A New Beginning

The last few weeks many changes have been taking place and with those changes have been many more visits transpiring from Quincy folk to Georgia and Georgia folk to Quincy. Loads of furniture have traveled those all too familiar roads from one place to another, and things that were common staples years ago, will now be put to use again.

There was an attic full of old relics, pictures, and furniture – some of it even dating back to my own teenager days – that were used by myself so many years ago. I’ll admit feelings of melancholy occurred a couple of times as things were unwrapped and I was left standing looking at articles that my own hands touched more than 38 years ago now.

My youngest son’s new home is just about ready to move into – it’s been painted through-out the inside, the bathroom has been re-walled, and the kitchen has been re-floored.  The outside shutters, front door and railing have also been re-painted and trees/bushes have been cut-down and dug-up.

So although he hasn’t moved in quite yet – it’s already full of “new” furniture to help him fill-up a new home, pictures to make it feel warm and lived-in, and several rugs to place on the hardwood floors that will be cold come winter time.

But I too, will also have an empty room in my home – so I too, have also been receiving “new” furniture to fill my own empty spaces. It will all start happening in the next week or so – the final round will begin, and although I think I am ready, only time will tell once I have an empty room where a very active young man used to live.

What in the world will it look like without fishing gear, hunting guns, diving masks and duck calls lying about all over the place? Or his nightstand that stays piled with historical stories of president’s and wars, and his book-marked bible? Or the piles of clothes scattered here and there that always leave me wondering what is clean and what is not. Or the six pairs of cowboy boots that stand in a line, tucked just under one side of his bed, that I ALWAYS inevitably stump one of my toes on.

It’s the same room that I pass on the way to my own bedroom just across the hall, where I could lie in my bed and hear him if he called out, if he was coughing or sick, or just sit up and know at 1am, because the door was now shut, that he was home safe and sound.

I have already bought a new bedspread for my about-to-be guest room, it’s bright with colorful flowers. And now I have some “new” pictures, lamps, and a chair that were given to me from my folks that will go beautifully with what I already have – for a nice fresh start.

But my heart has to wonder, if at first, Zach will feel as strange in his new home, as I will with my newly-decorated room? Nahhhhhh….he’ll probably never even look back.

One Bright Light

She’s awakened in the night by the shrill ringing of the land-line telephone. Her heart beats out of her chest as she fumbles in the dark for the hand-piece that will stop that horrible, scary noise if she can just find it and push the appropriate button.

There’s just something about a ringing telephone in the middle of the night that shoots a direct arrow of fear straight into the heart, and no amount of calming or reasoning after the fact ever seems to change that. No matter that half the time it’s a wrong number or a mis-dial, it will always be the same heart-knocking fear that makes you weak in the knees and causes falling back asleep to become a trial for at least an hour afterward.

But this call would not be a wrong number, it would however be the scariest, most horrible call of her lifetime. She answers the phone to hear sobbing voices, voices she is having difficulty discerning the owners of, partly because of the fogginess of sleep and because the voices that are broken in fear and sorrow are like none she is sure she has ever heard before.

It would be minutes before she would understand that it was a friend of her sons who was trying to communicate with her – convey to her - where they had been and what had happened. She could hear the words but she could not seem to grasp their real meaning. It was dark outside, it was 4am in the morning, and all she hears is talk about fun and dancing and music – and now possible death.

There would be broken sentences trying to communicate horrors about guns and death, blood and pain, and mostly still, uncertainty. Her son’s friends would not know where he was, whether among the dead in the floor waiting for identification or on route to the hospital to be saved/healed.

This is the call so many parents, friends, and families received this morning in the AM hours. Calls full of fear and uncertainty, or worse, positive identifications of death.

The FBI is once again calling this an ISIS related event – by a man they had previously (on record) tried to tie to other ISIS related events in the past but were unable to make a positive connection. 

There is no doubt now, for anyone, who this man was or his intentions.

But I will tell you I have been watching the reports about this mass murder in Orlando, Florida all day long – the worst in United States history they state. And what I saw today was a change that I’m just not sure anyone else is giving enough credit.

I saw a line with reported numbers of 3000 plus people, all standing for hours to give/donate blood to the victims who are fighting to stay alive. Fifty plus LGBTQ people are still fighting for their lives and people – old/young/straight/heterosexual people – are standing in line to donate blood.

That one bright light gives me hope for the rest of us. And God knows we need one right now.

The Master of the Ring

I’m sure his opponents can attest that he stung like a bee. A bee, a bomb to the face, or a missile to the mid-section. For all the mouth that he was, for all the trash-talking that he did, and for all the teasing and in-your-face taunting that was part of his show – he backed it all up with the punch of silence which in return brought the response of a roar from the crowd.

It also brought roars and cheers and fist-pumping from couches, man caves and bars all over America. People would scorn all that talk, and begrudge all that bragging, but no one could deny that talent when Cassius Clay / Muhammad Ali would put in his mouth piece, shrug off his robe, stand-up in his corner and pop his gloved-fists together – and smile - right before he skipped into the middle of the ring.

That bell would ding and the dance was on. Rope-a-dope had a whole new meaning; no one had ever seen the likes of a heavy-weight boxer who was as light on his feet, and could move around as gracefully as he did. Most heavy-weight boxers would stand in the middle, feet firmly planted on the ground, and the most they would do was shuffle their feet around, never really lifting them off the mat, and rotating their hips in place.

Muhammad Ali taught them all that a new cat was in town, and that he liked to move, to dance, to shuffle his feet, and to rumble in the jungle. He was intelligent and he was talented and it began way before he fought in the famous “Thrilla in Manila” fight – in 1960 he was an Olympic gold medalist and a National Golden Gloves champion.

His professional career took many twisted roads with sharp turns – as he was a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War in 1967 and stripped of his title and his license to box professionally was revoked.  He was also found guilty of violating Selective Service laws and was sentenced to five years in prison and $10,000.00. He never served a day of time and in 1971 the US Supreme Court overturned his violation in a unanimous decision.

He would go on to resume his fighting career which would make him millions but also in the end leave him with a debilitating disease called Parkinson’s. The human head can certainly only take so many hits before damage becomes permanent.

But he retired and continued his life works as a hostage negotiator in 1990 and in 2000 would be appointed United Nations Messenger of Peace and in 2005 presented with Presidential Medal of Freedom by former President George W Bush.

To me, he was always the masterful, male muscled ballerina with a powerful punch, who commanded the stage of any boxing ring, every time he stepped into it. He was a prime-time entertainment show everywhere he went – and in 1996 when he lit the torch at the opening Olympic ceremonies in Atlanta, Georgia – he was one of my all-time favorite sport personality’s still.

Fly on Butterfly, fly on.


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

Turbeville Here We Come!

Well, it’s that time again! Today I’ll begin packing for our road-trip, as my husband and I are leaving tomorrow morning. We’re headed to Turbeville, South Carolina to see family, attend our bonus granddaughter’s graduation dinner, visit our niece who is pregnant with her very first baby, see that great-grandson who has already grown in leaps and bounds, and just have a good old fun-packed weekend!

Of course I will pack too many clothes - enough for two weeks instead of three days, and there will be a “snack” bag filled with enough goodies for an eight hour drive since my loving husband’s stops are few and far between.

And last but not least, my handy dandy box fan that goes everywhere I go, when I stay overnight. I’m sure the hotel will provide air conditioning (or else I surely wouldn’t have booked it) but you can NEVER have enough air – or soothing noise – come bed-time.

I’m so excited that I’ll have my new camera in tow this visit. I always like to ride those old country roads and take pictures of places that were so important and memory-filled for my husband when he was a little boy.

I love hearing stories about walking dirt roads, running/racing barefoot for small–change-winnings and how safe it was to roam those same dirt roads til late at night when he was young.

I love riding by all the tobacco fields, still in progress and growing today; as he shows me the fields that he and his family worked when he was growing up – from sun-up til scorching sun-down.

My husband was one of seven children, him being the closest to the baby. He had two sisters old enough to stand-in as Mama’s from time to time, and his oldest sister Louise still likes to tell stories of rocking him to sleep in an old straight chair. As she tells it, if he wouldn’t close his eyes, she would reach up and shut his lids for him! My husband still swears it was the thunking/clunking noise of that chair hitting the floor that lulled him to sleep all those years ago.

I personally think that’s why he can sleep through most anything now. He also has a saying when I complain about not being able to sleep “all you have to do his close your eyes, and shut your mouth” – that I swear to sugar he got from Louise as well.

There are only three of them left now, my husband WD (who they call “W” just like President Bush) his brother Allen, and sister Louise. But I love listening to the old tales they weave and it sounds like they were a tight knit bunch of folks back in the day.

My only worry about leaving for a few days, is what my poor flowers will look like when I get back home – because I surely cannot count on my child to help water them. My plan is to practically drown them before I leave, so maybe they can sustain until I get back – and pray for afternoon showers! 


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

Caps In The Air!!!

People were piling in by the dozens, craning their necks to find their “people”, introductions being made all around between hometown folk and visiting families, and everybody was dressed with the grace and dignity the occasion deserved.

I sat in the dim light, the entire auditorium packed to the gills, I in an outside aisle chair, when the music began to play. People rose to their feet, turned toward the entrance door, and as I saw their fresh faces filled with trepidation and excitement all at the same time – my eyes began to fill with water and I turned to grab a tissue from my purse, knowing this was only the beginning.

It was a small class – the Class of 2016 – but it was a formidable one none-the-less. All of them standing tall, confident, and ready for whatever was about to come their way.

All thirteen chairs would fit onto one single row upon the stage. They would all sit side by side, ending this ride, one right next to the other, as they already had, all year long.

The awards/rewards for all their hard work would be many and would be generous. Their names would be called, their hands would be shook, and they would all smile for the camera – for clarity and for the sake of posterity.

The Salutatorian, Miss Hilary Erde, would speak in the way she has probably spoken all of her life; with the clear, resounding and confident voice of knowing who she is, and where she is going. She spoke of the performing stage as being a big part of her life for many years, and her ease at which she spoke was undeniably an excellent representation of just that.   Her prior achievements personally and educationally, spoke for themselves as she stood at that podium and gave the speech of her high school career.

And then there was Miss Anna Meeks, the Valedictorian of RFM Class of 2016. My husband and I have known Anna for quite a long time, but it was during her late middle school years that we really got to know her even better.

She would ride with us to some of the football games that were out of town. Her brother had played football in prior years, but by then he had graduated, and since our son Zach still played, she rode with us.

I cannot even tell you what an eye-opening experience that was for us – to discover the complex, deeply intelligent, insightful and immensely comical side to Anna Meeks. You learn a lot about someone riding 6 hours in a closed-up vehicle, several times a month!

The speech she gave was a true reflection of the young lady giving it; I laughed and I cried, and I dug out more tissues. It was absolutely 100% Anna Morgan Meeks, and I was so proud to say that I already knew just how amazing she truly is, and how proud I was that now everyone else would know too. 

Congratulations to the RFM 2016 graduating class. Go forth and prosper – as I know you all will.


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

The Cook's On Vacation

It all glared back at me as if to say “Who are you, where have you been and what in the heck are you doing back here? You left us all alone and now it looks like you’ve come crawling back to claim us. You pick us up and put us down, and think nothing about the time that passes in between”.

And it’s true, it’s all right where I left it after the last time, which when, is what I can’t even really remember; stacked nice and neatly on the shelving, just waiting for the next user to come and visit.

In another room the oven door seemed to creak and groan as I pulled it open ready to use it – again, for the first time in ages.

I’ve got one family member with one foot out the door on any given day and another who works on the road a lot this time of the year. Neither are home very much, come in late at night, most of the time haven already eaten, and the weekends – well their time here is so sporadic – who wants to try and fix meals for that kind of non-existence?

Who wants to stand in the heat of a kitchen for hours on end fixing those big weekend dinners, frying up pork chops or chicken, making homemade mashed potatoes and special dishes for folks who will arrive who knows when, telling you – no thanks - they stopped by McDonald's on the way home – but they’ll eat it for leftovers later.

I haven’t cooked a full blown meal for weeks – until today. I used my oven and two eyes on the stove. That’s more than has been used at any one time in probably a month.

But when I walked into the back room to gather up the pots and pans that I would need to make today's dinner, there they all sat, ready to go; even if they did look back at me accusingly and at the same time making me feel slightly ashamed.

I’ll tell you what did look relieved though – that dang can opener of mine! Cause it has sure enough gotten a work out for the past month! Pork and bean cans for beanie weenies, Ravioli cans for quick suppers, and tuna cans for a LOT of tuna salad. I know when that can opener saw me pass it by it said a silent “thank you Jesus, that woman is FINALLY going to cook something that doesn’t involve me!”

I really think this whole experience is putting me in training for when it really is just me and my husband here most of the time. My youngest has finally signed on his home and after the pre-work is done in it, he’ll be moving out, probably mid-June or so. And there will only be just the two of us – and many times just one.

So what I really need all of you folks to do, is send me your recipes for simple dishes that don’t involve hours of work. I’ll be waiting - with my can opener on stand-by.


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

Home Is Where The Heart Is

This Mother’s Day was a first for me. Well, I guess technically it wasn’t a first, because I haven’t always had children – but it was definitely a first since the first time I became a Mama.

This holiday, as life and fate would work things out; I found myself alone for the first time in 30 years, and I was not prepared for just how empty/sad that would feel.

My husband took a job that would have him out of town for better than a few days – including the weekend. My youngest son had made prior plans to go out of town weeks before, not realizing that it was Mother’s Day weekend, and of course my oldest son lives almost 2000 miles away – so Josh appearing for the occasion was not happening either.

My youngest son took me out for an early celebration Thursday night, which was a first for us – an adult dinner – just the two of us, in which I didn’t pick-up the tab. It was nice, both of dressed for a night out, sitting there in a real restaurant, having adult conversation; and my oldest sent me a nice card, with a beautiful inscription.  

As I said, sitting at home just didn’t quite seem like the road I needed to take this year. My folks were originally supposed to have come to Quincy for a visit and lunch, but now with just myself being here, that seemed a little pointless.

So I packed up a bag, locked down the empty house, and headed home - to Albany Georgia, to celebrate my Mother’s Day and to celebrate my mom’s with her.

It’s not all that often that I have my folks to myself, and it was so good to be back home. We all went out and had a lovely dinner, we took a drive afterward to show me some of the changes and growth in the area and then headed back to their house where we would laugh, tell stories, reminisce and laugh some more.

Sometime around seven o’clock – my Daddy’s sweet tooth must have kicked in and he left out for a destination of Krispy Kreme. Now they have one of those about a mile from their home, but here, it’s a trip to Tallahassee – so that really never happens.

We had eaten lunch at sort of mid-day – so I guess you would call that our supper, and what a treat that was – and one I can’t honestly say had ever happened when I was younger. Isn’t it so much fun when you grow-up and your parents are the fun people now? When you can laugh, use salty language and feel like you can talk to them about anything – and eat DOUGHNUTS for supper?!

It was a wonderful weekend and the best decision I could have made. It was nice to have a just a mother/daughter celebration for a change, and again, it was selfishly nice to have them both all to myself.

Thanks to my Mama and Daddy for a very special Mother’s Day, and I sure hope my Mama’s felt the same.


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