Three-Ring Circus

Oh I know – all I seem to do is prattle on about women/menopause, how much I love food (obviously), my insanely funny family, and my children – I endlessly talk about my children.

I talk about all of those things on continual-repeat-mode because the rest of the world is just a crappy thing to talk about right now. Every now and again, I do a breaking-story-column, chockful of current events and one tragedy or another.

And although I have feelings about all of those things, and some are so strong that I can’t breathe unless I let them be aired – I really don’t like talking about those said events. Most of them are sad and depressing. And besides, what could I possibly have to contribute that hasn’t already been said around every water cooler and break room table in America?

So if you’re wondering why in the world, with all the obvious material available to rant, laugh, and repeat – if you’re just astounded why I have had absolutely nothing to say about the months behind and ahead of us – and the election conversation; well, I just really figured one more column about a bunch of clowns in a round-tent-circus would be one column too many.

Fact is, my views, my thoughts and beliefs are so diversified and scattered from one conscious end of the globe to the other – I’m not up for the arguments for or against me and my beliefs – nor do I care to hear about yours and your need to change my mind and walk your way.

I believe just as strongly as all of you, and like you, there is a reason for my rationale, and at 52 years of age, no one is likely to change my set-in-stone mind thoughts.

My problem is – because of the one-end-of-the-spectrum-to-another thoughts I have – this has been the most confusing and undeniably most difficult election year I have been a part of or been witness to in my lifetime.

My hope is this:

That the person who is elected president of this United States can make us whole again and make us proud once more to defend living here.

That it’s okay to believe in Jesus and to say so out loud, and that if you don’t, well that is your choice too – without passing judgement in either direction.

That our children can feel safe in school and church again, and that gun control doesn’t consist of taking guns away, but instead, teaching and certifying how they should be properly used by each owner.

That we can all learn to live together and love one another for who we are as human beings without hate and judgment of gender or color.  

My list goes on and on – but I have yet to see a single candidate who fits my full-length criteria or who doesn’t make me cringe every other time they speak.

I’m not sure that any present candidate can pull us all together and accomplish any of those things; but I’m still waiting and hoping for a miracle; because we sure need one.


copyright 2016 Michelle Mount Mims
Also previously published @ The Havana Herald

Legal And All

When a woman becomes pregnant with her second child, she begins to think of all the joys that lie ahead and the new adventures. She also thinks about the things she might do different this time. After all, she’s more experienced, less likely to panic over fevers, fussy babies, and painful vaccinations for baby and mama.

By the second time around, my first child had nine years on him, and so did I! I had learned all kinds of things by then; so you can imagine my surprise when nothing seemed to be the same after all; the challenges were totally different from the get-go, and as much as I thought I was ahead of the game – I soon learned I was really just a rookie, starting all over again.

Boy is it ever true, that no two children are alike. My first born was quiet, artistically motivated from an early age, and didn’t care much for outside activities.  My second born was high energy out of the birth- canal-gate; as a matter of fact – he stood-up the last two months of my pregnancy, and was born the same way.  I think if there had been some way to smuggle some wheels “on the inside” he would have came out peddling!

At two months he was fighting to sit-up and take a bottle; there was nothing that was going to happen that he didn’t know about it. And from five years of age and tee-ball – he played a sport of some kind all the way through to his senior year of high school.

Other than white-knuckling, white water-rafting and mountain climbing, every other hobby has been tried and learned; and I’m holding my breath on the two afore-mentioned – because there are just some things a mama’s heart can’t take. Heck some half-frozen bull-frogs leaping out at me from my freezer one early Sunday morning, almost made me see Jesus!

He’s always been full of life, spunk, adventure and heart. No matter the world we live in, he still picks-up strangers who need a ride, from one end of Quincy to another, and makes conversation with them like he’s known them his whole life. He always gives everyone the benefit of the doubt, a trait that I thought would wear-thin with time and age – but he’s still that person who believes in folks until they give him a reason otherwise.

He’ll be twenty-one years old in a few days, the age of all things legal. He’s a pretty amazing human being, an adult in every sense of the word. And he’s also very honest – as he told one of his best buddies whose birthday was a few weeks ago “We have done more stupid things together than I would like to admit, and something tells me that the good Lord had both of our 21^st birthdays planned for a Sunday since we were born”.  

Happy 21^st Birthday, Zachary David Helms – everybody in the village including myself and your dad, and your grandparents – are awfully proud of who you’ve become – and can’t wait to see where you’re going.


copyright Michelle Mount Mims
Previously published @ The Havana Herald

Dreams Really Do Come True

I crack open the door, stick my head into the small space, and my eyes roam the room. They rest lightly on the desk to the left, strewn with paper and post-it notes, below it, the trash can over-flowing with the same. Across the room, his nightstand resembles his desk, and the bed next to it has more yellow post-it notes framing the headboard. A stranger would wonder what kind of person inhabited this space – but I know exactly who lives here – a writer.

In high school he was every teenager that has ever lived – and he was a teenager like no other. He was always about the words, whether it was the lyrics in a song, or the descriptions in a leather-backed book. He was dark, moody, and silent – and he was full of light, raucous laughter and compassion. He listened to his music obnoxiously loud, and he read his endless amount of literature in stone-cold silence.

He’s always known where his talents were supposed to lead him. Even in high school when his brilliant mind could not understand the demanding purpose behind the school rule of having to tuck his tee-shirt into his blue jeans – he could be convinced to understand that it was such a small part of his huge life’s journey, and do it anyway.

Greensboro High School of Quincy Florida, now Gadsden West, had a future published author walking their hallways, sitting in their classrooms, learning his lessons, and biding his time for bigger days, bigger ways to prove himself and his value to everyone. With the help of teachers like Steven Scott, Janet Kever and Melvin Poole, he would achieve all of those things, including graduating as Valedictorian of the class of 2004.

Fast forward to age twenty-three, and he has arrived at The University of Alabama to spend the next four years cultivating his writing skills in the Masters of Fine Arts program. He is now among the elite of his peers, just as driven as he.

I stayed with him a few times during that period as he had a two bedroom apartment. When I arrived I carried my baggage to the spare bedroom and it was like stepping into a time warp. There was a bed, but no nightstand this time, and a desk. The desk was cluttered with papers, the walls to the side of it and in front of it were splattered with post it notes – full of ideas, random thoughts, and future story-lines for future books in print.

At 29 years of age, he has already achieved one his biggest goals/dreams in life. Machines Like Us – by Joshua R Helms will be out for purchase in book stores March 15, 2016. His book can be purchased in advance by pre-ordering at http://www.dzancbooks.org/upcoming-titles/machines-like-us.

We are all anxious and excited to watch as the next chapter of his life unfolds. But speaking from a Mama’s heart – I will always know, that I am one of the most blessed women in this world to have been chosen to give birth to such an extraordinarily gifted human being.


copyright Michelle Mount Mims
Previously published @ Havana Herald

A Simple, Thank You, Will Do

Last Friday morning, two days before Valentine’s Day, I was watching a segment on the Today Show about six couples, all married 50+ years, and all were telling their stories of how they had met and made it through all those years together. The Today Show had created a video of these couples, dressed up to the nines, dancing and smiling and all apparently, still very much in love. 

My mind wandered as it often does, wondering as they danced and smiled, how they managed to make it through the much talked about thick and thin, and all the temptation’s that life throws into our pathways. All of them said they were brought up to believe that if it was broken you didn’t throw it away, you fixed it. And while I understand that concept and belief, there are marriages and circumstances that I believe, demonstrate the desecration of those very same beliefs.

Yesterday my husband and I were getting gas at the Flying J in Midway. Well, my husband was pumping the gas, I was sitting in the truck, flipping through my phone. I had the window down on my side as it was a pleasant enough day to do so, when all of a sudden in the lane next to us, a man began to shout and verbally beat on his wife in such a fashion, that I was stunned and staring.

The man, her husband I presumed, was pumping the gas and I am guessing she was about to go in and pay for it. She was asking him did he want a drink of some sort when he absolutely just unleashed on her a barrage of ugliness and hate so strong, I could feel the worded-blows as they slammed into her stomach, just as if they were being directed right at me.

There were other people all around, and the man right in front of our vehicle at the pump ahead was washing his windshield with the rubber wiper things they have there in buckets – never turning his head or acknowledging what was happening right beside him. But you know, I was doing no better, no different, because I just sat there in silence and continued to watch the sideshow myself.

The couple had to be anywhere from 75-80 years old – and all I could think after the woman walked off and into the store – was how long had he been treating her that way – and why was she still there? 

I don’t think I have ever witnessed anything like that in public before, certainly nothing that intense or full of hate. And while I was, and am still, a little ashamed for doing nothing, I don’t know what in the world I could have / would have done.

I have thought about that woman and that marriage/relationship all weekend; worried about her and what her life must be like in these last days of her life. Surely that’s not the same man she fell in love with – and it breaks my heart to know there must be a reason she has to stay. 


copyright Michelle Mount Mims
Previously published @ The Havana Herald

The Disguises of Love

Sometimes I think I know what the true definition of love is – what real love truly is – forever and always love.  But then sometimes I realize with the truest of clarity, that love can’t really be put into words; but is best described with feelings, emotions and actions.

I think we as people spend a good part of our lives looking for that special “high” that comes with the first days, weeks and months of love and when that high is gone, we’re not quite sure what to do with ourselves and we struggle with what went wrong.

Real love in not found in romance novels, bars, or dating sites. Real love, that rush of gushiness in your stomach and sudden lightheadedness - that love can be found in so many different ways and places, if you just slow down and stop trying to make it magically appear.

Love is:

That feeling that comes over you when you’re in a crowd, standing on your feet, hand over your heart, and singing the National Anthem. I always cry a little when that happens – even in my own home.

When you’ve been gone for Spring Break all week with your best buddies in the world. You hate to come back to rules and reality, but are so glad to see your own bed as you sink into the clean, cool sheets, thinking about the pantry that was stocked with all your favorites by your mom while you were gone, and you admit to yourself you’re so secretly glad to be home.

When they place your newborn into your arms for the first time, and you smell his head and rub his squishy-soft baby arms, you know that you will never love that much again, as you do in that moment; until you do it all over again, nine years later.

When your father can no longer take care of himself, but he refuses to leave his home. So you travel two hours both ways, several days a week to make sure he has food, he is bathed, and his basic needs are met. To me, that’s another kind of love that is deeper that most any other, and it is one that we will all experience if we’re here on this earth long enough.

As I’ve grown older, my needs are simpler: I feel loved when my husband secretly puts gas in my vehicle or when I walk by his chair and he reaches out for my hand, takes it and squeezes it.

Every love relationship doesn’t always work out. But when you can recognize who you are as a person, and try your best to find the human being that can best support your needs, and you’re also willing to support theirs – when you find that one person who makes you want to be the best person you can be – then you have the greatest chance of experiencing what true love really can be.

Valentine’s Day is over-rated. But love is the real deal, no matter what age you are when you’re trying to find it.  

It's Funny How......

It’s horrible that you have to become a full-fledged adult before you learn how to be truly mindful and considerate of your parents.  And I don’t mean being respectful, or saying please and thank you, I mean just what I said: mindful. Remembering to ask them how they’re feeling today? Heck, remembering to ask them how their day was period!

When you’re a teenager/young adult - I think you’re just brain-dead. Or maybe you’re just the most selfish you will ever be in your life. But either way, you’re oblivious to anything that has anything to do with something/someone other than yourself.

I can distinctly remember my mother having neck surgery when I was still living at home. And you know, back then, surgeries were not as sophisticated as they are now, and the recovery times were much longer. It shames me to say, that I can remember coming home from school, seeing her lying on the couch, day after day, and as I came in the door I would speak, and walk right on by. Never asking did she need me to get her anything, never asking how she felt, nothing – I asked her nothing.

And I’ll tell you why I even think of these things – it’s because I now have children of my own that are so wrapped up in their lives, I am treated the same way and so is my husband. And it’s not that we expect to be waited-on or doted-on, but gracious alive, being noticed would be nice.

It makes me cringe with shame when I realize, they are me. And that the only thing that gets noticed is that supper is not cooked and the clothes basket has piled-up.

Even worse, I don’t know that I was much better in my twenties and thirties – that I was any more caring or thoughtful.  I guess I could blame it on the fact that I was raising my own children by then, had my own struggles, my own worries. But is that really accurate? I mean, somehow, my parents always still managed to call me and check on me and my kids. And I’d like to say I asked about them, and inquired about what was new with them, but I really can’t remember if I was that gracious or not.

I guess what I’m trying to say to whoever is reading this today is this: don’t only call your parents when you need something. Call them to ask about them, how they’re feeling, what have they been doing – take the time to ask about THEM – after all, they’ve been listening to your self-involved conversations for years.

I don’t necessarily want my children to feel guilty one day – but everything has a way of coming back around when you least expect it.  I cannot tell you the conversations I’ve had with my mother, mullygrubbing and feeling sorry for myself, as I simultaneously tell her how sorry I feel for having treated her the same way.

A little self-reflection goes a long way.  

Nothing Lasts Forever

Besides people – obviously – do you know what is the most disappointing thing to talk about that doesn’t last forever? The things that you hate to admit, that although yes, you could live without them, but no, you just dang sure don’t want to – washers, dryers, air conditioning/heating units, and televisions.

Now let’s take that first couple of items and talk about them – I’m fully capable and it’s absolutely doable, and I do wash my delicate’s in the sink by hand, but I have NO desire to wash all of our clothes by hand; besides, I also don’t have a running stream behind my house to wash them in.

I did the whole clothesline deal two different times in my life. And I love the smell of fresh dried sheets off-the-line; I work, and hanging them up in the early-morning-dark and taking them off after a long day of work is not anything I desire again at this time in my life.

Side-note: my washer is on its last leg and when the spin cycle begins – it sounds as if a tornado is rumbling through the house. But we’re hang on until it spins it’s last breath or the floor falls through, so this story is not complete.  

I think by now, we ALL know where I stand on the subject of the heating/air unit and what it provides – which is nothing short of sanity and pro-longed life for all my friends and family. This morning my men were watching an old western and as I sat in my chair, I caught glimpses of those women in all their dress-garb.

I truly mean this when I say: how in the literal hell did those women survive menopause, hot flashes, night sweats and mood swings? How is it that women were not the most murderous human beings back in that time of history? Because I can picture it clearly – I had trekked down to the pond to scrub clothes with a rock, hung them all out, took them all down, milked the cows, hayed the horses, rung three chicken’s necks for dinner and I’m standing in five layers of clothing, sweating like one of the pigs that are outside wallowing in the mud to cool-off, cooking over a fire stove, when my man storms in the door bellowing at me “Woman, bring me a whiskey!” Yeah – I’d bring him a whiskey alright – cause he’d get one last shot of whiskey to make that bullet less painful.

And last, but certainly not least, television. Ours has been dying a slow death since the first of December, and this weekend it died. We had MANY discussions about “we’re not spending that kind of money on a TV” – and let me be clear – that was not my point of view.  Because let’s face it – work, television, and eating are our life now that our kids are grown. And by golly, I want Heinz (not Great Value) ketchup, a job I like going to everyday and a television that fits my description of perfect.

And guess what? That’s what we bought.