Who doesn’t love a Bully?!

Ol’ Dozer is getting on in age, but he still chases after a tire here and there and now regularly requires a lift onto the couch or into the car. But as far as bullies go he is a specimen to marvel at, and his farts have surely not lost their aroma. I always say living with him is like living with a little old man. I hope for more years to come he is my farting, snoring, stubborn ol’ fella.

And that, my friends, is an “Ode to a Bulldog”.

Until next time…

live simply.

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I am convinced I have at one time lived in the days of wagon trains, Annie Oakley, and the pony express. I am even more convinced I popped out of my mother’s comforting womb with the love of horses coursing through my blood before I ever laid eyes on one. At the ripe age of four, I was taking riding lessons and was as happy as a pig in a mud hole.

By the time I was about 8 years old, I had my own horse. His name was Chief. He was as stubborn as the day was long, but he tolerated my complete lack of experience, and in hindsight I could not have asked for a better horse. Sadly, he had a major injury that ultimately led to his demise. Then along came my second horse “Cat” (short for “Catahoula Creek). That’s when things got really SAUCY.

He was young and I was young. Not a good combination. Fortunately, wisdom prevailed and I was paired with a phenomenal trainer who normally only took horses in to train. Not a 10-year old in tight Sergio Valente Jeans and a hand-me-down pair of pointed toe cowgirl boots with worn soles because I refused to wear anything else. He saw the train wreck that could happen with two untrained youngsters and I imagine he just couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t attempt to arm us with some tidbits of knowledge so death was not the unintended goal. As much as I revered and admired this man then and still do as one of the finest teachers in my life, he is not the subject of this tale.

The most extraordinary teacher I have ever had is the horse. Nary a word has he spoken, but through body language, energy, and life experience the horse has taught me the importance of patience, perseverance, courage, determination, strength to overcome adversity, and the art of simplicity and presence. The pure power and resiliency of the horse even in the most unfavorable circumstances is impressive and second to none.

The horse has taught me to keep my eye on the trail ahead and my destination while I navigate creeks and crevices, hills and rocks. He has taught me that looking back means I will not see the beauty in the future. Stopping to always contemplate my next step will keep me from the adventure that lies ahead. Staring too long at the daunting and unknown object on the trail may result in convincing myself I must turn back for safer haven. All of these instances share a common denominator: FORWARD MOTION. The horse excels when he is moving forward. He learns to overcome obstacles when he walks through them or past them. He measures his determination and ability by moving beyond what he thinks is his breaking point and reaching his destination. He learns courage when he confronts the unknown, acknowledges it, and then continues on.

I have been blessed to own horses for 45 years. If you have spent any time around me, or engaged in “horse talk” with me, you will hear me refer to FORWARD MOTION often. It is the golden nugget of knowledge when working with horses, and through all these years I have learned it is also the golden nugget we all need when living life on life’s terms. It is my mantra as I move through this next phase of my life that will surely will lead to some very notable changes, and hopefully grand adventures as well.

I tip my hat to the best 4-legged teachers I have ever had. They have come in many sizes, colors, breeds and ages throughout my life. I have utilized them for many purposes: teach others, comfort souls, build confidence, explore uncharted territory. The list goes on and on. But the one takeaway for me is FORWARD MOTION. It’s how I have and will continue to live life.

Words aren’t always necessary to learn. Often it is within the realm of the unspoken that we learn the most. When our senses are heightened and we are in the present moment.

To the horse: My savior and my teacher….forever and always.

Until next time,

always keep your eyes on the horizon.

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HOWEVER - stick with me on this one folks because spoiler alert: the boat does not capsize and you will truly be enlightened by a little tidbit about our Nation’s birth.

We are all well versed about our Declaration of Independence. The date of July 4th is front and center of that visionary document.

But quite often, the facts and actual events of our Nation are overshadowed by days, celebrations, traditions and events that somehow, some way, were created and thus enshrined as “normal”.

On July 3rd in Philadelphia, future President John Adams wrote a very passionate, thoughtful, and somewhat somber letter to his wife Abigail in Massachusetts. He remarked about the official action by the Second Continental Congress to declare the independence of the 13 colonies on July 2nd, and thus we embarked on an experimental journey that would eventually culminate in the United States of America we know of today.

He exclaimed there should be celebration of the joyous event every year, consisting of festivals, parades, sports, games, bonfires and more. His reverence for the historical moment was not lost in his words, and the efforts that culminated in the declaration were truly noteworthy.

Despite the letter’s celebratory tone, John Adams also knew this was just the first step of many to not only secure, but KEEP, the newly won freedom of our Nation. He knew there would be trials and tribulations, wars and bloodshed. He knew freedom was hard to win, and even harder to keep.

The Declaration of Independence was formally adopted on July 4, 1776. Two days after the official declaration passed by the Second Continental Congress. It is this date that Americans chose to celebrate the anniversary of freedom and independence. I suppose it makes sense to choose July 4th as many in our new little Nation were most likely not privy to the activities of the Continental Congress and simply referred to the Declaration of Independence document. It is safe to say, however, the TRUE date of our freedom falls on July 2nd.

So, here I am - 2 days late and a hotdog short to celebrate July 2nd as the most profound and pivotal day in American history.

Don’t get me wrong. July 4th is quite important as well, and there should be celebrations a-plenty. Toss some dogs and hamburgers on the grill, throw back a cold one, and get ready for your annual fireworks “oooohhhh” and “aaaaahhhhh”.

My hope is that perhaps next year on July 2nd you will pause for a moment to think of John Adams penning a letter to his wife about the significance of the date and the true birth of our freedom. Lest we forget, freedom is hard won and hard fought and the fight will always continue.

Happy July 2nd, oh, huh, July 4th everyone! Let’s make sure FREEDOM continues to ring.

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I can, however, reveal one detail about this new life chapter. To be frank, it’s the biggest and most important detail.

There is NO WAY I could pull off what I am attempting to do without the help, support, and sheer graciousness of some really amazing friends and family. To say that I am blessed is the understatement of the century.

Words aren’t enough…

To express my eternal gratitude.

To describe the love, comfort, and peacefulness these relationships bring to my world.

To repay them for all they have been so willing to do to help me. But then, I always believe actions speak far louder than words, and therefore I pray that my actions will show them just how much I appreciate their kindness, love and generosity.

Coming from a gal that earns a living using words and holds an undying reverence for the written word…

Saying “words aren’t enough” should hold some weight.

So, my dear ones that are walking alongside me through all of this, or darting here and there to pick up any pieces I may have scattered about thanks to my addled brain…

THANK YOU. From the very depths of my heart - THANK YOU. I pray that in the near future this new phase of life will afford me the opportunity to spend more time with you, be present in the moment for you, and to be someone you know without a doubt you can call upon for anything.

Stay tuned subscribers! This adventure will reveal itself when the time is right.

Until next time…

always remember that in a world full of crazy, there are still a LOT of good people out there.

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Just a little background for you. I am NOT a fan of flying. No, I am not that flight-a-phobic woman in the window seat curled up in the fetal position muttering under her breath, or the crazy drunk chick in the back who hit the airport bar after popping some “happy pills” just so she can muster the courage to board the plane. I am a much more tame version of those scenarios. I am just the over-thinking and over-analyzing soul that hopes and prays the mechanics didn’t go on a bender the night before, and the pilots brought their A-game.

Normally I prefer to just settle into my 3-inch wide seat and crack open a book. Or, I attempt to catch some z’s which if I am lucky enough to do so means my mouth is agape, my head is flopping around like a rag doll, and I just hope I don’t start drooling.

But my outbound flight heading for my layover in Dallas was truly an interesting and delightful one. Which by today’s flying standards means something.

It started with an announcement over the airport terminal gate intercom that went something like this - “We request that no one bring on or eat any nuts during this flight to Dallas. There is a traveler with a severe nut allergy. Thank you."

I paraphrased that slightly, but that was the gist of the request. Needless to say, EVERYONE started looking around at EVERYONE else milling about the gate area to see just who was this demanding soul that would be denying them their peanut consumption enjoyment they were so looking forward to. That remains a mystery to this day.

Once on the puddle jumper plane, I located my window seat and the nice older gentleman with his Navy Veteran hat stood up to let me in. I plopped, or rather squeezed, into my assigned seat and buckled myself in. If you are a subscriber, you might have recalled a post some time back about asking Veterans how they are doing rather than an automated “thank you for your service” statement. I believe if I write or say things that I should practice them. So, I asked this kind man - “How are you doing"?”.

What ensued was one of the most delightful, insightful, intelligent and interesting conversations I have - 1. had on a plane and 2. had in my lifetime. His name was Steve, and turns out he did not live too awful far from me. He was a career Navy man, then a second career as a history teacher, a host to students from other countries, a dedicated husband and family man, and a saintly soul that was taking his turn to go to Florida to help his mother-in-law who he described as being in the beginning stages of dementia.

We talked up a storm the entire flight. Nothing was off the table. Life, politics, religion, culture, personal stories. He learned some things from me, and I gained some wisdom from him. We were the last ones off the plane because we didn’t want our conversation to end.

We parted ways at the terminal gate in Dallas Ft. Worth. We gave each other a hug, and wished one another safe travels.

While so many other passengers had their eyes glued to their phones or iPads, Steve and I engaged in what now seems like an old tradition of respectful conversation and storytelling. We were engaged in the HUMAN experience. It seems to be a lost art that I sincerely hope one day resurfaces in our world.

As far as flights go, it was the best one ever. I am not a peanut fan so no love lost there, and I met someone that will forever leave an indelible mark on my life even if our paths never cross again.

To my new friend Steve - THANK YOU for being you. Thank you for listening and sharing your thoughts and wisdom. Thank you for not only defending freedom, but for filling the brains of your students with knowledge. Thank you for being a kind, respectful man who is not afraid to speak his mind.

I doubt I will have another flying experience that will top the “no flying nuts allowed” and a friendship cultivated in the space of 2 hours. But, life is an adventure and who knows - maybe another enjoyable traveling experience is in my future.

Steve, wherever you are…I hope you are well my friend.

Until next time,

put down the phone and have a good old fashion chit chat.

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I have so much to opine about, and lots of article topics building up in my feeble old pea brain. So fear not. I will truly make a concerted effort to carve out time to dispense some musings.

I did, however, want to hop on the trusty ol’ Dell ‘puter and speak now so I don’t have to forever hold my peace about this Hanta Virus hullabaloo that is fast becoming the hot news topic of the day.

All I can say is - we have been down this road before (hint - 2020) that ends with a hearty fall off a giant cliff if we choose to join the rest of the crowd on the fear monger freeway.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.

Don’t fall for the hype about this Hanta Virus crap. Do your homework. Learn from 6 years ago and the load of B.S. that was fed to us.

Stand tall, and buck the system. “They” are counting on you to fall in line. Do not oblige.

Eat healthy, drink water, get outside and get lots of sun. And NO! The sun’s rays are NOT lethal as they would like you to believe, but rather HEALING.

I don’t want to seem crass, but I’m gonna’ be any way. I’m giving a giant middle finger to the medical and government “establishment” that continually tries to pull the wool over our eyes and suck the lifeblood out of us. I am SO over ALL of it. I’m livin’ life, won’t be contained, and quite frankly - they can plant their wrinkly old crony lips on my middle-aged derriere.

Well, enough said I suppose. I just felt compelled to reach out to my peeps before this virus crap potentially blows up into something. Lest we forget…desperate people do desperate things. Let’s hope the proverbial “they” realize we are ALL smarter and stronger than ever before and “they” will crawl back into their deep, dark, slimy holes.

Life goes on. Live it on YOUR terms.

Hillbilly Honey…out.

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Musings of a Constitutionalist and politically marooned soul…

I wrote and posted this poem a few years ago. I feel its revival is necessary now and begs the question - WHO is the Emperor? That question will make sense once you read the poem. As you read it, ponder the following…

Are there many “emperors”? Are they the elected? Or are they the unelected that lurk in the nefarious shadows, carrying fat wallets or pulling the legislative strings that enable them to sway outcomes for selfish needs and advocate for countries whose interests and wars do NOT benefit Americans? Is it an elitist that donated $250 million to a campaign? Perhaps it’s those that deem themselves the all-knowing gatekeepers of information who advocate for technocratic surveillance that erodes our freedoms, and appoint themselves as the conductors of the perceived symphony of free speech. I would love to hear what you, my dear subscribers, think about these words and the state of our Republic. In my oh-so-humble opinion, the “collective we” need to sit up, and pay very, very close attention to what is going on in OUR COUNTRY. Her fate does not rest in the hands of the elected uni-party, displaced heroism, or idolizing those in power but rather in the hearts, souls, and determination of her citizens to honor her basic founding principles. United we stand, divided we fall. I pray for the former…

The Battle

Heaven help the Republic

Whose morals have gone awry.

The sycophants rule in underpants,

the Emperor’s clothes…are not nigh.

The shepherds rally from rooftops,

while below sheep bleat in sighs.

And the Constitutional weary

dab teardrops from their eyes.

As asunder sodden feet,

hard won freedom slowly dies.

But while those clad in underpants

hide royal garments low and high.

The battle tested warriors

plan feverishly in the night,

to strip thy sycophants naked,

and clothe thee Emperor into flight.

I truly appreciate ALL of you and your support. Though I have been a bit absent, my ultimate goal is to grow my Substack newsletter. So here is a shameless plea to kindly ask you to share my posts with others if you deem them worthy of doing so. Comments are always welcome and I am open to suggestions, constructive criticism and spirited debate. Writing is a therapeutic outlet for me, but I like to share my musings in the hopes my words touch others and foster delight, humor, education, thoughtful insight, critical thinking, love of freedom, calls to action, and rational debate.

Until next time…

stay safe and ensure freedom continues to ring.

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THIS was the long-awaited stand-off that would potentially seal the fate of the decorative rights of the humble homeowners. Though battle-weary and bleary-eyed, their resolve was palpable. They steeled their emotions and set their jaws firm. They were united in this fight, and willing to die on the hill of personal expression.

The Elite Select were equally resolved in their stance of enforcing conformity and blasé exterior preferences for the humble abodes that fell under their purview of rule. Though they exuded power and prestige, the truth is they were shaking in their boots as they faced an even angrier mob than the last encounter. But make no mistake, the last meeting about this very issue would, by the end of this battle, seem like a leisurely walk in the park.

The Supreme Elite Select made the first move and admonished the humble homeowners. In a loud, defiant tone he challenged them to immediately produce their list of demands. You see, for some time now he had been rehearsing in his mind his clever, power-hungry responses to what he envisioned those demands would be. He was ready to shout down the humble homeowners and put them in their rightful place.

The homeowners’ glances fervently darted toward their chosen leader. A brief silence cast upon the room, and everyone knew that this moment of silence was the prelude to the battle that would ensue. A battle whose story would be passed down to the generations yet to come.

The humble leader calmly stood up, paper in one hand, and that tattered copy of Robert’s Rules of Order in the other and declared the masses had chosen to tackle the issue just as the founding fathers of our nation decreed oh-so-long ago. They determined a committee of representation would be formed. Fairness, logical reason, and aesthetic pleasures would be taken into account, and an agreeable amendment – voted on BY ALL of course - to be quilled in the night by lantern that would surely bring satisfaction for all, and personal expression would be the freedom hard won.

Oh, but listen my dear readers. Power doth not care for a group of humble folks to rise in unison and demand fairness, freedom, and personal expression. Let us not forget that age-old sentiment – absolute power corrupts absolutely. When the fragile veil of power is lifted only to reveal a little man feverishly working the dials and knobs that cast but merely the illusion of control…well – all hell breaks loose.

This 5-D chess move by the humble homeowners fully upended the Supreme Elite Select’s pre-determined response. For you see, he did not expect a measured and Constitutional-like approach from the humble, although well-educated homeowners. He and his minions were slack-jawed, and one can only imagine the mental gymnastics happening inside their power-hungry craniums that would elicit an equally smart response.

Well, my dear friends, that response was not to be had. Instead, their unified front was met with a spittle-laden shout down from the Supreme Elite Select that was accompanied with some dramatic hand-gesturing, involuntary convulsions, and a misrepresentation of facts previously stated about this particular meeting’s trajectory. They were scolded like naughty little children and told to promptly leave the premises. In other words – “go to your rooms and think about what you’ve done!”.

One by one, somewhat shocked by the temper tantrum they had just witnessed, they defiantly and quietly walked out of the room. But one must understand, they did not leave because this war had not been won. Oh no, they left because they fully understood that you have to lose some battles to win the war. The Elite Select had just handed them another arrow to add to their quiver.

As they wandered back to their humble abodes, they couldn’t help but sheepishly smile, knowing this rumble in the ‘hood was just beginning and in due time, victory would be theirs to declare. Some homeowners secretly strategized in the darkness of that night, and it was agreed they would raid every Dollar Tree in a 10 mile radius and purchase every tacky yard ornament they could get their hands on. If the Elite Select thought the current state of exterior home expression was an issue now, boy-oh-boy…just wait until these rebels adorn their yards with plastic pink flamingos, neon-colored pinwheels, fake flowers, and oversized gnomes as a visual protest of the recently enacted oppressive rule. I may just pop some popcorn for that show!

Stay tuned for the next installment of the HOA Saga. I have filled my ink well and have quill pens a plenty.

Until next time…

Hold your cards close to your chest and never let them catch wind of all that you know.

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Last but not least, there’s a Christmas Sale going on at www.wackywonkybooks.com! A great gift idea for the little (or big!) book lovers in your life. Or maybe some Wacky and Wonky merchandise for the kids and young at heart.

Wishing you a Wacky Wonky Evening!

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Combat of this nature is not for the weak. It’s dirty, hard, draining, and forces one to be creative enough to outsmart the enemy with offensive strategies and fortified defensive actions.

There are tools of the trade – some conventional, some not – that are essential. There are screams of frustration, indistinguishable guttural sounds, and words said that would make any bonafide sailor blush.

What battle is it you ask?

‘Tis the great Homestead Turkey War.

Every year, as the days grow longer my Tom Turkeys become…well…downright horny and ornery.

They strut around, stomp their feet, accost my poor turkey hens, and think they are hot stuff. They fan their tails, puff out their chests, and gobble ‘til the cows come home. It’s quite the display of narcissism if I ever saw one.

Now all of this wouldn’t be so bad, if not for one critical flaw in my little turkey breeding ecosystem. Those doggone Toms view me as a competitor for the affection of their much-desired hens.

This sets the stage for the epic annual battle between woman and turkey.

When the testosterone starts to course like a raging river through their veins, I must suit up and prepare for a feathered war. Most of the day they choose to not pick a fight with me. It’s when the sun starts to go down, the sky turns a sexy, slate gray, the mood lighting from the moon starts to peak out from behind a cloud or two, and it’s time for the Toms to hit the hay with the hens. Then it’s game on. Echoing throughout the holler are screams, bangs and booms, and a line of curse words that stretch a mile long.

Up to this point, I have emerged victorious from every battle. But one day, one of those feathered f*#ckers might just get the best of me. And when that time comes, rest assured - I will be undoing the buttons on my pants after a hearty, well-deserved, and very tasty TURKEY DINNER!

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I listened to the podcast of one of my most favorite men in the world – Mike Rowe. I tell you what – if that man were to auction off the demise of his bachelorhood to the highest bidder…I would sell my soul. Okay, enough “hound doggin’” as my father would call it.

On this particular podcast he was interviewing Steven Grayhm, who starred in and directed a new movie coming out called “Sheepdog”. It is about the stories and struggles of veterans who must assimilate back into society after serving in combat, and the demons that haunt them. It is about the “why” for most serving in the military, and the hope that exists and is often found within a band of brothers and sisters.

The conversation morphed into how those of us that have not served in the military - but are truly grateful for those that have – often stop and say to a veteran “thank you for your service”. Sometimes it’s followed up with a strong handshake just to drive the point home. I have done this many times myself. I TRULY do mean it by the way. There are veterans in my life and in my family. But Steven and Mike spoke of the conversations they have had with vets on the receiving end of those gestures, and it made me swallow some pride and think twice before I ever do that again.

They revealed that while most vets can appreciate the effort of someone like me thanking them, it’s a gesture that often seems hollow. Almost expected or automated. You see, they didn’t really do it for me, or us. They did it for very personal reasons and often simply out of true love and dedication for our Nation and the freedoms we so often take for granted. Many have said they would do it again. If, despite any tragedies they suffered as a consequence of their service, they would put themselves on the line like that one more time. Well, that just proves the depth of why they chose to serve our country. And it’s a choice that deserves more than just a standard, albeit well-meaning statement, such as “thank you for your service”.

You see, it seems they would prefer a question. A simple, earnest, sincere question that many of us have asked others a thousand times. “How are you doing?”. For many of them, this is an invite to maybe shed some light on their struggles, or maybe even share some of their delight in serving our country. It signals to them that you really do care and opens the door to even just a few seconds of fellowship and concern. Let’s face it. If we really do care about them and their service to our country, then we should be more than willing to ask them how they are and be absolutely fine with whatever answer they choose to give. No matter how short or how long.

I look forward to seeing the movie “Sheepdog”, which is 14 years in the making. If you want to know how that 14 years culminated, I encourage you to watch Mike Rowe’s interview with Steven Grayhm. Absolutely enlightening, and it will make you really open your eyes to our veterans, and how divine intervention has a funny way of inserting itself into our lives in order to allow us to carry out VERY personal missions that bring a voice to the voiceless, and raise awareness when little to no light is being cast on the issue. Links below.

Lastly – PLEASE share this post if you deem it worthy of passing along. Not because I want any notoriety, but because the message of Mike’s interview and Steven’s movie MUST be spread far and wide and my little Substack newsletter is the only way I know best to do so.

Until next time…

To all the veterans out there. If I bump into you, be rest assured I will ask how you are doing, and I will be all ears for your answers.

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https://www.sheepdogthemovie.com/

Soon, the sound got closer and louder. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and my spidey senses tingled. I pulled out the tissue I had stuffed in my bra to clean my tri-focal spectacles in the hope I would see what was causing the sound. I cupped my hand behind my good ear in an effort to glean some nugget of familiar sound that would provide me some reassurance California had not finally fallen into the ocean, and the tsunami it caused was headed my way.

Then…I heard it. The sound was undeniable at this point, and a mixture of relief, curiosity, and sheer panic swathed me like a naked newborn that was wrapped tightly in a blanket for the first time after being tipped over and its ass spanked as a grand welcome into its new world.

It was marching. Lots and lots of people marching. I could finally see them rounding the corner of the road that led to the community building. There were hundreds of them! Some short, some tall, some fat, some skinny. Some with pitchforks, some with torches. Some in scooters and some with canes. Old, older, young, and in between. The only commonality they shared was the clear indication they were madder than a flock of wet hens! They were pissed. And more importantly…they were loaded for bear.

Just as they were nearing the community building, my cell phone alarm chimed loudly and nearly caused me to pee my Depends. I then remembered why it was chirping at me. Tonight was the homeowners association meeting. But it was not just any ordinary meeting. It was THE ONE that would determine the fate of the neighborhood aesthetics for YEARS to come. It was THE ONE that had been announced in the community newsletter about the decision made by the Elite Select there would be NO MORE exterior artful displays of personal taste and expression. We were being scrubbed of our right to dot the landscape and walls of our humble abodes with flair and festivity, and would be relegated to conformity and sterility. No more hand-painted bird baths! No more potted geraniums! No more seasonal trappings that bring delight and wonder to all who see them! No more expression of me, myself and I. With the swift signing of a pen - or in this day and age a few clanks on a laptop keyboard - our freedom had been duly squashed.

Hell hath no fury like a bunch of home owners having a finger wagged in their face. The lines had been drawn, and the words tied to the Elite Select’s most recent vote…well them’s fightin’ words.

The room was busting at the seams, and one could easily sense there was a thirst for blood in the air. The Elite Select sat behind their giant wood table that served as the only barrier between them and the maniacal mob that faced them. Tiny beads of sweat dotted their foreheads, and I am pretty sure one of them was in need of a change of underwear.

The meeting began with a bang, and it was game on. One by one the angry mob shared their dislike and disdain of the new empirical ruling. Some used colorful language. Some used reverse psychology. Some tried their old tactics from high school debate club. Some pointed their pitchforks toward the Elite Select and cast spells on them. Pretty sure I saw someone placing pins in the eyeballs of a voodoo doll of the Supreme Elite Select. Some just laid in a corner in the fetal position and sobbed quietly.

I was disgusted by the Elite Select’s ruling for a few reasons. One - I have a flair for the arts and like to decorate my humble home as I see fit (and tastefully I might add). Two - I am a taxpaying, God-fearing American and the last time I checked…this is ‘MERICA! Three - I knew I would become rather irritated by all the closet drunks in the neighborhood trying to get in my house after partaking in happy hour thinking it’s THEIR house…because all the damn houses look the same!

As the meeting came to a close, it was clear the angry mob and the Elite Select were holding fast to their viewpoints on the subject. I think about an hour had passed, and well…since the meeting started at 6pm, many of the residents were fighting the urge to take their last dose of Metamucil, pop out their teeth, and get to bed. The evening ended in somewhat of a stalemate, although I think the angry mob made some headway as the Elite Select said they would “consider” some viable options. I think this was just their way of making sure they got out of the building alive.

The angry mob retreated - pitchforks and all. They dispersed throughout the neighborhood to their designated abodes to catch a few “z’s” and refresh themselves for the long, hard fight ahead of securing personal expression and freedom.

The Elite Select were whisked away by an HOA version of secret service and are currently residing in an undisclosed location until this hullabaloo gets resolved. Hopefully in a way that makes everyone at least somewhat less pissed off.

So, the saga continues. Be sure to watch for the next installment of “HOA Gone Wild”. Who knows…maybe I’m on to a new hit t.v. series and I’ll make millions from the royalties. Heaven knows Substack ain’t payin’ the bills.

Until next time…

keep your yard decorated, and fight like hell for your freedom of expression.

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the frozen pile of horse poop that I passed by on this frigid, 20-something degree morning. Sorry to ruin that cozy picture I painted by replacing it with one of a frosty, heaping pile of regurgitated hay. But alas, that is the world I live in. Sharing is caring, right?

Every homesteader has their unique style of predicting when ol' man winter will arrive, and whether he’s coming in with a bang or a whimper. As for me, when November rolls around I gauge my wintery fate by how frozen the piles of manure are that dot my rural landscape, and how much ice I have to hammer through in the water troughs because I was too lazy to put in the deicers. Judging from this morning, I better put on my big girl wool panties ‘cause I think I’m in for a doozy of a winter.

There’s a lot to do on a homestead to prepare for the impending six-month cold spell. They are the kind of tasks that will make even a lady grow hair on her chest. It’s not for the faint of heart, that’s for sure. There’s wood to cut and haul, kindling to break up and gather, along with shutting down the garden and greenhouse. Chicken, turkey and duck coops to winterize, chimney cleaning, and tractor maintenance. Feed to stock up on and heat lamps to put up for the spoiled mini pigs. Stock tank deicers to haul out and disperse and the corresponding extension cords to string out around the barn. If I ever meet the person that invented deicers so I don’t have to break ice every morning, I will drop to my knees and kiss their feet. That handy little invention has saved me a TON of work!

As crazy as it all sounds, winter is one of my favorite seasons. I am truly a cold weather gal. I will say that as an Arizona desert rat that has now lived in the Midwest for 12 years, my blood has truly thickened. I know this because when it’s 50 degrees out I am wearing a t-shirt! I used to be a trail guide in Arizona, and I would lead tourists from the Midwest on horseback excursions in the winter. I used to think they were nuts for wearing t-shirts. Now, I’m the nut.

Well, I am off to feed the wood stove and hunker down for the night. I will probably take a gander at my winter to-do list and wish for a winter fairy to magically appear and handily accomplish all my lofty tasks. Oh, I know that is just the inner child in me indulging herself in fanciful dreams. The only winter fairy I know is the one that stares back at me in the bathroom mirror with rat’s nest hat hair, a red cold nose, and adorned in Carhartt winter gear with some errant pieces of straw sticking out of the pockets. I guess I haven’t been through enough winters to earn my fairy wings yet. That’s okay. The neighbors already think I’m crazy enough. Adding wings to the mix will just send them over the edge.

Until next time…

live simply, and have fun pressing that little button on your thermostat to crank up the heat. Think of me when you do it.

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Are the worries of carrying on and fear of the unknown.

Is loneliness one feels in a sea of humankind.

Are challenges faced, and the wonder of how they must be tackled.

Is determination to charge ahead alone so as not to burden others.

Are tears cried, then quickly whisked away out of shame.

Is mourning those lost and their last moments seen.

Is the need to be loved, and love in return.

Are the desperate prayers cast to high above, and a head bowed in silence.

Are the scars on the heart, and in the flesh.

Is the need for connection with family and tribe.

Is the realization of little blessings and a glimmer of hope springing eternal.

Is a voice that whispers deep within “it’s going to be okay”.

Are the little rejoices in silent moments alone.

Is the warming of the heart when paths cross with a loved one or friend.

Is the battle cry of victory when internal demons are slain by the sword of faith.

Is a glance cast upward, then eyes close and the body momentarily heals in the basking glory of the sunshine borne on a new day.

Are the barely audible beats from the drums of change within that we know one day will produce a symphony of rebirth.

May we all live our lives with open eyes, hearts, and minds, so that we may see the barely visible and hear the tiny whispers of those around us that may appear to walk in silent retreat, but whose waters run very deep and their capacity for love is immeasurable.

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What will it take for Americans to wake up and recognize the systematic dismantling of our Nation through greed, power, ego, chaos, fear, violence and a complete and total LACK of accountability?? Where did all the sheep dogs go that rise up with courage and defend what is righteous and sacred?? When did we become a country full of “it’s all about me” versus a country of “we”?? When did we allow ourselves to succumb to complacency and over and over and over again choose the lesser of two evils when exercising our Constitutional right to vote? Then turn around and think to ourselves or say in hushed conversations, “Well it’s better than the alternative” and think there’s ANY REAL consolation in that?? When did critical thinking, asking questions and demanding sufficient answers, and seeking knowledge from somewhere other than Facebook, Tik-Tok, YouTube and mainstream media (left and right) become a thing of the past?? When did we become okay with assigning disorders to piss-poor behaviors and then mask the “symptoms” with pharmaceuticals?? When did we become okay with broken food and medical systems that provide quick fixes and cast personal health and well-being accountability to the wind??

I CHOOSE to be awake, acknowledge the reality of our situation, speak loudly and seek positive solutions.

I CHOOSE to run with the sheep dogs and NOT the sheep.

I CHOOSE to not require validation from social media likes, loves, comments, or whatever to justify my existence on this earth and define my self-perception.

I CHOOSE to eat well, get outside in the sun, exercise, engage with nature, spread kindness and peace, not have my nose in my phone, and do my level best to live in the moment.

I CHOOSE to not be complacent and accepting the lesser of two evils justification when voting, and I will DEMAND the BEST and QUESTION EVERYTHING.

I CHOOSE to be accountable for my actions and expect personal responsibility from others.

What do you choose?

There is a lot of good in this Nation for us to rally behind, but let’s be real - we are being led down a path that will seal our fates (not in a good way), if we don’t rise to the occasion and restore truth, justice, community, simplicity, kindness, love, peace and family values.

R.I.P. Charlie Kirk. I don’t care what your political affiliation is. Personally - I am politically marooned because BOTH parties are corrupt in my oh-so-humble opinion. But let’s just all agree that a life was taken for no good reason whatsoever. A father, husband and son is gone because we can’t seem to get our shit together as a country and work together despite our differences.

I’m angry. We should all be angry. BUT…let’s channel that in a positive way and right this ship - now…not later.

Until next time…

Pray for our Country. Pray for Peace. Pray for Charlie’s family and any other family that has lost a loved one senselessly, and our RIGHT to free speech. Live simply, be a sheep dog, and NEVER follow the sheeple. You’ll end up over the cliff and dead in the crevice down below.

Please SHARE with others if you are in agreement. Even if you are not, this nation was built on CIVIL DEBATE - not living in echo chambers. We MUST spread the word of peace and restore our values.

Be safe out there…

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Also, be sure to visit and PLEASE SHARE WITH EVERYONE YOU KNOW:

www.wackywonkybooks.com

Have a wonderfully wacky wonky day!

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about a thing they call a brassiere.

An invention known far and wide

as a way for boobs to hide.

You see, once upon a time

a lady named Mary…so sweet

thought her girls needed a lift,

just a minor tweak.

And as the saying goes

the mother of invention bore new

a way to keep our bosoms

from touching the tips of our shoes.

The over-the-shoulder boulder holder,

the miracle puff-em up.

From the sporty to the fancy

and your basic plain color buff.

They come in every shape and size

just like our chesty tits.

From the “I could make a tent out of this”

to the pasties for your nips.

Oh, there’s always been controversy

about the benefits of bras.

Why there’s even an annual rally

held every year at Mardi Gras.

Where the beads are flung

without a care

And parades of ta-tas

are everywhere!

In my humble opinion,

dare I even opine.

A life lived without a bra

is indeed surely fine.

Let them fling and flop!

Let the girls go wild!

Let them hang to your naval!

Let them gather in a pile!

Ladies, let’s take a stand!

Tell Victoria’s Secret to shove it!

Let the girls bust loose (ha…get it?)

Feel the freedom and love it!

No, I’m not a hippy,

Nor a hugger of trees.

I’m just a simple gal

Who wants her girls to be free.

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Eat.

Fart.

Snore.

Fart.

Go for a ride in the car.

Snore.

Eat.

Fart.

Snore.

Wash, rinse, repeat.

Yup, that pretty much sums it up. I am blessed to have a “Bully” in my motley pack of dogs, and he is appropriately named “Dozer”. Oh, my dear sweet Doz Doz. Thanks to him, I have had to repaint my walls repeatedly because the stench of his farts keeps peeling the paint off. Yes - they are that fragrant. But who could blame him. If your nose was crammed up into your face and your mouth was as wide as the Grand Canyon, you would suck in some serious air too. The only place for that air to exit is from his cute derrière. What is most entertaining is when he sits down next to me, a fart eeks out and he looks at me as if to say “What?? You fart too ya’ know”.

He has a face only a mother could love (and I do!), and teeth that – if they ever existed – a doggy orthodontist could retire early just from fixing Doz’s “toofers”. Yet, despite his glorious underbite he manages to lick his bowl clean. Although it does take him standing with a paw in the bowl to keep it in place while he shows it who’s boss with his 6-foot wide head.

I don’t know what it is about bullies, but they LOVE anything with wheels. I am sure you have seen many a video of a bulldog on a skateboard. In Dozer’s younger days he would try to eat the lawn tractor tires while I mowed, and it seemed just about anything that moved he needed to attach his mouth to.

Speaking of wheels, he insists on riding along in the car and thinks he should go on EVERY trip. He knows when I am getting ready to leave and he stealthily places himself either by the front door so I can’t exit unless he goes first, or by the car door to send a clear and distinct message – “I am going with you, and you will just deal with it. Oh, and will you please lift me up into the backseat?”. Once in the backseat, he promptly lays down and carries on with his daily routine – snore, fart, snore…fart some more. MAYBE sit up and look out the window to see if we are somewhere he deems worthy of taking a gander at. It’s a miracle I have not passed out while driving from the aromatic puffs of air that exit his nether regions. I could just imagine that patrol stop.

Officer - “Ma’am, we found you in the ditch on the side of the highway. You were passed out and drooling. Do you care to explain what happened?”.

Me – “Officer, I am so sorry. I was merely heading to the store with my trusty bully “Dozer”. He let an epic fart loose and next thing I knew…you were waking me up from a fart-induced blackout.”

Officer – “I have been patrolling this highway for 30 years, and that is the first time I have found someone in a ditch due to a fart blackout. I am going to let you go on this one, but please do me one favor."

Me –“Oh, of course officer…whatever you say”.

Officer – “Crack a window or two when you are chauffeuring your handsome beast around”.

By the way, Dozer is truly a lady’s man. Any time I take him somewhere he mercilessly flirts with every woman and they just gush over his handsome mug. He is a people magnet for sure. Who doesn’t love a Bully?!

Ol’ Dozer is getting on in age, but he still chases after a tire here and there and now regularly requires a lift onto the couch or into the car. But as far as bullies go he is a specimen to marvel at, and his farts have surely not lost their aroma. I always say living with him is like living with a little old man. I hope for more years to come he is my farting, snoring, stubborn ol’ fella.

And that, my friends, is an “Ode to a Bulldog”.

Until next time…

live simply.

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