Dying to Get High

Since Philip Seymour Hoffman’s body was discovered on February 2, 2014, I’ve pondered whether to write about it. What can I add to the flood of coverage? Maybe nothing, but here goes.

Let’s stop being ignorant about drug and alcohol addiction. We once embarked on a well-meaning, but painfully naive, campaign to JUST SAY NO to drugs. Perhaps one day a high-profile drug death will force us to JUST SAY NO to our collective ignorance of addiction. Addiction is disease, plain and simple.

Many of us think of the famous and talented has having something we don’t, an edge that we’d love to have. This is largely true. Addiction, it seems, is the great equalizer.

That Philip Seymour Hoffman was a great actor is undeniable, so, too, it seems is the fact that he was a drug addict. Being a great actor is a mark of distinction. Being an addict is not. The addict is like a character from a Tom Clancy novel, operating in the shadows, doing his best to conceal his true identity.

Hoffman gave many fine performances as an actor. His skills are now a footnote to his life. He will be largely remembered for how he died, not how he lived. For all its trappings, this is one element of the price of success. Anonymity is gone. Fame–or infamy–take its place.

Hoffman is not afforded the vague obituary of the common addict. You know some of these people. Their obituaries say they died “suddenly” or “unexpectedly” or after a “brief illness.” Perhaps they died of “heart failure,” another common euphemism for overdosing or drinking oneself to death. There are no requests to support cancer research or hospice care in lieu of flowers. They are relegated to the same types of amorphous remembrances as suicide victims.

Hoffman died like most addicts–alone. By all accounts, he had been clean for over two decades, only to relapse in the past couple of years. It took him two decades to build his enviable career. It took his addiction less than two years to kill him. If you are familiar with addiction, you’ve seen this same story play out before. Regardless of how glamorous one’s life may have been, this death is not.

The addict’s death is an ugly death. Google Chris Farley’s name, and one of the images you’ll see is his body after his overdose death. Ugly might be a mild word.

The chances are that every person reading this knows an addict. Perhaps you are one yourself. If so, you know the power of the addiction. Maybe you are one of those for whom addiction is a sign of weakness or poor morals. If so, consider:

Have you ever taken an illegal drug?
Have you ever taken a prescription drug that belonged to someone else?
Have you ever taken a legal drug but not followed the directions?
Have you ever had a drink of alcohol?
Have you ever been drunk?

Some folks-very, very few–can answer “No” to all of those questions. If so, you have avoided the risk of setting off your addiction. If you answered “Yes” to any of those, you are simply one of the vast majority of us.

The great puzzlement of addiction is that most people–indeed, the overwhelming majority–can do all of the above without becoming an addict. Life for an addict is different.

The simplest (and best) explanation I’ve ever heard for why we drink or take drugs is this: We like the effect. That’s hard to admit for a lot of us. We want to think we are wine connoisseurs or that we “experiment.” The truth is more blunt: We like the effect.

The addict likes the effect, too. His world, though, is different. He obsesses about the effect. When he consumes a drink or his drug of choice, he likes the effect, but then craves more. In his last days, he can’t quite get the desired effect. More is better but never quite enough.

I am certain that most people reading this cannot relate. You may have a drink or two at dinner and think “I better slow down. I’m starting to feel this.” Maybe you smoke a joint to relax. For the addict, that drink or joint lights the fuse. His response is “I’m starting to feel this. I need more.” As F. Scott Fitzgerald said “First you take a drink. Then the drink takes a drink. Then the drink takes you.”

Hoffman, Lenny Bruce, Judy Garland, Whitney Houston, Chris Farley, John Belushi, Michael Jackson, Heath Ledger, River Phoenix, Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin–all well-known drug deaths. A similar list could be compiled of the famous who drank themselves to death. Actors, athletes, politicians–the lists are practically endless.

These are the addicts we know about. Consider all the ones we don’t. They include your friends, neighbors and even family. Maybe you, too.

Like other diseases, addiction doesn’t discriminate. The rich and poor; black and white; male and female; young and old–addiction throws a broad net. The addicts I’ve known include doctors, lawyers, accountants, realtors, salesmen, ministers, carpenters, brick masons, electricians, janitors, politicians, housewives and many others. Money, success, failure, poverty–none of this matters.

You may be of the stripe who say “Lock ’em, up!” While I disagree, I understand the sentiment. It is more comforting to think we can hide it. Looking at it is tough. There is shame in it. And fear. We’ve stuffed our prisons full, yet our friends and neighbors still die.

There is good news, though, among all this sorrow–and it is sorrow, by the way, destroying the lives of the addicts and all those who care about them. Addiction is treatable. Make no mistake here–it is not curable. The clean addict or sober drunk is one drug or drink away from disaster. Ongoing, effective treatment can and will prevent that. Our attitude toward addiction remains a great stumbling block.

The stigma attached to addiction is daunting, worse perhaps than mental illness. While we’ve grown accustomed to taking a pill for this or that , we still shrink at the thought of a drug addict or alcoholic among us.

Shaming the addict into the shadows with the threat of prison or ostracizing him won’t work. I’ve never known an addict who enjoyed his or her addiction in its chronic form. No one sets out to be a drug addict or alcoholic. Sanctimonious preaching won’t cause a great revelation in the mind of the addict.

Why don’t they just straighten up? You might as well ask a cancer patient why he “doesn’t just get well.” I once heard that no one was ever shamed or browbeaten into Christianity. Treatment for addiction works the same way.

If we consign addiction to the dust bin of moral failure, we simply accept it as a human frailty. It is much more than that. Likewise, it is not a bad habit. Leaving one’s dirty clothes in the floor is bad habit. Drinking or drugging oneself to death is not.

Addiction is a disease of the mind and body. The addict’s mind drives him to his drink or drug while his body craves more. Addicts aren’t “partying.” They are dying.

Addiction has one distinction that other diseases do not. Often, the addict has no desire to stop. The disease convinces him that he has no disease. I can think of no other chronic, fatal illness that has that so affects its sufferer. As a result, getting help for an addict is difficult, even impossible in many cases. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.

I suspect that if a terminal illness swept through our population like addiction has, we would bring every possible resource to bear on its eradication. Of course, it is foolish to think we can eliminate this disease. As long as there are human beings, some will want to change how they feel.

Perhaps if we take addiction out of the shadows and remove the stigma, we can make some progress. If every drug or alcohol death were publicized, we would be horrified by the numbers. For all his fame, talent and wealth, Hoffman died the addict’s death. He leaves children to mourn him and puzzled friends. The next time you hear of an overdose death, think about your friends and family. There’s probably an addict lurking among them.

©www.trivialtroll.com 2014

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Here’s Something Funny: How I Talk

I talk funny. No, I don’t have a speech impediment. If I did, it’s likely that very few people would mention it. Then again, maybe they would. Still, I talk funny, and I know it.

I didn’t always know it. For 18 years, I thought I sounded just fine, better than most, in fact. I grew up in Harlan County, Kentucky, the very heart of Eastern Kentucky. Harlan is Appalachia at its finest. We’re proud of our heritage. We’ll tell anyone who’ll listen. Unfortunately, many times those people won’t understand a damn word we say.

When I was 18, I went to college but not very far from home. I attended the University of Kentucky, a mere 3 hours (at most) from Harlan County. There were a lot of Eastern Kentuckians at U.K., and those folks became my friends. As one friend from Bell County (Harlan’s next door neighbor) told me “We’re like Indians. We’re lost when we leave the reservation, so we have to hang together.” So we did.

I met people from different places, and they talked funny. They had accents. We did, too, but not so bad. I knew plenty of people in Harlan with accents, heavy mountain accents. They were hard to understand even for a native. I didn’t sound like that. Or so I thought.

When I was 19, I met a girl from Louisville–Kentucky’s big city. She broke the news to me about my accent. For example, I pronounced the word “light” all wrong. It has a short “i”, not the long, flat “eyyyyyye” I used. In fact, I was practically saying “lat” instead of “light.” Damnation. Who knew? She complained about my mumbling. Little did she know, that she should been have happy that she couldn’t understand everything I was saying.

Once someone talks about your accent, the relationship is doomed, I suppose. Nevertheless, I realized that I did have an accent. I’ve been cognizant of it ever since. You can’t tell I have an accent by reading this, but I do. It’s a pretty thick one, too. You know what? I don’t give a fat damn about it. [“Fat damn” sounds really good with my accent, by the way.]

What kind do I have? Appalachian. That’s not southern. I don’t sound like Foghorn Leghorn, although folks in the Northeast will ask me if I’m “from the South.” I’m not from the South. I’m from the Mountains.

Our accents are a mountain drawl combined with a distinct mumble. Our words run together but kind of slowly. We aren’t fast talkers. Go to Michigan if you want to hear that. Our accents have so butchered the English language over time that translation is often required:

You from upair? Translation: Are you from up there? [Up where, you ask? Upair.]

Them yor people? Translation: Are you related to those people?

He done got farred. Translation: That fellow was discharged from his employment.

Gimme em warcutters. Translation: Please hand me those wire cutters.

He thoed that out the winder. Translation: He threw that item out of the window.

I et a mater sammich yesterdee. Translation: I dined on a tomato sandwich yesterday.

Them fellers fit upair. Translation: Two gentlemen from up there engaged in fisticuffs.

He clum upair and worked on the chimley. Translation: He climbed up on the house to repair the chimney.

These are but a few examples, extreme though they may be. We’ll say “tar” instead of “tire.” Someone may be “lexicuted” rather than electrocuted. We fish with “minners,”not minnows. People live in hollers or they may holler at you. We’ll even “GARNT-tee” something for you. We can do all of this but you won’t have a damn clue if we explain it to you.

So, you’re thinking: “You people are ignorant hill jacks.” No, we’re not. That’s just how we talk. I guess we have our fair shares of idiots, but almost all of us have accents which render us, to some extent, incomprehensible.

Now, not all mountain people have accents. Some work very hard to get rid of them or to never have them. I’m cool with that. That’s not how I was raised, though. We just talked how we talked. We didn’t really think about it much, except for my mother who was a stickler for correct grammar. She pointed out to me on many occasions that only the lowest of trash used double negatives. “Ain’t” made her practically shriek, but not as much as “hain’t” did.

I do feel a bit bad for the folks who lose their accents. They become sort of like people from Nebraska. Try to say something and sound like someone from Nebraska. You can’t, because no one knows what they sound like. I can identify an Appalachian accent in about 5 seconds.

One group I don’t care about is those who shed their accents because of their shame of coming from the mountains. They don’t want to sound like us. It’s embarrassing. They’re above that. They are the same folks who pontificate about people in the mountains need, when in truth they wouldn’t care if the place was used for nuclear waste disposal.

So, how thick is my accent? I was eating at my neighborhood Waffle House recently, when the waitress asked where I was from. When I said Harlan, she said “I thought so.” Oh, she then added: “Half my family is from Harlan–the half we don’t speak to.”

Recently, I was in Las Vegas and struck up a conversation with a couple of strippers on the street. One asked: “Where are you from? Your accent is so cute.” I gave her five dollars. I also met aspiring rapper, Young Cheese. Even he asked me where I was from.

These ladies like my accent. That’s not so bad, is it?

The obvious downside to my accent is that I am often incomprehensible to the untrained ear. I once ordered lunch in a restaurant in Gloucester, Massachusetts. The waitress couldn’t understand me nor could I her, yet we were both speaking English. My lunch companions worked as translators.

My own wife struggles to understand me, and we have lived together for over half our lives. Here is a typical exchange:

ME: What’s for dinner?

HER: What?

ME: What’s for dinner?

HER: Huh?

ME: DINNER! WHAT ARE WE HAVING?

HER: Don’t yell at me!

ME: I have to yell. You can’t hear.

HER: What?

ME: YOU! ARE! DEAF!

HER: I am not! You mumble!

…and so on and so on. It always ends with my wife pointing out that her friend Lisa can’t understand me, either. Maybe I do mumble, but you’d think 26 years would be enough time for someone to get used to it.

[In my defense, I would note that my father often accused my mother of mumbling. He was almost completely deaf, yet never conceded that his lack of hearing was an issue.]

As a lawyer, my accent comes in handy. I handle many cases in Eastern Kentucky and sound the part with no real effort. Occasionally, it’s a hindrance. I recently tried a case in Illinois, and explained to the court reporter that she may have problems understanding me. She did.

Mountain accents help in other ways, too. They are really good when you threaten someone. If someone with Locust Valley Lockjaw says he’ll kick your ass, you’ll laugh in his face. When someone from Harlan says it–male or female–it has a ring of truth to it. “I’ll whup your aaasss” just sounds serious. It also makes curse words sound better. “Hell” comes out like “Haaaiiil.” Shit becomes “I don’t give a shiiiiiit.” It creates an emphasis that others lack. There are many more examples that good taste prevents me from discussing here.

The only time my accent bothers me is when I hear it. I’ll hear myself on video and think “Man, oh man, I sound like a weed bender.” I guess I do.

Naturally, many folks hear us talk and think we’re dumb. Many of these people are, in fact, dumb people with different accents. Sure, if we’re interviewed on TV, there may be subtitles, but we’re not dumb–at least not all of us. If you ARE dumb, a mountain accent won’t help. Nevertheless, it won’t actually make you dumb.

Of course, we aren’t the only people who sound funny. New Englanders sound funny, too. So do folks from Wisconsin. New Yorkers are hard to understand, just like people from the deep south. Appalachians just have the disadvantage of being in perhaps the last remaining group of people who can be openly derided with no repercussions.

Now, read this again in your best Appalachian accent. If you still don’t get it, watch the TV show Justified. It’s set in Harlan County, and they do a good job with the accents. Maybe you’ve seen the Patrick Swayze classic, Next of Kin. There are some good accents in that one, with the exception of Liam Neeson. I’m not sure what he was doing, but I’ve never heard anyone sound like that.

Aint’ got nuthin left to say about this hyere–nary a word. I’m still upair in Lexington, but I’ve still got people in Harlan. Reckon I’ll stay hyere, unless I end up somewheres else. Proud to know you uns. Holler at me if you get up this way.

©www.thetrivialtroll.com 2014

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Help A Drowning Man

I am awash in a sea of bad information. How did this happen? I’ve spent too much time in the ocean of social media where information is plentiful, but accuracy is sacrificed for speed and volume. How does this happen? The easy answer, of course, is that people are idiots. This knee jerk response is just as flawed as the flotsam vomited out on social media even as you read this. People love outrage. More precisely, they love to be outraged. This is especially true when politics and religion are involved. This causes otherwise intelligent and thoughtful folks to randomly post thoughts, memes and links which are related to reality only by the thin thread of having originated from someone’s mind.

Another answer might be that I spend too much time on social media and should do something else like a read book. No thank you, Egg Head. That ain’t happening. We need to work together.

Phil Robertson is now the millstone around my neck. If you don’t know who Phil is, then good for you. You aren’t into social media and perhaps spend your time writing poetry. If so, you’re probably not reading this anyway. Phil is a “reality TV” star. His show, Duck Dynasty, is entertaining. It certainly seems scripted to me, but what do I know? Perhaps Phil and his family became multi-millionaires while bumbling about like…well…reality TV stars.

I won’t rehash what Phil did. There’s no point in doing so. He said things that pissed people off or made people happy. Outrage ensued. Many folks–again, otherwise intelligent–have risen to his defense by citing his right to “free speech.” One poster on Facebook said “What the hell happened to free speech in this country?” The answer is nothing, because Phil’s opinions have nothing to do with free speech. “But, but, but…he got FIRED!!” You are correct. He did get fired. Free speech, unfortunately, doesn’t prevent that. “YES, IT DOES!” you scream. Let’s read the First Amendment of the United States Constitution:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

[Note how I helpfully highlighted the part about “Congress.”] Congress has made no law regarding speech which affects Phil at all. In fact, no government official has done anything to Phil. Maybe you love what he said about gay people and African-Americans. If so, you have found some common ground with radical Islam. Maybe you’re a Libertarian sort who supports everyone’s right to speak his or her mind. I really don’t care. But, let’s all agree to never invoke the First Amendment again on this issue. We’ll all feel better. I know I do. Thanks.

It’s not only the plain language of our Constitution which cause confusion. Easily verified claims also drive us to hysteria. Here’s a favorite example. Occasionally, a meme makes the rounds about Presidential and Congressional pensions. It reads:

WAGES

Salary of retired US Presidents……………………….$450,000 FOR LIFE

Salary of House/Senate members……………………$174,000 FOR LIFE

Salary of Speaker of the House……………………….$223,500 FOR LIFE

Salary of Majority/Minority Leaders………………….$194,400 FOR LIFE

Average salary of a soldier DEPLOYED IN AFGHANISTAN ……$38,000

Average income for Seniors on Social Security …………………$12,000

I think we found where the cuts should be made! If you agree, pass it on!

Aren’t you outraged? This is patently insane. Why would these people get paid for life!?!?! What kind of country do we live in? That’s a valid question but not because of this. The above information–while outrageous–is incorrect in almost every way. None of these people–not even the President–gets full salary for life. It simply is not true. Does this stop folks from being outraged about it? Of course not. Variations of this meme have been posted many times on social media. The comments are fairly frothing with their condemnation. Here’s my suggestion: When you see something that is so inane as to make you want to immediately post it on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram, stop and think. Since you’re probably on the Internet at the time, do a simple search. Check the facts. You’ll be amazed how easy it is to confirm or counter such things. Again, we’ll all be better for it, and you won’t look like an uninformed ass.

Then there are the half-truths, those items of interest based in reality but twisted into something sort of whole truth. Here’s a meme making the rounds:

The House of Representatives passed a budget bill cutting pensions for veterans. (Not “Veteran’s”). That much is true. The reduction is actually a reduction of the cost of living increase for certain pensions. It’s what I call a “Government Cut.” A “private cut” is where you make less money next year than you made this year. It only applies to certain veterans–ones deemed young enough to re-enter the work force. Now, don’t get me wrong. This seems like a bad idea. We’ve worn out our military with endless wars. The least we could do is leave their pensions alone. On the other hand, don’t worry about veterans actually getting a cut in their pensions. The private sector, where there are no pensions anymore, is the only place that happens.

This is a prime example of excellent propaganda. Take a grain of truth, twist into something outrageous and scare everyone. Remember that Hitler got elected by scaring the hell out of people. There’s a reason he had a Ministry of Propaganda. It works.

Finally, there are those debates that rage over opinions. Most of these involve politics or religion–two topics which civilized people never discuss. Bear this in mind: There are two sides or more to each such debate:

Obamacare: POINT–The program is already failing and far too expensive for the country to afford. Socialized medicine will lead to reduced services for everyone. COUNTERPOINT–It’s the law. Give it time, and the kinks will get worked out. If socialized medicine is so horrible, why do we provide it to our military veterans. Wouldn’t they be better off buying their healthcare in the market?
Phil Robertson: POINT–He’s free to speak his mind and express his faith. Leave him alone. COUNTERPOINT–People are also free to be offended by his comments. We don’t have to leave him alone.
NSA: POINT–The Government is only gathering data. They have no way to do anything with it. COUNTERPOINT: Yet. There is nothing more un-American than spying on your citizenry.
TAXES: POINT–Let’s raise taxes on the highest earners. This would quickly fix all our fiscal problems. COUNTERPOINT–Our government has a history of spending every penny it brings in–and more. Until we fix that, more revenue won’t help.

These few examples show how it works. There are two sides to all theses issues. It just depends on your political prism.

Of course, acknowledging differing opinions isn’t our way. God forbid that we be asked to actually respect another’s views. We prefer to be right. In fact, we demand it, even when we are wrong. I am fortunate to have friends from all walks of life. Their politics range from Left-leaning Communists to budding Neo-Nazis. The Right’s take on current events is a combination of moral outrage, moral superiority (always Christian), the U.S. Constitution (if you don’t like something, it’s unconstitutional) and some nostalgia (such things as whipping children are fondly recalled). The support Republicans and like all Ayn Rand quotes. The Left approaches these issues from a different angle, of course. They are intellectual titans ready to make fun of religion (always Christianity. They don’t say anything about Islam, Judaism, et al.), cite obscure authors, and engage in relentless name-calling often involving obscene language. They support Democrats and love to quote Barack Obama, Mahatma Ghandi and hate all Ayn Rand quotes, even though most of them are atheists like Rand.

Here is a typical social media exchange regarding Mr. Robertson, who has eclipsed war, world hunger and random violence as the issue of the day:

Original Post: I stand with Phil! The Bible says that we will be persecuted for Him! Christians have freedom of speech, too! Our country is being destroyed! I will never watch TV again!

[See how our friend has concisely encompassed the significant elements of right-wing rage. The Bible, persecution, morality, patriotism and broad and incorrect legal principles.]

A response from the Left naturally flows:

Comment: You can stand with that bigoted, homophobic, racist if you like. I have never seen his show. In fact, I do not own a television having traded mine for a Navajo Dream Catcher. Freedom of speech is not an issue here–offensive, racist, homophobic rhetoric is. The Bible supports all manner of prejudice. I suggest you read the collected works of Bertrand Russell instead.

[Our Leftist chum has countered with his own salvo. He engages in name calling that far exceeds anything Mr. Robinson has done but does so from a perch of intellectual superiority. He is above mere TV watching. He concludes his concise commentary by inferring that atheist mathematician/philosopher Bertrand Russell is a better source for moral guidance than the Holy Bible. Well done.]

This exchange will continue with many additional posts by these and other commentators. The Right will contend they are right because, well, they are right…or Right. The Left will froth and name-call, even resorting to the use of vulgarities to make their points. Ultimately, no one makes any sense and everyone is angry.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I have engaged in this foolishness on occasion, especially when legal principles are misstated. I forget my advantages in this regard: 1) I have actually read the Constitution; and 2) I graduated from law school. I, too, have been called names. One Lefty even called me a racist for correctly noting that the ubiquitous George Zimmerman is Hispanic. I countered with own my stream of obscenities. It’s easy to fall into this trap. I do not judge.

Let’s all commit to work as one to make all this easier for me. After all, wouldn’t the world be a better place if things suited me? Don’t be a racist, homophobic, liberal, conservative, Communistic Neo-Nazi, Bible-thumping Atheist.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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JFK Fifty Years Later: Asking the Unanswerable

Like all Americans, I’ve been overwhelmed by coverage of the 50th anniversary of the assassination of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. There have been movies, reenactments, documentaries, docudramas and replays of contemporary news footage. I have concluded two things: 1) JFK is dead; and 2) Someone or some thing shot him. The rest is subject to debate.

Unlike many scholars who have devoted decades to detailed analysis of the evidence, my research has been limited to two or hours of disinterested television watching. Much of that has been obscured by the mad cacophony which is a sort of background theme music in my home. Nevertheless, I am now armed with enough information to wildly speculate about those tragic events.

The Warren Commission was the body charged with investigating JFK’s assassination. Headed by U.S. Supreme Court Justice Earl Warren, the Commission concluded that Oswald, acting alone, shot JFK and Texas Governor John Connally from the Texas School Book Depository in Dallas. Oh, if it were only that simple. It has become quite clear to me that I know more than the Commission, plus I have no fear of reprisal since I don’t know what the hell happened, either.

This “single gunman” theory has been largely rejected by many erudite scholars, students of history and crackpots. It is just as likely that JFK was killed as part of a conspiratorial cabal which may or may not have included Lyndon Johnson, the Mafia, the Teamsters, Fidel Castro, Commies, J. Edgar Hoover, the Amish, the Boy Scouts, Israel, the John Birch Society, Opus Dei, the Kiwanis Club and Joe DiMaggio. I am willing to consider–and embrace–any and all theories.

In 1969, New Orleans District Attorney Jim Garrison tried Clay Shaw for conspiring to kill JFK, resulting in an acquittal after less than an hour of jury deliberations. Garrison was either a visionary who dared take on the establishment or a complete crackpot. You decide.

With 50 years of study behind us, you might think that there are unexamined issues left. Of course, you would be wrong. I now am willing to ask the tough questions–the real ones–from which others shrink. Among the questions which no dares ask are:

Why was LBJ conveniently in Dallas on that fateful day?

Why was Lady Bird Johnson so quickly dismissed as the likely second gunman or gun person, as it were? From her position in the car behind the President, she alone had a clear shot at his head.

Why was suicide ruled out?

Earl Warren was a well-known champion of so-called civil liberties. Isn’t at least reasonable to assume that he may have been a communist sympathizer?

How come no one killed Jim Garrison?

Where are the suppressed photos of Oswald and LBJ at Jack Ruby’s strip joint?

How do you explain the deaths of Earl Warren and Clay Shaw within one month of each other in 1974?

Speaking of Earl Warren’s death, why doesn’t Wikipedia tell us the cause of his death at the relatively young age of 83? Who is editing that page to delete all references to his mysterious passing?

Within a year of Warren’s death, Jimmy Hoffa disappeared and mobster Sam Giancana was murdered. Coincidence or silencing?

What deal was struck with Warren Commission member Gerald Ford for his complicity? Could it have included the Presidency of the United States?

Only one year after Warren’s untimely passing, Lynnette Fromme and Sara Jane Moore attempted to assassinate President Ford. Why have they never denied being part of a conspiracy to wipe out all Warren Commission members?

Why didn’t Richard Nixon ever publicly address his relationship or lack thereof with Jack Ruby?

Why, when filming such an important event as a Presidential assassination, was Abraham Zapruder’s film of such poor quality?

What kind of name is Zapruder, anyway?

Why are so many assassins known by three names?

Is there anyone under age 50 in the United States named Lee Harvey? If so, why?

How was Jack Ruby so skilled in human anatomy that he knew that shooting Oswald in the stomach would be fatal, as opposed to a head shot which he would have likely survived?

Fidel Castro has said that killing Kennedy would have been an “act of insanity” insuring the immediate destruction of Cuba. Why would anyone believe that Commie?

By the way, how in the Hell is Fidel Castro still alive?

When Oswald was arrested, he was watching the film War Is Hell starring Baynes Barron. Barron was born on the same day as JFK. How do you explain that?

Was Oswald’s wife really as big a nag as portrayed in the TV movie Killing Kennedy?

If Oliver Stone’s film JFK isn’t true, how could he make a movie out of it?

How powerful is Oliver Stone that no one has killed him yet?

What better way would there be for the Mafia to get the Feds off their backs than to murder the President?

What is a grassy knoll?

If you can answer any or all of these questions, you may be on to something. Or not. We know JFK is dead. Oswald? Dead. Ruby? Dead. LBJ? Dead. Connally? Dead. Warren? Dead. Garrison? Dead. Lady Bird? Dead. Are we seeing a pattern here? I’ll ask the questions. You answer them. It’s safer for me that way.

©thetrivialtroll.com 2013

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Five Things You Don’t See Every Day

As any reader of this blog knows, I grew up in Harlan County, Kentucky. I’ve written extensively about that before, but I got to thinking about some of the things I experienced there that I haven’t seen since. Here is a sampling:

THE NERVE GAS EXPRESS

As my readers know, I grew up in Loyall, Kentucky. When I was a kid, Loyall was home of a Louisville & Nashville Railroad yard, and I lived about 200 yards from the track that ran from the yard to parts unknown. The 1970’s were the time of the Coal Boom and trains ran day and night. They were as much a part of life as the sun coming up. We didn’t give them a thought, until the Nerve Gas Express came to town.

Some one decided to ship old nerve gas by rail to somewhere. Loyall was on that road to somewhere. We knew it coming. It was in the local paper–several times in fact. People talked about what would happen if the train derailed (which they did sometimes) or, God forbid, there was a real wreck (which almost never happened). The nerve gas would leak, and we would all die. Everyone was quite excited.

What was the nerve gas, exactly? I don’t know–sarin gas maybe. I also don’t know where it was headed. I do know that it had the capacity to kill us all.

Given the deadly qualities of this Hellish trainload, one might think that the townspeople would have cowered in their basements or taken cover in old bomb shelters. Remember now, we were Harlan Countians, which means two things: (1) We’re a fearless bunch of hill jacks; and (2) We don’t have a hell of a lot to do most of the time. As a result, we did what you would expect, and gathered by the railroad track to watch the paralyzing cargo roll through Loyall. It was reminiscent of the episode of the Andy Griffith Show where all of Mayberry gathered in town to see the “gold truck” pass through.

REPLACE “GOLD TRUCK” WITH “NERVE GAS,” AND YOU GET THE PICTURE.

I should note that my Dad talked quite a bit about how stupid it was to watch a train go by. He thought it was especially dumb since the only possible excitement was the annihilation of all the spectators. He noted several times that if the gas leaked, you could get the same thrill of being gassed hanging out in your house. He was not a fan of the Nerve Gas Express.

Just as planned, the train came through Loyall. Unlike the Andy Griffith Show, I don’t think it was decoy. As far as I know, it contained enough nerve gas to kill every man, woman, child and beast in the county. I’ll admit that I watched it go by. It was just a train, but everyone seemed pleased. No one cheered, although that would have been somehow appropriate. There were no protestors. No one died.

THE WONDERS OF DUCT TAPE

Okay, the entire world knows about duct tape now, but there was a time when it was actually used mostly for duct work. In the 1970’s, for example, it wasn’t as ubiquitous as today. Naturally, we called it “duck” tape, just as many people do today.

I knew this guy who used it for everything. Have you ever seen a shotgun held together with duct tape? I have. He had a Stevenson shotgun (12 gauge, as I recall), which he affectionately called “Stevie.” Stevie had fallen into disrepair to the point that the stock (that’s the wooden part for you novices) fell off. Duct tape fixed that. He simply taped it back together. I never saw him fire it, but swore it held together. I have my doubts.

The same guy also made his own boots. How, you ask? Three pairs of tube socks and duct tape. I’m not kidding. He said they were both comfortable and water tight.

Okay, that’s actually TWO things you don’t see every day–duct taped a duct taped shotgun and duct tape boots. I’m proud to say that I’ve seen them both, on the same day, in fact.

THE COAL MONUMENT

I’m sure other coal-producing counties have their tributes to coal mining, but we had–and still have–a genuine monument:

Our monument is in Baxter–right in the middle of traffic (such as it is).

You have to navigate your way around the monument, which isn’t too tough these days. Back in the 1960’s and ’70’s, this was the main drag to Harlan and quite busy. Plus, Ken’s Drive-In was a popular eatery across from the monument. For the uninitiated, this was as much a traffic hazard as it was a historical marker. Nowadays, one could comfortably nap in this intersection.

We should salute the builders of the Coal Monument. As I write this, I am 51 years old, and the Monument has been there as long as I can remember. As far as I know, it’s never even been repaired. I don’t know who build it, when or why it’s in Baxter. If anyone knows the story behind it, please let me know.

If you live in Baxter, Kentucky, it’s probably wrong to say you don’t see something like this every day. In fact, you may well see this every single day, but I don’t know many people who live in Baxter. Close enough.

COON ON THE LOG

The only Coon on the Log contests I’ve ever seen were in Harlan County at the Fish and Game Club. What is that, you ask? It involves 1) A raccoon; 2) A log; 3) Water; and 4) Dogs. Here’s how it worked. A raccoon was tied to log. The log was placed in the middle of a pond. The dogs swam out to the log–one at a time, of course–and attempted to knock the raccoon off the log. Simple enough. Now, you ask, what is the entertainment value in that?

You might be a city person who thinks raccoons are cute, like their cuddly cousins, the Pandas. You would be wrong. Raccoons are, in fact, vicious critters. They have sharp teeth and long, razor-like claws. They also have bad dispositions. They might rabies, too, although I don’t believe that is true with competition-level raccoons. Knocking one of these nasty bastards off a log is no mean feat. They fight. They claw. They bite.

I was probably 6 years old or so when I attended the Coon on the Log. My Dad took my brother and me. We sat by the pond and watched the dogs do battle with the hellish beast. I only remember one dog. He was black hunting dog of some sort and could swim like a fish. He swam out the log and immediately engaged the raccoon. They fought tooth and nail until the raccoon managed to claw the dog’s face, sending him back to shore much worse for the wear. The next year, the dog was back, this time with a scarred face. I recall that he vanquished the raccoon. Honestly, it could have been a different less fierce raccoon, but I remember being pleased for the dog nonetheless.

I know you animal lovers are poised over your keyboards to attack me and, possibly, my late father, like a rabid, typing raccoon. This is not an endorsement of Coon on the Log contests. PETA hates them, as you would expect. I doubt that they are very popular anymore, having gone the way of Donkey Basketball and Greased Pig Contests. (I’ve attended both of these events, too, and they were quite entertaining; however, I do understand why the use of cattle prods in a basketball game is now frowned upon). These days, people get all torn up over monkeys riding dogs (possibly the most entertaining thing on Earth, by the way). The Coon on the Log doesn’t stand a chance.

TIRE WALKING

My Dad didn’t throw away things. He always figured he could use them as some point. Old magazines, engine parts and the like might come in handy. For example, when I was a kid, he found a six-pack of beer and put in the trunk of his car. While Dad was fond of Scotch and Bourbon, he didn’t drink beer. But he knew a guy who did. He said he would give the six-pack to that guy. I don’t think he ever did, but he drove around with that six-pack in the trunk of his car for several years–just in case.

Among Dad’s collection were old tires. He would change tires on his cars but keep the old ones. You never know, he might need them one day. During a summer of my childhood, my friend Jimmy and I were bored, having exhausted the possibilities of bike riding and playing Army. So, we started rooting around in my garage where we happened upon two tires. We could do something with those.

The first thing we tried was walking on them, kind of like a circus bear walking on a ball. It just couldn’t be done. Even though we were both slight of build, our inconsiderable weight caused the tires to collapse.

Then, we came up with Tire Wrestling, which consisted of rolling the tires at each other and diving on them. That was kind of fun, but we couldn’t devise a scoring system. So, there ended up not being much point to it. It never caught on, not even with Jimmy and me.

I didn’t give up on the idea of walking on tires but just couldn’t master it. Then, Uncle Jack showed up. My Uncle Jack was my Dad’s younger brother and probably in his 40’s at the time. As a bachelor, Jack spent a lot of time at our house. Jack had all kinds of tricks. He would pull out his dentures and put a cigarette between them and make the cigarette bounce up and down. He could play a mean harmonica. He could shuffle cards like a magician. He was always entertaining.

Jack was a small man, about 5′ 5″, maybe 140 pounds. His hair was the kind of silvery-white you want if your hair turns gray. He was quick with a joke or some smart-ass comment, and always laughed at his own stories. He chain-smoked Phillip Morris non-filter cigarettes.

One day, I was on the back porch with a tire leaned against the side of the porch, studying the possibilities. Our porch was a wooden structure about 3 or 4 feet high with railing only on the sides and 5 or 6 steps on the left hand side. I was on the steps when Jack and Dad stepped out on the porch.

“Whatta ya know, boy?” Jack asked (this was the same greeting I got from Jack for the remaining 40 years of his life). I explained that I had tried to walk on the tire but couldn’t do it. Jack said, “Let me see that tire. I can do that.” Dad looked at Jack and said, “Now, Jack, you’ll break your neck on that thing.”

Jack ignored Dad, as he usually did whenever Dad started a sentence with “Now, Jack….” Jack balanced the tire perpendicular to the porch, stuck his cigarette in the corner of his mouth and grabbed the side rail of the porch with his left hand. He was ready to roll.

He did it. It was the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. He just stepped off the porch on top of the tire and took off. He looked like a tap dancer on hot coals. His arms stuck out to side for balance and a thin trail of cigarette smoke coursed behind him like a contrail.

Had we owned a clothes dryer, I’m confident that he would have made all the way across the yard to the back fence. As it was, our clothes line ended the ride. It caught Jack just under the chin and flipped him backward off the tire. He slammed to the ground like bag of sand. For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, he hopped up, grabbed his smoke off the ground and just laughed. Dad was laughing himself into a fit on the back porch. If you think walking on a tire is easy, try it sometime.

I could tell a lot of other stories about Jack but that one stands out. Jack was always entertaining. Every kid needs an Uncle Jack.

Well, that’s it. Five things you don’t see every day. If you’re ever in Harlan County, ask a local for directions to the Coal Monument. I can’t promise you that will see any of the other things I described, but I’m confident that the Monument will still be there.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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The Middle East: A Simple Guide from a Simple Man

As always, the Middle East in the news. The government of Egypt has been overthrown (again) and the USA is threatening something against Syria. Apparently, the Syrian government gassed some of its citizens. At first, it sounded like we were going to wipe them out. Then, it sounded like we might just block them on Facebook. Now, it sounds like we’re doing nothing.

If you’re like me, you probably don’t know nearly as much about the Middle East as you should. After all, other than occasional lunacy from North Korea, the Middle East is pretty much where all the world’s trouble originates these days. I’ve penned this short primer to help others gain my limited knowledge of this troubling region.

DEFINING THE MIDDLE EAST

What is the Middle East? Well, first off, it’s not continent or a country. It’s actually a bunch of countries, mostly in Western Asia and a tiny part of North Africa. So, the Middle East is actually Western Asia and small speck of North Africa. Understand?

Below are all the countries that comprise the Middle East, along with my brief comments on what I know about each of them:

Bahrain: Didn’t know this was a country. I thought it was a city in Iraq.
Cyprus: Never heard of it. I don’t think we’ve ever attacked it or attacked anyone on its behalf. Thus, it’s safe to assume that 1) It has no oil; 2) It hasn’t attacked Israel; and 3) It isn’t another name for Israel.
Egypt: Egypt is actually in Africa. Did you know that? It was ruled by ruthless dictator Hosni Mubarek who was ousted from power by people who were then ousted from power. Most of what I know about Egypt is from The Ten Commandments. Looks like a bad place. They once had someone win the Nobel Peace Prize. He was assassinated.
Iran: The biggest of the troublemakers. Iran used to be called Persia and was known for its fabulous rugs and house cats. Now, it’s known for political and religious fanaticism and occasional wild threats against countries which could wipe it out in about a day and a half. It’s only modern contribution to society was former president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad’s embrace of business casual attire.

Iran’s former president may have been nutty, but he made every day Casual Friday.

Iraq: Also known as the 51st state of the United States. Of course, it was once ruled by evil ruthless dictator Saddam Hussein. Now it is ruled by God knows what. Hussein was the kind of well-balanced leader who tried to repel an America military attack by firing rockets at Israel.
Israel: Sort of like the United States’ little brother. It gets picked on a lot but always knows big brother has its back. Like a little brother, it also talks tough and doesn’t hesitate to threaten others. Beloved by evangelical Christians who somehow don’t care that a vast majority of its citizens reject the most basic tenets of Christianity. It has never been ruled by a ruthless dictator, but it has been governed by ruthless democratically elected leaders. Americans aren’t allowed to publicly criticize the Israeli government. Oddly enough, Israelis criticize it openly and often.
Jordan: I don’t know much about it, other than they seem like they’re friendly enough. I just found out the King Hussein died in 1999. He seemed alright to me. I was excited to learn that Abdullah is now the king–until I found out it wasn’t Abdullah the Butcher.

King Abdullah The Butcher of Jordan (I wish!)

Kuwait: They have a lot of oil and a king or emir or something like that. They were invaded by Iraq 20 or so years ago, causing us to kick some Iraqi ass back to Baghdad. Since then, they don’t cause trouble for the U.S.
Lebanon: Beirut was once considered the Paris of the Arab World. During most of my life, it’s been a hotbed for troublemakers. Apparently, it still is, as it is the home base of Hezbollah, a disagreeable group whose sole purpose is the destruction of Israel. Then again, no country is perfect. We have the Westboro Baptist Church. Oddly, though, Lebanon is a democracy–probably because it doesn’t have any oil. Their constitution requires that the highest government officials belong to varied religions. This keeps any one group of loons from taking over.
Oman: Hmmm. They’re too small to cause much trouble, I guess. It sounds a lot like Onan, which makes me giggle.
Palestine: Not really a country, but it used be. That’s one of the big problems over there. They want to be a country again, but there isn’t enough land. So, they fight with the Israelis. A lot of it has to do with the Gaza Strip, which sounds like an exotic dance, but it isn’t.
Qatar: Here’s what I know. The name is pronounced “Gutter.” Sometimes. It has a lot of oil (surprise!), but it’s a tiny little piss ant of a country. They seem to keep to themselves.
Saudi Arabia: It’s a kingdom and also lousy with oil. People wear robes and fabulous head wear. They have a royal family. May be best known as the home country of Osama Bin Laden, the lanky terrorist mastermind who had his sorry ass blown away by Navy Seals. They’re heavy-duty Muslims, allowing religious leaders an official role in the their government. Supposedly friendly to the U.S., but I have my doubts. They remind me of friend who would sleep with your girl friend, and then blame her (not that I ever knew anyone like that or anything).
Syria: Doesn’t seem to get along with anyone, except Russia. It is said that if Turkey and Syria ever go to war, they will fight until the last drop of Iraqi blood. They’ve had a civil war going on for a couple of years now, but no one seems to know who is fighting whom. There may not be any good guys.
Turkey: Turkey is a democracy and has been for some time. It’s almost all Muslim but not Arab. They’re Turks, of course. They’re very sensitive about Armenians, so don’t bring that up around them. They’re best known for their wonderful baths and horrific prisons. A friend of mine went to Turkey and ate a big bucket of cherries causing some sort of severe gastrointestinal reaction.
United Arab Emirates: This isn’t a country but a group of country-like states. They might just be cities. They’re all ruled by emirs and sheiks. One of the sheiks has a horse farm not too far from where I live. I’ve seen him at the race track. Dashing fellow that sheik. The best thing about the UAE is that it’s where former Iraqi Information Minister Baghdad Bob lives.
Yemen: It is the Unemployed Brother-in-Law of the Middle East. It’s real close to running out of oil which would pretty much turn it into the set for the next Mad Max film. They seem fairly friendly with the U.S., as do most impoverished nations. On the other hand, Yemen is a hot bed for terrorists resulting in the occasional lethal drone strike. They don’t seem to mind.

Were you as surprised as I was to find out that Libya isn’t part of the Middle East, at least according to Wikipedia? It sure seems like it should be with all its threats and saber-rattling over the years. The late Muammar Gaddafi (Khadafi? Qaddafi?) certainly qualified as a ruthless dictator. I don’t get it. Let’s just throw Libya in there anyway.

Libya’s late strong man was certainly a bad guy, but the world misses his style.

Neither Pakistan nor Afghanistan are in the Middle East, and we can’t stretch the definition to include them. Remember this rule of thumb: None of the “Stan” countries are in the Middle East.

GOVERNMENT

Middle Eastern countries have a vast array of governments from democracies to theocracies to monarchies to dictatorships. They all seem to have one thing in common: They like to threaten and fight with each or, at the very least, Israel. Generally speaking, they also seem to despise the United States–and we ain’t too fond of them, either.

All Middle Eastern nations brag about their armies who typically provide little resistance to invaders (Israel excepted, of course). They quickly surrender and often join forces with the invaders.

Strong men and ruthless dictators have always been popular. They’re usually fairly despicable, although the United States has been friendly with some of them. The Shah of Iran, for example, was a fast friend of ours. One good thing about these folks is that they are able to keep the religious nuts out of their governments, which is more than we can say for our own form of government. Of course, if you’re like the Shah, you may be unfortunate enough to thrown from power by the religious nuts. That also happens sometimes in our country, but it’s through elections.

Some of the countries follow Sharia law, which is a form of theocracy incorporating Islamic law into the secular laws of the country–or something like that. You may have heard Glenn Beck and others of his ilk decrying the possibility that Sharia law will become the law of the land in the United States. Some states have even passed laws to prevent that. If you voted for anyone based upon that, please consider not voting anymore. Thanks.

RELIGION

If Middle Eastern governments are varied, their religion is not. The countries are predominantly Islamic, with exception of Israel, which is mostly Jewish. I don’t know about Cyprus. Lebanon used to have more Christians than anyone else. I assume that’s still the case.

As we all know, we’re not to discuss religion in polite company, but religion is a big deal in the Middle East. Most of the countries don’t want any religion but Islam. Of course, many Americans don’t want any religion but Christianity, but we are certainly more tolerant, if not any less hateful about it.

Some Americans think all Muslims are terrorists. It’s like people who say all conservatives are racists. Although there may be quite a few who are, the overwhelming majority are not. Facts don’t matter. People believe what they want to believe. It’s sort of like religion.

My son has a close friend who is Muslim, and he seems harmless enough. We have millions of Muslims in the U.S., and I’m reasonably certain they aren’t all terrorists.

We in America talk about radical Islam or Muslim extremists. I’m not sure how you define those terms, but read the Old Testament and take every single rule and law literally. You’ll probably be an extremist.

A lot of the fighting in the Middle East is between Muslim groups. There are Shiites and Sunnis. I don’t know the difference and don’t intend to find out. I have a hard enough time with all the different Christian denominations. Here’s a good guide for you. If your church suggests that you blow yourself up or blow up other people, consider checking out another group.

CULTURE

I don’t know much of their culture. They like soccer, so much so that Iraq once executed its national soccer coach. They also play buzkashi, a game where you throw around a goat carcass (maybe that’s Afghanistan). They probably play cricket.

I’ve never heard any of their music, but I imagine sitars. If they make movies, they’re probably anti-American.

They don’t treat women very well or at least most of the countries don’t. There is a lot of capital punishment (very American, too) and hand chopping (not American). When excited, they randomly fire weapons. Lots of Americans do the same thing.

American flag burning remains popular, too. Throwing shoes is their idea of a cutting edge insult.

ECONOMY

Oil. Tourism for Israel and Turkey. Oh, and don’t forget American foreign aid.

SO, WHAT NOW?

That sums up all my knowledge about this fascinating and controversial region. I have never visited the Middle East and don’t intend to do so. You may visited there or even be a native. If so, you are likely appalled by my ignorance and outright fabrications. Well, too bad. I’m an American, and I don’t have an obligation to learn about every foreign country on Earth. I know a little, and so does everyone else who read this. Just don’t throw a shoe at me.

©thetrivialtroll.wordpress.com 2013

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Hands Off: A Touchy Subject

I’m not a touchy person. By that, I don’t mean that I’m not sensitive. I’m damn sensitive. I mean that I’m not one of those types who touches other people. I just assume that you don’t want me to paw all over you. God knows that I don’t want to be molested by people.

I’m probably in the minority on this, but I just don’t care much for all the touching. Why? I’m not sure. I’m not autistic or mental or anything (as far as I know). I don’t have any particularly severe fear of germs. Oh, sure, I don’t like breathing in public restrooms or touching doorknobs. I used to wash my hands all the time like Howard Hughes, but I stopped doing that several years ago. Even though you’re probably all germy, it’s not that big a deal. It’s really just the touching.

Let’s be clear about one thing: I’m not talking about sexual touching or any touching you might do in the privacy of your own home. That’s your business. Such groping is best left to one’s discretion. We certainly do not need to hear about the details nor do I have any advice in that regard.

THE HANDSHAKE

The most basic form of social touching is the handshake. What a weird custom. I can understand why some cultures just don’t do it. I read somewhere that the ancients Greeks started it as a gesture of goodwill to show that they weren’t carrying weapons. They also had sex with children. Why the Hell would we want to follow their customs?

I have no issue with the basic handshake–a quick, firm grab of the hand followed by two pumps. I guess it’s an okay way to greet people. Of course, there are the people who always shake your hand. I have a good friend who always shakes my hand when we see each other. It’s like we’ve never met. I suppose it’s his way of saying: “Hello, old friend, I now grasp your hand to show that we remain on good terms. And that I don’t have a damn gun.” Then again, I do the same thing when I meet someone I’ve never seen and will never see again. It’s confusing.

In case you are a total dimwit, here is a simple schematic on appropriate handshaking.

What I don’t like is the two-hand shake. You know this one. It’s the regular handshake coupled with the other hand grabbing the outside of my hand. It’s like the shaker wants to make sure I can’t change my mind and pull away.

The dreaded double-grip shake.

I don’t like the Bone-Crusher. Many years ago, I met the Governor of Kentucky, a gregarious fellow named Julian Carroll. He crushed my hand. I still remember the bones mashing together and the gristle popping. Always remember if you shake hands with a man like me–a man with delicate girl hands–take it easy. More importantly, remember it with old people. They aren’t strong and often suffer from rheumatoid arthritis. Let them dictate the appropriate grip strength.

Hand shaking is fine. Hand-holding is not. Walk up and try to hold a stranger’s hand. It never works. So, remember: Shake=Good. Hold=Bad.

Fist-bumping is a form of handshake. It’s certainly more sanitary. I’m cool with this, too, but it’s reserved for people I already know–and only men. It’s too awkward upon an initial meeting.

Nothing good can be said of the high-five. Call me racist if you must, but white people must stay away from this. We lack the coordination to make it work consistently. There is nothing more embarrassing than whiffing on the old high-five. Needless to say, women don’t high-five. Ever.

THE HUG

Full disclosure: I’m not a hugger. Maybe you are. If so, I don’t judge you, but I also don’t understand you. The hug is the handshake’s amorous cousin.

Huggers will hug you whenever they see you. Oddly, they don’t hug when they first meet you. The handshake suffices. After that, though, the hug is the preferred method of greeting. Normally, it involves one arm and a delicate lean with a lead shoulder. You, then, are required to hug back in a similar fashion. If you’re like me, this is awkward, and you look like nothing so much as a man hugging a cactus.

One thing you don’t do is use the two-armed bear hug in return. This is too aggressive and could be misconstrued as an assault. It’s equally important to release the hug after a brief, impersonal embrace. If you hold the hug even slightly too long, the situation becomes uncomfortable quickly. This is especially so if you say something like “Mmmm” or “Ohhhh.”

NBA star Tracy McGrady demonstrates an inappropriate hug on Chinese giant Yao Ming.

If you must hug, I suggest the Man Hug. This consists of a quick upper-body embrace followed by one brief pat on the back. DO NOT REACH UNDER THE ARMS FOR THE MAN HUG!

The reverse hug is nothing more than a sexual assault.

Related to the basic hug of greeting is the conversational hug. Typically, this is a man who puts his arm around you while talking to you. I can’t put too fine a point on this: NO ONE LIKES THIS. It’s just weird. Don’t do it.

THE KISS

I’m not talking about sexual kissing. After all, who among us doesn’t appreciate a vigorous make out session? This kissing is the non-sexual Greeting Kiss. This is the man or woman who, while shaking your hand or hugging you, gives you a big, wet kiss. It’s not on the mouth–usually. It will be on the cheek. I’ve never seen two men do it, although it makes as much sense as two women. Come to think of it, I think French men kiss each other, but they’re French. Need I say more?

Truth be told, we have too many rules in our own country to worry about bizarre and possibly socialistic customs of foreigners.

Even our own President can be caught unawares by bizarre foreign kissing.

Why, oh, why do they do this? This isn’t like your Grandma or Aunt kissing you, either. They’re your relatives. Kissing is a really intimate thing with non-relatives. The next time you are in public, take a look around and count up all the people you wouldn’t kiss under any circumstances. It’s probably 90%. We reserve kissing for those we want to kiss or, again, our relatives. And, let’s face it, we’d rather not kiss or be kissed by most of our relatives, but it’s expected of us.

This photo depicts a nightmarish scene of hugging, kissing and groping.

I think of myself as a fine fellow, but I don’t kid myself–I’m not a handsome man. Women do not look at me and desire to kiss me. So, if you kiss me as a form of greeting, it’s almost like you’re sympathetically kissing an animal. I am not an animal.

I try my best to avoid the Greeting Kiss. I’ll abruptly turn my head. Sometimes, I’ll kiss back–on the neck. That’s usually the end of it. Usually.

HERE’S THE RUB

Some folks like to rub. Oh, I’m not talking about strippers or masseuses. This is the guy who will rub your back while talking to you. Worse, he may walk up behind a woman and rub her shoulders. He is a lawsuit waiting to happen. It’s just a matter of time.

I once worked with a woman–a very nice woman–who would do this. She wasn’t unattractive, but I didn’t like it. It’s too familiar. Rub someone you know well–very well.

TOUCH TOO MUCH

Perhaps the most troubling aspect of all this touching is that there are very few areas on the human body that are acceptable to touch on another person. We all know that genitalia are off-limits, at least most of the time and always in social settings. In fact, almost the entire human body is off-limits. “But,” you say, “we know the hand is acceptable because of the handshake.” Oh, really? How about the back of the hand? When you meet someone, caress the back of his or her hand. You won’t be introduced to anyone else that evening.

Let’s examine the human back. Certainly, the buttocks area is off-limits, except in sports where it may be slapped as a form of encouragement. How about the lower back? Hmmm. It doesn’t work, does it? Imagine the Hugger’s reaction when you grab her lower back and pull her toward you. Security will remove you shortly thereafter. The mid-back is perhaps acceptable; however, it makes for an awkward hug. The upper back is generally okay, as is the shoulder area.

I pride myself on having a typical human back:

The red line is the line of demarcation indicating the border of acceptable touching area on my back.

The front of the human body is completely off-limits. There is no way you can rub the tummy of co-worker without violating every sexual harassment rule. The chest? C’mon! No way. Chest touching is appropriate only for getting to second base or picking a fight.

The side of the torso is a gray area but should be avoided. It carries with it the connotation that you are grabbing the other person. Not good.

Below the belt line is also completely taboo–front, back, sides–it doesn’t matter. There’s no way to do it without causing a scene.

The face and head are out-of-bounds, too, unless for the Greeting Kiss. Pawing around on someone’s face or head is creepy. Don’t do it.

What of the neck? Do we even need to discuss this? What kind of weirdo are you?

This leaves us with the arms. They are mostly okay, I suppose, but be careful. Touching someone’s arm while talking to him or her is usually not offensive or suggestive. Rubbing that same arm is bad news.

Once you consider the human body and its many untouchable spots, there is no point in all the touchy behavior. You are tip-toeing around disaster the entire time. Why take the chance? You know that the basic handshake is safe. Stick to that.

SO, WHAT’S MY PROBLEM?

At this point, you’re wondering about my psychological well-being. That’s probably a legitimate concern. I don’t really have problems with so-called “personal space,” although I will admit that I don’t like crowds, either. It’s just the touchy stuff. Before you say “Lighten up, Francis,” consider that I may not be so unusual.

I’ve never been one to engage in public displays of affection, so it’s understandable that I would be reticent to paw around on strangers or mere acquaintances. Nevertheless, should we ever meet, extend the hand of friendship, and I will gladly shake it. It’s my way of saying:

“I am pleased to meet you and now gladly mash our hands together with no idea whether you’ve washed your hands in the past few days. I am, however, glad to see that you do not have a weapon. Now, excuse me, while I look for some hand soap.”

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Be Fun and Offensive with My Family Lexicon

I recently had the dubious honor of listening to a self-important gas-bag blow about the poor grammar of my native Eastern Kentuckians. While much of what he said is true, one could persuasively argue that it is more a dialectic question than one of grammar. I’m not a linguist, so that’s beyond my analytical ability. It did get me thinking, though, about how we all speak and how it is influenced by our surroundings. For example, my mother railed against poor grammar, although I was not particularly receptive, peppering my language with my fair share of “ain’ts” and double-negatives. (Whenever I hear a double-negative, I hear my mother’s voice: “If you ‘don’t have no’ you really have some.”). I realized that my family had its own language, which may not have been well-understood outside our small circle.

My father was the font of most of our peculiar dialect–a combination of sayings, words and colloquialisms. Here are some of the terms and sayings I learned growing up (and as an adult) which my family used liberally.

CRYIN’ RUBE: Dad had a cousin named Ruby who, by all accounts, cried at the slightest provocation. Thus, she was known as “Cryin’ Rube.” This pejorative was reserved for times when one of us kids cried for no good reason. “Be quiet, Cryin’ Rube” or “Don’t be a Cryin’ Rube” would be Dad’s frequent response. I’ve said it to my kids, but they don’t get it.

H.G.: HG was another of Dad’s cousins. One summer in the 1930’s, HG stayed with Dad’s family. He was, as Dad said, a “muscle head.” (see definition below). Dad described him as a “goofy-looking boy.” One day, HG was dancing on the front porch swinging a curtain rod around like a sword. While dancing, HG inadvertently stuck the curtain rod into an empty light socket. He was blown off his feet. If I did something really stupid, Dad might refer to me as HG. To be HG meant you exercised poor judgment or were just generally annoying.

MUSCLE HEAD: We didn’t coin this term, but Dad used it often. Essentially, it means that rather than having functioning brain matter, your skull is full of useless muscle. This was often shortened to simple “muscle,” as in “Listen here, muscle….”

THE ROUNDTABLE: The roundtable is where you sit when you have arrived. You only get a seat if you are qualified (see Portfolio below). “You are now at the roundtable” was perhaps Dad’s highest praise. Impostors or wastrels need not even consider approaching the roundtable. It’s invitation only.

PORTFOLIO: Your portfolio is a list of your accomplishments, qualifications and general worthiness. To be “without portfolio” was Dad’s way of saying that you just don’t measure up. There is no room for you at the Roundtable. In his later years, Dad was fond of saying (and saying and saying…) “I am my portfolio. My portfolio is I.” Outside immediately family, I doubt that was well understood. My brother and I knew he meant that he would stand on his own accomplishments. We knew this because he also said “I will stand on my portfolio.” What really taught us was we call The Parable of the Washer Woman. It went something like this:

If you are invited to the Roundtable, you will be judged on your portfolio. If the washer woman approaches the Roundtable, they will review her portfolio, too. “Let’s see, here, hmmm. What are your accomplishments? You are a WASHER WOMAN! OUT!” She is without portfolio. If you have portfolio, you will get your seat, but you will earn your place.”

At this point, I should note that my father had no prejudice against washer women. He was simply emphasizing that not everyone could sit at the Roundtable. The titular washer woman lacked portfolio; thus, for her own good, she need not approach the Roundtable. My brother and I understood. Oddly, the first time my brother heard this, he thought it was a true story and was horrified by the treatment of the poor washer woman. Don’t let that cause you to question my brother’s portfolio. He has portfolio. Dad said so.

HORSE FACE CUMPTON: It would help if you had known my maternal grandparents, which is unlikely. They were the finest of people but almost like a comedian team. Papaw had a penchant for long, detailed stories which Mammaw constantly interrupted with irrelevant comments and questions. Here is where Horse Face arose:

Papaw: “When I worked in the mines at Benham, I worked with this fellow…”

Mammaw: “Ireland (pronounced “Arlen”), who was he?”

Papaw: “Muriel (pronounced “Merle”), you didn’t know him. Anyway…”

Mammaw: “What was his name, Ireland?”

Papaw: “You didn’t know him, Muriel. Back to my story. This fellow…”

Mammaw: “I knew everyone at Benham, Ireland.”

Papaw: “MURIEL, HE WAS A MAN NAMED HORSE FACE CUMPTON!! THERE!!”

Mammaw: “Horse Face Cumpton? Hmmm. That name rings a bell.”

Maybe that’s not funny to you, but you didn’t know Mammaw, did you? She was the same person who once asked a lady with the last name of Pigg if she was related to the Hogg family in Letcher County.

Anytime that I’m interrupted trying to tell a story, I feel the urge to yell “HORSE FACE CUMPTON!” Sometimes, I do, and no one understands.

UNEMPLOYABLE: We all know this word, but few of us use it as a noun. Dad did, as in “He is an unemployable.” Dad put great stock in people having jobs and, more importantly, being willing and able to have a job. Likewise, he considered helping get someone a job to be the greatest kindness one can offer. He referred to some folks as “unemployables.” I have adopted this as part of my vocabulary. One word of caution, be careful about when you use it. People don’t like being called that.

One night I called Dad and asked what he’d been doing. He said “I just returned from speaking to a group of unemployables.” I still hope that he didn’t really call them that during his talk.

LOWEST OF TRASH: I’ve written before about my mother’s use of this term. It’s bad enough to compare a human to refuse but adding to that the “lowest” of such human garbage is harsh indeed. Unfortunately, sometimes that’s all that applies.

BANK SHOES: No, these aren’t worn by bankers. These are shoes fit only for wearing on a river bank.

STREAK OF THE CREEK: Dad’s way of saying that you might be too backward to make it in the modern world. “It’s hard to wash off a streak of the creek.”

SIMPLETON: Again, not an original but so frequently used that it became part of my vocabulary. It’s similar to “wastrel,” a word no one uses anymore. Dad used it. So do I.

KNUCKLEHEAD: No doubt, this came from our family love for the Three Stooges. Can be used interchangeably with “loggerhead” or “numbskull.”

DAFT: Like wastrel, this fell out of favor a couple of hundred years ago, but we liked it.

THUMBS: A pejorative term used for a clumsy person, as in “Be careful there, Thumbs!” “Ox” or “Oxy” can also be used.

HORSEY: A rather unattractive woman, usually large. “She’s a big horsey woman.” I try to avoid this one. It just doesn’t go over well.

THIS ISN’T A HIGH SCHOOL DEBATE: Another one of Dad’s which he adopted late in his life. Translation: Regardless of how inane or plain wrong what I am saying may be, do not take exception to anything I say, boy. Ever.

HUMMAQUEER: My brothers and I and our cousin were riding in a car with Mom on a drive in Utah. We were discussing someone and Mom wanted to ask this question: Is he a homosexual? Now, bear in mind that this was several decades ago before “gay” was in common usage in our part of the world. Also, I doubt Mom had ever said the word “homosexual.” In fact, it’s unlikely that she had ever said “sexual” in mixed company. To her credit, she wanted to prove she was “with it.” Here is how the question was actually asked:

Do you think he’s one of those, uh, you know, uh…humma…humma…uh…hummaqueers?

You may be offended by this. If so, my mother has been dead for many years now and likely wouldn’t have cared about your opinion anyway. Of course, if that does offend you, then you certainly will be offended by the question my cousin asked her: “Is that anything like a fagsexual?”

Political correctness and common decency prevent the use of hummaqueer these days. That’s a good thing, but I still think it sometimes.

THAT CAT LOVES IT UP THERE: Another cousin of mine was a rambunctious child. After a long car ride, he leapt from the car, grabbed my Mammaw’s cat and threw it up on the roof of my grandparents’ house. As he was being scolded, he shouted: “THAT CAT LOVES IT UP THERE!” This always comes to mind whenever I do something inexplicable and don’t have a good excuse. For example, I once kicked in my son’s bedroom door and immediately thought, well, you get the picture.

This is just a partial list. There were, too, the requisite cautionary tales and the tales of woe (walking to school, no new clothes, no Christmas presents, eating mush, etc.) all parents tell. I’m sure your family has its own distinct vocabulary. Think for a moment about the names you gave your grandparents–Grandpa, Pappy, MeeMaw, Moo Moo, Granny, etc.. Consider, too, the various humorous family terms for bodily functions and genitalia. You can easily make your own Family Thesaurus and Dictionary. If you’re foreign, you can even do a bi-lingual version. Try it. You’ll have fun.

Now, back to the Roundtable.

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My Random Inner-Dialogue

I don’t get too worked about the news. At my age (almost 51), I am supposed to huff and pontificate about the news of the world. I just don’t. This may be where my narcissism pays dividends. Most of what I read just doesn’t get my attention. There are exceptions, of course.

Larry King used to do a column where he strung together random thoughts about everything. It was like reading someone’s inner monologue. I think he wrote that for USA Today. Earlier in his career, he did a similar column for The Sporting News, except it was limited to sports. The Bob and Tom radio show parodies it to great effect. I’ve decided that I will do that occasionally. Here goes.my brief comments on the things on my mind these days:

The Yankees would rather have a team full of Steve Howe copycats than one Alex Rodriguez...Hope Edward Snowden enjoys Russia where dissent is embraced…Speaking of which, FREE PUSSY RIOT ! (I just like saying that)…Did you know that the Royal Family’s real name is Saxe-Coburg and Gotha? Can’t blame them for changing it to Windsor…I’m guessing that almost no one can find Benghazi on a map–I know I can’t…We gave King George III a “royal” ass-beating. Hope Prince Georgie remembers that…Ryan Braun just looks like someone I wouldn’t like…Seems like Amanda Bynes needs therapy…If my son gets another tattoo, I’m going to carve out one of the other ones…When did the IRS start picking on people?…

On Wednesday, I saw a guy with a huge goiter–that’s just not necessary these days…Ariel Castro will find that the last 1000 years in prison really flies by…If you’ve had testicular torsion, I know your pain…Marcus Vick offered a $1000 bounty on Riley Cooper–where the Hell did he get $1000?…This Whitey Bulger seems like a bad sort…If you see only one movie this year, it probably shouldn’t star Adam Sandler…Don’t ever let someone punch you in the throat…I’ve never seen a single episode of any of the sundry CSI TV shows…Bud Selig looks like an unmade bed…There is almost no chance that I am the biological father of Megan Fox’s children…I dare you to burn your own car…You can’t put a good spin on stomping a vagrant…Lindsay Lohan has a lot of freckles…There is a woman at my gym so pretty that she makes me want to weep…

Mama June on Here Comes Honey Boo Boo looks remarkably like Fat Elvis…I have a wart on my hand that is impervious to modern medicine…I know a guy who got shot by cop. He said it hurt like Hell…Say what you will, but Carlos Danger is a kick-ass name…I’ve never felt like dancing…If you can run a 4.4 40 yard dash, you should play a sport…Road House is a perfect film…Typing is the only thing I retained from high school…Rabbits have razor-sharp teeth…I’ve never had a problem with gluten…Fred Gwynne was a good actor…Tina Fey is quite fetching…Politics aside, Nancy Pelosi and Michelle Bachmann are both repellant…Glenn Campbell is a hell of a guitar player…I met Chuck Norris…Captain Kangaroo, too…I currently have a headache…I don’t sleep well, except for napping…I like Reese’s Cup Blizzards…My wife is more attractive than I am…So are my kids…My Granny had a dog named Mousie…Juggling is very difficult to master…I’ve never had a good vomiting experience…I believe everyone has thought about robbing a bank…If there were a medicine to make my hands bigger, I’d take it…Sometimes, I hear voices, but they’re friendly…I haven’t punched a wall in a long time…I would make for a really homely woman…Rob Lowe, though, would be beautiful…

Why can’t people on TV hear me?…I can influence the outcome of sporting events…My vote counts…I’d kill Wolverine in a fight…Women who don’t find me attractive are lesbians…Is Claude Akins dead?…Aquaman is an idiotic superhero…

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy…Sham a lam a ding dong…Who do you think you’re talking to?…They’re always talking about me…What are you looking at?…

Boy, that didn’t turn out like I expected. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. I’ll just keep this stuff to myself from now on.

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Hometown Loyall-ty

I’m told that I had a bad upbringing. Oh, no one says I had bad parents, mind you. Nevertheless, I had it bad. Why? I grew up in Eastern Kentucky. Apparently, that’s bad.

I’ve written about Eastern Kentucky before and probably will again. I haven’t lived there in three decades, but it is as much a part of my life today as it was then. It’s home.

WHERE (OR WHAT) IS LOYALL?

I grew up in Loyall, Kentucky. Here’s where Loyall is:

Exactly where is THAT? As I told a guy who picked me up hitchhiking, it’s three miles outside Harlan, to which he responded “Where the hell is that?” Harlan is the county seat of Harlan, County, Kentucky in the Eastern Kentucky coalfields. When I was growing up, about 40,000 people lived in Harlan County. Today, that number is closer to 30,000 and dwindling everyday.

Aerial view of Loyall today.

The first thing to know is how to pronounce “Loyall.” It’s not LOY-al, like the word “loyal.” It’s kind of like “Lole.” More accurately, it’s pronounced “Lowell” but without the “w.”

Harlan County is known for two things: Coal mining and stone cold bad asses. There’s not nearly as much mining as there used to be and there never were as many bad asses as people thought.

Here’s what I can tell you about in which I was raised:

I always heard it was named after a railroad executive. That might be true.
It had around 1,000 residents when I was a kid. The welcome sign now says 776. Frankly, that might be a bit of stretch.
Loyall consists of two parts: Loyall and Old Loyall. Old Loyall is exactly what it sounds like–the old part of Loyall.
The CSX Railroad Yard is in Old Loyall. When I was kid it was the Louisville & Nashville Yard. A lot of people in Loyall worked at the yard.
Trains ran day and night out of the yard hauling coal out of the county.
We had one traffic light. It’s still there.
We had a full service gas station (long gone now). They’d fill your car, clean your window and always ask: “Check that oil for ya?”
We had a soda fountain, The Corner Store. It sat on the corner, of course, by the traffic light. They had fountain drinks and excellent hotdogs with chili. They also had a pinball machine.
We had a movie theater until I was about 6 or 7.
We had a barber, Gene Harber. Very nice man. He always asked “How do you want it? ‘Bout the same?”
The Cumberland River ran through Loyall and washed us away in 1977. Thanks to the largesse of the federal government, the river now runs through a man-made channel so it won’t flood. Of course, they cut the town in half for that bit of high-tech engineering.
We had a school. It was Loyall High School until the late ’60’s and then became Loyall Elementary and Junior High. It still stands but hasn’t been a school for several years now.
We had a post office, City Hall, Fire Department and Chief of Police.

An artist’s rendering of the Corner Store adorns my law office. This was done from an old photo.

In other words, it was Small Town, USA. You knew your neighbors and lots of the folks in town. We slept with the windows open and the doors unlocked.

I must confess that I was not raised within the city limits of Loyall. I spend my first twelve years in Rio Vista, a neighborhood just outside Loyall. I spend the last years on my childhood on Park Hill which overlooks Loyall. Still, we thought of it as Loyall.

I lived in this house until I was 12.

WHAT’S WRONG WITH HARLAN COUNTY?

I thought it was a pretty good place, but I learned differently. My first lesson was when I attended the University of Kentucky. I talked funny. Evidently, I had (and have) an accent. That’s weird because I never noticed it. I did know people at home with heavy accents, but I wasn’t one of them…or WAS I? I was also a redneck, at least by Lexington standards. Trust me on this one, but I was NOWHERE close to being a redneck by Harlan County standards.

I took a class at the University of Kentucky called “Appalachian History” or something like that. It was taught by an odd fellow who had visited Harlan County on several occasions. He had read Harry Caudill’s book Night Comes to the Cumberlands. He had been to Evarts (where my father grew up), which he pronounced EE-varts. So, he was some kind of an expert.

I was told three things that I didn’t know:

I was the victim of abusive Robber Barons who operated coal companies. OR I was the victim of a well-meaning but misguided government which institutionalized poverty. OR both.
As a result, I lived in stifling poverty.
It was likely that I was too ignorant to comprehend points 1 and 2.

I had a substandard education and health care. Bad teeth, too. Inadequate clothing. Wow. You’d think I would have noticed some of that, but I didn’t–maybe all the inbreeding made me less perceptive.

Later, after I graduated from the University of Kentucky with degrees in Finance and Law, I continued to learn about my homeland. It was a bad, bad place. Bad coal. Bad government. Bad drugs. Bad, bad, bad.

Eastern Kentuckians, it seems, can’t take care of, or think for, themselves. Others, though, can do it for them. They need help. Here’s why:

Schools are horrible.
Health care is horrible.
Everyone is poor, even people with jobs.
All the unemployed people are victims of something or other.
Everyone is a drug addict.
There is no drinking water.
There are no roads that can be driven on.
The people aren’t smart enough to know that they are unhappy.

Honest to God, it sounds like Somalia. How the Hell did I survive?

LIVING IN REALITY

Fortunately, I grew up in the Real World. It wasn’t a perfect world, mind you, but it was far from what was (or is) portrayed. Imagine if your hometown–whether small town or large city–were always portrayed according to lowest and worst performers. I now live in Lexington, Kentucky, the self-proclaimed “Horse Capital of the World.” We have about 300,000 people here, but it’s a college town at heart. It’s a nice place to live, and I’ve enjoyed raising my family here. We don’t promote Lexington by showing our homeless shelters, the rundown shotgun shacks that litter downtown, the hobo jungle or our public housing projects. If we did, one would wonder why anyone would set foot here–except maybe for the horses who wouldn’t know any better.

I like Lexington, but honestly I don’t see it as being that much better than Harlan County. Lexington has poor people–a lot of them. Unlike my life in Harlan County, I don’t see them here. They don’t live near me. My kids might go to school with them, but they really don’t socialize with each other. That’s just how works. You won’t see Lexington’s homeless shelters, unless you go looking for them. The last time I went to one of them, I saw two men I know–LIVING IN THE SHELTER! I didn’t know anyone who was homeless in Loyall.

In Harlan County, there was no insulation. Your friends might live in poverty. I had a good friend who lived in a housing project. Housing projects in Harlan County are no nicer than anywhere else. His father was chronically unemployed. It didn’t matter. We were friends. Same with my friend whose father was illiterate. He was a good man. He just couldn’t read and write at any functional level. I don’t see that here in Lexington, not because it doesn’t exist, but because it’s well-hidden.

My friends’ parents included teachers, railroad workers, government workers, politicians, coal miners, coal operators, dentists, barbers, doctors, lawyers and just about every other walk of life in the mountains. Both of my parents were college graduates. That certainly was not common in those days, but I was hardly the only kid with that distinction.

Growing up, we lived like kids. Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, Little League Baseball, school, dances, romances, fights and all the rest. I have raised two sons to adulthood and have been surprised how they occupied their time much like we did–chasing girls, hanging out with friends, watching TV, all the while complaining about having nothing to do. Like my kids, we had all the teen angst that exists everywhere else–wanting to leave our small town, broken hearts, drinking, drugs and general teen mayhem. We just happened to be in Harlan County while it was going on.

We played Little League in Harlan County. Your author is on the front row, far left end.

WHAT ABOUT ALL THAT BAD STUFF?

There were plenty of people who had hard lives in Harlan County and elsewhere in the mountains. Poverty and unemployment rates have always been high and, in the remote parts of the county, people could live bleak existences.

As far as I know, my parents weren’t related to each other. I did know a guy who married his cousin, but I know someone who did that in Lexington, too. That kind of thing is frowned upon everywhere.

Did I know people who didn’t have indoor plumbing? Yep. I had an uncle in Pike County, Kentucky who had an outdoor toilet until the mid-70’s. By the way, my wife’s grandparents had an outdoor toilet, too. But they lived in Franklin County, Kentucky, home of our state capital. That’s not as sensational as one in Harlan County.

Did I know people on food stamps? Yes sir. I also knew people whose only goal in life was to “draw a check,” our Harlan County way of saying that a person just wanted to be on the dole. Some did. My Dad called them “people living off the grid.” They were cautionary tales.

Did I know any criminals or, as we liked to say, “outlaws?” You bet–a bunch of them, too. My Dad had a friend who killed his own father-in-law. The guy who lived across the road from us served time for attempted murder. For a time, we lived next door to a notorious bootlegger. I knew a bunch of people who’d been shot. Like I said, it’s a small place. You don’t get to hide from people.

Some parts of our county were so remote that most Harlan Countians never saw them. Jones Creek, Bailey’s Creek, Smith, Black Star, Holmes Mill and many such places were well off the beaten path. Still, those folks went to church and school and had jobs–a good number of them, at least.

The funny thing, though, is that the overwhelming majority of folks I knew didn’t fit these extreme profiles. Most people had jobs and took care of their families. Some families, like mine, had two working parents. Like parents everywhere, most wanted something better for their children and tried to help them. It was nothing unusual, just typical American life.

SO, WHAT’S THE DEAL?

Have things changed since I left Harlan County? Of course. Time changes everything. When I grew up, good jobs were fairly plentiful. That’s not the case today. The economic base in Eastern Kentucky is shrinking and may well not recover. The population continues to decrease and is likely to drop precipitously as the Baby Boomers fade. We didn’t have the prescription drug scourge that has devastated Eastern Kentucky in the past few years. Regardless of the changes, on my frequent trips to the mountains, I see the same sorts of folks I knew growing up. These aren’t characters from a Norman Rockwell painting nor are they the “salt of the Earth” or any other such overblown characterization. They’re just good, solid people for the most part. They don’t see themselves as victims nor are they trawling for handouts. They’re just living their lives as best they can.

I had an uncle who was fond of saying “Mountain people have mountain ways.” He meant that there were certain things about life in the mountains that were different–and not always different “good.” For instance, a lot of people threw their trash in the river. If we had high water, you see it hanging in trees when the river receded. We use to have a county trash dump on the side of mountain. No, it wasn’t a landfill. It was exactly what it was called–a big, stinking trash dump. People would line up on the side of the road and shoot the rats. It was really fun, but you don’t see that everywhere.

Now, as then, some people don’t take care of themselves or their families, either. They don’t go to the doctor or dentist or do much else. They pretty much live like their ancestors. Some of us might have called these folks “trash.” I’ve never been any place in this country that doesn’t have its pockets of trash.

Of course, like anywhere else, some people are born into bad circumstances and struggle. Sometimes, they can’t overcome that. They aren’t bad people. They just start life with two strikes against them. That still happens. Everywhere.

Are some of my memories skewed by the prism of nostalgia? Of course. My father used to rail against people talking about the “good old days.” He would then talk about Harlan County in the 1930’s when he grew up. He always concluded with “There were no good old days.” Fortunately, I don’t have those memories. I remember the good people and the nice life we had. Like a lot of people, I didn’t appreciate it enough at the time and probably spent too much time wanting to “get out.”

You may have never been to Eastern Kentucky, and this may not make you want to even visit. You may have lived there in tough times or under bad circumstances. Maybe your memories are not fond. Consider this: People from every part of this country have the same experiences. Perhaps we should condemn their culture or treat them all as victims. I leave that to you. All I can tell you is what happened to me and most of the people I knew. We were alright.

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Coal Troll's Blog

Culture

Dying to Get High

Here’s Something Funny: How I Talk

JFK Fifty Years Later: Asking the Unanswerable

Five Things You Don’t See Every Day

The Middle East: A Simple Guide from a Simple Man

Hands Off: A Touchy Subject

Be Fun and Offensive with My Family Lexicon

My Random Inner-Dialogue

Hometown Loyall-ty