... she IS


is wild like the wind
easy to make friends
lives to love and love to live
her beauty is eternal
a strong woman
with a tender heart
her talent knows
no boundaries …


… loves unconditionally
her love comes from within
thus allowing the power that be
to guide her steps
to set her spirit free …


forgives her enemies
love those who caused her pain
she speaks her mind
standing up for herself
there is no shame
for indeed
life is the only game
worth playing …

judge not this angel
who entertains us
with wonders to behold
she opens her soul
and God knows
the goodness of her heart
whether she be
in playful movements
or spinning like a tornado
change is what
makes life worth
exploring …

blessed be us
whom she calls her friends
her loyalty knows no end …

neither does mines
to her …


hurry back beloved one
your presence is
like the sun …
can’t live without it!

© 6/27/2007 Amias


Holy Friggin War(s).........

The average age of the military man is 19 years old.
He is a short-haired, tight-muscled kid who, under normal circumstances,
is considered by society as half man,
half boy.
Not yet dry behind the ears,
and not old enough to buy a beer,
but old enough to die for his country.
He never really cared much for work,
and he would rather wax his Father's car than wash his own,
and he has never collected unemployment, either.
He's a recent High School graduate;
He was probably an average student,
pursued some form of sport activities,
drives a ten-year old jalopy,
and has a steady girlfriend
that either broke up with him when he left,
or swears to be waiting
when he returns from half a world away.
He listens to rock and roll,
or hip-hop,
or rap,
or jazz,
or swing,
and a 155mm howitzer.
He is 10 or 15 pounds lighter now than when he was at home
he is working or fighting
from before dawn to well after dusk.
He has trouble spelling, thus letter writing is a pain for him,
but he can field strip a rifle in 30 seconds
and reassemble it in less time,
in the dark.
He can recite to you the nomenclature of a machine gun
or grenade launcher
and use either one effectively if he must.
He digs fox-holes and latrines
and can apply first aid like a professional.
He can march until he is told to stop,
or stop until he is told to march.
He obeys orders instantly and without hesitation,
but he is not without spirit or individual dignity.
He is self-sufficient.
He has two sets of fatigues;
he washes one and wears the other.
He keeps his canteens full
and his feet dry.
He sometimes forgets to brush his teeth,
but never to clean his rifle.
He can cook his own meals,
mend his own clothes,
and fix his own hurts.
If you're thirsty,
he'll share his water with you;
if you are hungry, his food.
He'll even split his ammunition with you
in the midst of battle when you run low.
He has learned to use his hands like weapons
and weapons like they were
his hands.
He can save your life -
or take it,
because that is his job.
He will often do twice the work of a civilian,
draw half the pay,
and still find ironic humor in it all.
He has seen more suffering
and death
than he should have
in his short lifetime.
He has wept in public and in private,
for friends
who have fallen in combat,
and is unashamed.
He feels every note of the National Anthem vibrate
through his body while at rigid attention,
while tempering
the burning desire to
'square-away '
those around him
who haven't bothered to stand, remove their hat,
or even
stop talking.
In an odd twist,
day in and day out,
far from home,
he defends their right to be disrespectful.
Just as did his Father, Grandfather, and Great- grandfather,
He too,
is paying the price
for our freedom.
Beardless or not, he is not a boy.
He is the
that has kept this country free
for over 200 years.
He has asked nothing in return,
except our friendship
and understanding.
Remember him,
for he has earned our respect
and admiration
with his
And now we even have women over there in danger,
doing their part in this tradition of
"Manning up"
going to war.
When you meet a man or a woman,
in or without their uniform,
willing to fight for your selfishness.....
Remember who you are,
where you're at,
and tip
Capri-ciate it..........


Rednecks n' Elevators....

A redneck family from the hills of Meridian
was visiting the city and they were in a mall
for the first time in their lives.
The father and son were strolling around while the wife shopped.
They were amazed by almost everything they saw,
but especially by two shiny, silver walls that could move apart
and then slide back together again.

The boy asked,
'Paw, what's at?'

The father
(never having seen an elevator before)
'Son, I dunno.
I ain't never seen anything like that in my entire life,
I ain't got no idea'r what it is.'

While the boy and his father were watching with amazement,
a fat old lady in a wheel chair rolled up to the moving walls
and pressed a button.
The walls opened and the lady rolled between them into a small room.
The walls closed and the boy and his father watched the small circular number above the walls light up sequentially.

They continued to watch until it reached the last number and then the numbers began to light in the reverse order.

Then the walls opened up again and a gorgeous, voluptuous 24 year-old blonde woman stepped out.

The father,
not taking his eyes off the young woman,
said quietly to his son,
'Boy, go gitcha momma!


Okay...I'm A Girl! Just Fix The Damn Car!

As a general rule car-related problems are best dealt with by human beings possessed of penises and very low estrogen levels. And here's what happens when you (a girl type: no penis, lots of estrogen) try to do something sensible for yourself about a car-related issue. Two of my nearest and dearest guy types, who we'll call Steve and Shmo, had borrowed my car to return to Meridian from the Neshoba County Fair in the blistering heat of a Mississippi summer. On their way back, something happened to the car that made the power steering stop doing that thing that it does. It also made the air conditioning stop and the power windows not work. The upshot of all this is: It took both of them to steer the car. The steering wheel was just short of the melting point and, as luck would have it, they had no oven mitts, and the couldn't even roll the windows down. It is a wonder they didn't drown in their own sweat!

Now, I contend that movies portraying us Southerners as sweating all the time are grossly inaccurate - up to a point. They show us going about our everyday lives, sweating like pigs at every turn - lawyers in court with big ole sweat rings under their arms, shirts unbuttoned, sticking to their backs; women working in the drugstore, rivers of sweat running down between their bossoms; children all red-faced, hair matted to their little heads. Now, most of the time, this just doesn't happen because we invented high ceilings, ceiling fans, and sitting on your ass. The only time we really and truly sweat like they show us doing in the movies is on that odd occasion that that thing in the car that makes the power steering, the power windows and the air conditioner work - happens to break.

So Steve and Shmo rolled up at my house looking like a couple of movie rednecks. They sort of fell out on the ground when we opened the car doors. They begged us to move the sprinkler over there by them and just let them lie there for an hour or so. Feeling a certain amount of responsibility for their current slow roasted condition, I popped the hood of the Audi, as if I understood the first thing about any of the stuff under there. Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit, if I didn't look down and there is this little belt looking thing, and I picked it up and said, "Hmmmmmm...I bet this is all it needs."

Thinking that car repair is not nearly so complicated as they make out, I, with broken belt looking thing in hand, take myself to the car-parts place. It is a Saturday, mid morning, and the place is hopping. I'm talking like fifty cars out in the parking lot of the car-parts place. They are out there in shorts, no shirts on their hairy backs, beer guts hanging - that and no shoes. Just crawling up under the car, frying on the hot pavement, getting dirt, small bits of gravel and gum wrappers hung up in the hair on their backs, thankyouverymuch. Who are these gross individuals and where did they come from? And don't they have mamas, wives, and/or mirrors to tell them not to go to the store half nekkied? I am gagging so bad I nearly forget why I am there, which is to buy another belt looking thing for my car.

I go on into the cool, and the car-parts guy axes can he hep me, and I hold up the broken belt looking thing and say, "I need a new one of these." Which I thought was pretty clear in and of itself, but I went on to explain that in typical Southern fashion, meaning in great detail, how some friends of mine had borrowed my car and the power steering, power windows and air conditioning all quit working and I bet they were plenty hot up in that car, didn't he reckon? I told him how we wondered what in this world could have caused all this mayhem, and even though none of us knew shit-diddly about cars, we were compelled to look under the hood anyway, and what did we find when we did this but this little broken belt looking thing hanging down and we just bet anything that's what was wrong and so here I was to get a new one and did he have one?

So he goes to his computer and fiddles around with it and says that, well, it could be four or five different belt looking things, which one did I need, whereupon I held up the broken one and said I want one just like this, only not busted. So he made several trips "to the back" and he brought out a different belt looking thing each time. I, the unskilled and unschooled, could tell from a block away that each and every one of them was twice as long and half as thick and so they were more than likely not the right ones, but he went through this painstaking process of holding them up together and comparing them closely before he determined for certain that he needed to go "to the back" and try again. He was really studying my problem hard and hmmmmmmmmming and pondering a whole lot. He said, now, you don't have any idea which belt this is, do you? And I said no I didn't; all I knew was that the power steering, the power windows and the air conditioner all went out at the same time. He said, ho, that was just what he needed to know, and I said that's what I figured and that's why I had told him all that the first thing. Anyway, he finally went "to the back" and got it, but I had to take it home with me and have it put on.

I tried to get Mr. Liquid to meet me at the parts place in nothing but a pair of shorts and scoot around on the hot pavement under the cars with the furry men. But he refused to come to town in only a pair of shorts and fix it for me. He wouldn't fit in with this crowd any way, he has no hair on his back!
God bless the Sweet Potato Queens!

I've Decided........

I need a pair of these and a big bag hanging in my bedroom.




We're back from our little chunk of heaven.
I missed ya'll and will be catching up on your blogs this evening.
Hope all of you feel as wonderful as I do today.


Happy Father's Day.....early

My family and I will be away for the next few days to celebrate the coming of
Summer Solstice.......
Well, a bit early but what the heck!


Father's Day
is upon us
and I wanted to post something special
for all you precious

So, this post is for all of you gracious men
who fill so many wonderfully colored shoes.

Thank you
for all the ways in which you love and teach me
to walk tall and motivate me to always try and
fill your shoes.



With Pen and Paper....



Mississippi Catfish Blues....

This is a 51 pound blue catfish that was caught in our swimming hole in Okatibbee Creek.
Notice the Gatorade bottle in his mouth in the bottom photograph.
The creek runs along the back side of our pasture and feeds out of the Okatibbee reservoir behind our property line.
It was caught on a trout line during the night.
I sure am glad we didn't have a run in with this fella
while we were swimming the day before.
Heck, maybe we did and just didn't know it!
I think I'll keep this one a secret from the children!

Note that this is a 32 ounce Gatorade bottle in his mouth.
Oh dear Lord!



Hor - Moans.....

It may be true - and we certianly believe that it is - that everything in the world happens or does not happen as a result of blow jobs, given or withheld. But there is something else at work here, too, at the very core of it all - an unseen but nonetheless irresistible force of nature that controls virtually everything, at least on this planet, and thanks to NASA, somewhat beyond. I am speaking of hormones. Hormones - specifically ours - are the boss of everything. Somebody somewhere gets pissed off and launches something that incinerates somebody else somewhere else, but why is he being such a butthead? Because he didn't get the blow job he felt entitled to, or worse, because somebody else got the blow job he felt he was entitled to. But why did he not get his rightful blowjob? My bet is....hormones, or lack there of.

We all like to think that all our actions and reactions are totally rational and appropriate to each and every situation. In fact, we bear hot resentment toward any male-type who presumes to diagnose our slight hormonal trough or surge. And if we do happen to be in the hormonal induced state, nothing makes us madder than to have a MAN suggest it. We can say that about ourselves if we feel like it, but woe be unto the man wo tries to blame our reaction to his bad behavior on a little estrogen, plus or minus. The words "towering rage" were first used to describe just such a situation, I believe. My daddy's favorite Biblical threat toward one's enemies was "Let us cut off his head and make of his house a dunghill." Sounds good to me, and after all, it is in the Bible.

Witness these hormonal events:

A woman, who shall remain nameless, calls her sister and makes the report that, not only does she not love her husband, she no longer even likes him.
"Yesterday I was looking out hte window and he was walking across the yard, when all of a sudden - he fell into a hole! One second he was there, the next he just dropped out of sight! I started laughing and I could not stop!" She laughed so hard, she fell down and just lay there, in a heap, cackling and whooping till the tears ran down her face and she had big black puddles of melted mascara all over her cheeks. Presently she heaved herself up by the window ledge and peered out. By this time, he was dragging himself out of the hole and she realized he had hurt himself in some manner. "I started laughing all over again! I never laughed so hard in all my life. I thought to myself....'Just stay in that hole, you old fart!' And then I laughed some more!" Eventually, she calmed herself down, and he managed to haul his carcass in from the front yard. She glanced up as he entered, and he said to her, "You will never believe what just happend to me." She, with a completely straight face, replied, "Oh? What was that?"

This was a local event.

From the wire services, we see a national trend. A seventy-year-old man was beaten to death with a shoe - by a woman - as he lay on the sofa. I called one of my friends and inquired whether or not she was a suspect in the "Fatal Shoe Beating," since I knew she'd been enjoying very little domestic bliss lately. We both agreed that you'd have to be pretty pissed off at somebody to beat them to death with a shoe. The wire service did not give us nearly all the details we craved: like what kind of shoe was it and how many times did she whack him with it? We figured it must have occurred in some strict-gun-control state. Poor woman couldn't get a handgun and had to use footwear to finish him off. This just points to the never failing resourcefulness of women, though, not to mention their long suffering natures. I mean, how many times do you reckon she had told him to get up off that couch? I'm quite certian she was just pushed beyond the human limitations of tolerance and had no choice. That will no doubt, be her defense. (You go girrrrrrl!) The hormone defense probably doesn't stand up in court. And you know she hated to ruin that shoe too, bless her heart. God, we beg of your mercy and please save the Sweet Potato Queens!


You Had Me.....

War of The Roses



Bubby's Blackberry Pie.....

We're picking blackberries today.
Below is one of the most delicious recipies for Blackberry Pie.
It is relatively quick and so very easy.

Click "pause" on the playlist to watch this video.


You Know You Are From Mississippi If....

1. You can properly pronounce Kosciusko, Ackerman, and Belzoni.
2. You think people who complain about the heat in their states are sissies.
3. A tornado warning siren is your signal to go out in the yard and look for a funnel.
4. You know that the true value of a parking space is not determined by the distance to the door, but by the availability of shade.
5. Stores don't have bags or shopping carts, they have sacks and buggies.
6. You've seen people wear overalls at funerals.
7. You think everyone from a bigger city has an accent.
8. You measure distance in minutes. (It's about 5 minutes down the road)
9. You go to the lake because you think it is like going to the ocean.
10. You listen to the weather forecast before picking out an outfit.
11. You know cow pies are not made of beef.
12. Someone you know has used a football schedule to plan their wedding date.
13. You have known someone who has a belt buckle bigger than your fist.
14. You aren't surprised to find movie rental, ammunition, beer, and bait all in the same store.
15. A Mercedes Benz isn't a status symbol. A Chevy Silverado Extended Bed Crew Cab is.
16. You know everything goes better with Ranch Dressing.
17. You learned how to shoot a gun before you learned how to multiply.
18. You actually get these jokes and are 'fixin' to send them to your friends.
19. You have used your heater and air-conditioner in the same day!
And Finally:
You are 100% Mississippian if you have ever had this conversation:
20. 'You wanna coke?'
'What kind?'
'Dr Pepper.'



It's Official.........



A Great Day of Golf......

Two old friends were just about to tee off at the first hole of their local golf course
when a guy carrying a golf bag called out to them,
"Do you mind if I join you?
My partner didn't turn up."

"Sure," they said,
"You're welcome."

So they started playing and enjoyed the game and the company of the newcomer.
Part way around the course, one of the friends asked the newcomer,

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a hit man," was the reply.
"You're joking!" was the response.
"No, I'm not," he said, reaching into his golf bag,
and pulling out a beautiful Martini sniper's rifle
with a large telescopicsight.

"Here are my tools."
"That's a beautiful telescopic sight," said the other friend,
"Can I take a look?
I think I might be able to see my house from here."
So he picked up the rifle and looked through the sight in the direction of his house.

"Yeah, I can see my house all right.
This sight is fantastic.
I can see right in the window."

"Wow, I can see my wife in the bedroom.
Ha Ha, I can see she's naked!!
Wait a minute, that's my neighbor in there with her......
He's naked, too!!!

He turned to t he hit man,
"How much do you charge for a hit?"

"I'll do a flat rate, for you, one thousand dollars every time I pull the trigger."

"Can you do two for me now?"

"Sure, what do you want?"
"First, shoot my wife, she's always been mouthy, so shoot her in the mouth."
"Then the neighbor, he's a friend of mine, so just shoot his dick off to teach him a lesson."

The hit man took the rifle and took aim,
standing perfectly still for a few minutes.

"Are you going to do it or not?"
said the friend impatiently.

"Just be patient,"
said the hit man calmly,

"I think I can save you a grand here....."

The Art of Love......the end.

We were riding the four-wheeler through the pasture
and my arms were wrapped around you tight.
Tighter than I think they have ever been before.
Or so it seemed.
The wind was whisping off of your neck,
into my nose.
I drank of you.
I gave thanks for you
and the miracles that surround us.
I squeezed you and gently kissed your back.
on your tattoo,
the only one you have,
the one with the
in the middle of it.
(By the way, I love you for that.)
Does that make me selfish?
I certainly hope so.
I am starved, yet full....


The ART of Love.............the beginning.

I was twelve.
You were eight.
My hair was still blonde.
Yours had just begun to turn dark.

I would watch you through the barbed wire fence that separated our souls.
You, with your father and grand father, working the land.

Me, on my tippy toes, with my grandfather in hand.
We were checking the bee hives.

I thought I might like you,
if ever we met.


Happy JUNE Everyone!