Knocked Over By A Feather


Back To Life

This bit of fiction has potential suicide triggers. 


Hank “Saggy Nuts” McGill wiped his forehead with his bandana and spit on the ground.

“It’s too damn sultry,” he grumbled to his dog Ralph, who looked slowly up at him in response from his place on the old wooden porch of the farmhouse. It was a dog day afternoon and Ralph was too old and lazy to do much more than occasionally sniff the humid air.

“I should’ve sold this place years ago,” he said regretfully, adding his gritty voice to the sound of silence that surrounded him. Since Mildred left him, taking the two kids with her, the property had been as silent as a tomb for 25 years. 

A tomb. Well, old “Saggy Nuts” wouldn’t be missed all that much.

Hank took one last look at his loyal dog Ralph, now fast asleep, his old paws kicking like he was chasing a raccoon back in his youthful puppy days.

“Goodbye, old fella. Thanks for staying with me, boy. Even though I’m a rotten son of a bitch,” he laughed to himself, although really, it wasn’t funny at all.

Ralph’s nose twitched, his left eyelid fluttered and then he started snoring. He was 105 years old in dog years, his last days would be spent taking as many naps as possible.

Hank started walking towards the barn, which was now in complete disarray after a few seasons of inattention. All of the animals were gone, sold off to other farms that were still functioning. The ground was covered in dirty hay and what appeared to be cat turds, although there hadn’t been a cat on the McGill farm since the kids were little.

The cat feces made him stop for a second, thinking back to the youngest, his daughter Pearl. Why, she’d be in her late 20’s by now, he thought to himself, his eyes starting to mist over. How she always loved the animals, the goats, chickens, pigs and especially those mice chasing cats.

Never one to be overly sentimental, Hank shook off the memory of his long gone daughter and carried on with his plan. He had marked the calendar months ago. Today was the day and there was no turning back. All of his business was in order, so there was no real reason to hesitate.

The highest beam in the barn already had a noose hanging there. He had climbed up a few months ago in preparation for this day, nobody could ever say that Hank “Saggy Nuts” McGill wasn’t a few steps ahead of everyone else. Even as a schoolboy, Hank always had this homework done and his papers organized, although he was never destined to be a scholar.

His father was the one who gave him a reality check at aged 8.

“Put those books down, son. You’re a McGill. All this will be yours someday.”

“Well, hot damn, ain’t I the luckiest son of a bitch,” Hank whispered, grabbing the ladder that he had used to place the noose right after the last snow of the winter season.

He climbed up slowly, deliberately. As ready as he was for this moment, there was something that he couldn’t pinpoint making him nervous, not the peaceful feeling that he’d been hoping for.

At 66 years old, Hank was still a healthy man who had lived a clean life, unless you count the fact that he drank bourbon like it was water. He hadn’t even touched the stuff until after Mildred left with the kids.

Randy had to be at least in his lower 30’s by now, he realized. He might even have grandkids, who the hell knows? He pictured little children with his nose running up to him in the yard, calling out grandpa as he picked them all up one at a time, a giant smile on his unshaven face.

“None of that matters now,” he whispered, as he put the noose around his neck.


“They found him hanging in his barn,” Flo the waitress divulged to her patrons. She shook her head sadly. “He was the nicest, a true gentleman. He’d come in here every Saturday morning, order three pancakes and a black coffee. Extra syrup.”

Pete Holden took a sip of his coffee. “That he was. I still don’t understand to this day why his wife up and left him.”

Al Peterson wiped his chin. “And what kind of woman takes the kids and just disappears?”

They were all silent for a moment, thinking various thoughts, the kind that people think when something tragic happens.

“They found his old dog on the porch, poor thing was waitin’ on him to come home,” Flo said. “The paramedic adopted him, isn’t that sweet?”

“People sure do come together in a crisis,” Al responded, taking the last bite of his toast.

Pete finished his coffee, while Flo, on autopilot, filled his mug back up.

“Well,” he said,” I think old Saggy Nuts finally cracked. He was never the same after his family left and he started drinking. The farm was his hell, he hated it. But he was also loyal. I went to school with Hank, he was a smart kid, but his dad put the kibosh on that real quick.”

Flo couldn’t help herself. “Why did people call him Saggy Nuts?”

“You should have seen them, then you’d understand. Let’s just say that teenage boys in the locker room are not always nice,” Pete explained.

Despite the sadness that they all felt, the three chuckled. Humor is an integral part of staying sane.


A man in his early 30’s stood in front of the old McGill barn, his pregnant wife standing uncomfortably next to him.

“It’s so damn sultry,” she complained, shifting her weight to her other hip.

“Yes, it was always really humid here,” her slightly dazed husband said. “This is where my dad…”

“I hope you’re tearing it down Randy, it’s creepy.”

Randy McGill flexed his broad shoulders.

“No, I’m going to fix it up, just like my dad had it when I was a kid.”

“I’ll be in the farmhouse. The one that you’re completely remodeling or I’m going to live with my parents.”

Randy watched her walk away, somewhat like a pissed off penguin, then turned to look back at the dilapidated barn where his estranged father had taken his life.

He was going to do the right thing and bring this farm back to life. His sister was dead, in a car accident when she was 18. His mother, not surprisingly, hadn’t been in the will.

It was all his.

His mother had taken him and his sister to a commune in Southern California. Each day had passed into the next, until he couldn’t even picture his father’s face anymore.

“I’m sorry, dad” Randy said, wiping tears from his eyes. “I should have come home sooner.”

“Daddy, I found a cat!” His daughter was running towards him, holding a black cat that looked like he might have fleas.

“So you did, honey. It needs to stay outside for now, okay?”

“Okay, I’m gonna name it after grandpa.”

“Hello, Hank the cat,” Randy said to his joyful 5-year old daughter. He noticed that she had his father’s nose.

“He says hello back, daddy. Grandpa likes it too.”

“But Leah, remember what I told you? Grandpa is…he died.”

“He’s right next to me, daddy. He smiling. He says that he’s happy we’re here now.”

Randy squinted hard at his daughter. But all he saw was a precocious little girl standing in front of him, with a bit of dirty straw in her hair.

“Tell him I’m glad,” Randy replied seriously.

Leah giggled. “He knows, daddy.”

Then she saw something that interested her and skipped away, leaving Randy with a weird, but pleasant chill down his spine.

Birth Giver


You can give the people who you chat with on Facebook Messenger a nickname. I had no idea that this was even a thing until last week, when my daughter assigned one to me.

Birth Giver. Instead of just a simple “mom” or even “the mama.”

At least my mother’s day card had mommy on it.

So in the spirit of hilarity and creativeness, I decided to nickname her Child-o-my-Loins.

Bling! Child-o-my-Loins sent you a message.

“What’s for dinner?”

Birth Giver: Make a sandwich. 

Child-o-my-Loins: I’m tired of sandwiches. I want something that has dimension. 

Birth Giver: You want dimensional food?

Child-o-my-Loins: Yes! 

Birth Giver: I suppose we can have hot dogs. 

Child-o-my-Loins: Are they the beef kind?

Birth Giver: Nope, just the meat kind. Might have a little bit of beef in there, you never know.

Child-o-my-Loins: Ick!  😦

Birth Giver: If you’re hungry enough, you’ll eat it and be grateful, you little turd.

Child-o-my-Loins: I’ll just have another sandwich.  :/

I find it difficult to believe that my daughter will be 21 next January. I still picture her in my mind sometimes as a 14-year-old teenager. (Especially when she gets all whiny about what’s for dinner.)

No matter the age of your child/children, they will find a way to make you laugh and facepalm simultaneously.

My Disgust for Ohio Summers

I finally shaved my legs.

One razor, ruined for life. Not even razor-like enough afterwards to shave my armpits.

I really had no choice. I went to my brothers house for a cookout Saturday and his in-ground pool was finally ready with a new liner. I was going to float in the deep end with a pool noodle, damn it.

While drinking a beer. There’s a first for everything.

My bro and sister-in-law have their own little piece of paradise. (And I get to visit sometimes!)

I’m doing alright mentally, I’ve just been really introverted lately. Plus, I can’t seem to get any good ideas for blog posts to brew. This happens now and then to me, I’ll be fairly prolific for a while and then…well, I don’t really have all that much to say.

It’s been hot here in Northeast Ohio, but I have a portable AC unit set up in my bedroom. A cold front came through last night, thankfully. I prefer sleeping with fresh air and just my fan blowing, but the AC unit our neighbor gave us last year is perfect for the size of my bedroom. Getting a “good” night’s sleep is so important to me and when it’s so humid that I have MAJOR boob sweat, sleeping is a nearly impossible task.

It would be so kick ass if we could afford a brand new central air thingy, but have you seen the prices of those suckers? No, ain’t gonna happen. I am just thankful enough to have the portable this summer. The living room is somewhat tolerable if we run both fans. I think we should buy another one, though.

You can never have enough fans when it’s sweltering hot. And yes, I sit on the couch with only my bra and undies on.

Summer is my least favorite time of the year because of the humid heat. I don’t tolerate it well at all. Ohio has the most annoying weather if you ask me. Spring isn’t long enough and fall is gone in a blink of an eye.

What we have fucking plenty of is cold snow and hot sun.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I need to find a nicer climate, man.

I meant for this post to be about more than just my disgust for Ohio summers.

Sorry, my bad.

You’d think that my pain levels would decrease in the warmer weather, but no dice. The only time I get a reprieve is during the evening hours, when I smoke a bit of bud (Sour Urkle this time ’round) and take a pain pill, if necessary.

And, like on Saturday, I have a few beers. It helped me to sit on the ledge of the deep end of the pool and butt scoot jump, yee haw!

What pain in my legs? Pesky hips. Asshat lower back! Take some hops and barley, bitches!!

You see, I come from a drinking family. I’m the only pothead.

My family knows and they don’t judge me, which is really nifty. To be accepted for who you are, you know?

For example, my mom shared this today on my Facebook wall.


What’s the weather like in Colorado?

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