Happily Ever After... .

There’s a saying… that men marry hoping nothing will ever change about the woman they wed… and women marry hoping to change everything about the man they wed.

I don’t usually put a lot of credence to such sayings, but I sometimes wonder if there’s more truth there, than not. I haven’t seen many genuinely happy marriages. Mostly it's been marriages where, at best, the couple settles into benign tolerance of one another. 'A “…better this than being alone, I guess… maybe… ." sort of acceptance of each other’s presence in their lives. 'But there’s almost never anything joyful or companionable in the union.

I wanted a marriage anchored in genuine partnership and companionship… two people supporting each other… helping each other to evolve… contributing their efforts toward creating happy, fulfilled lives for themselves and their children. 'Not glued to each other (I enjoy my autonomy, & would have hoped my partner did his too.) -- but still united in the important aspects of a relationship. ‘Never found a man who saw it quite the same way though. Still, I would have never married, even if I had found the right partner. There would have been no state involvement... no licenses signed. Such things never protected or helped anyone. They aren’t needed to make a life-commitment to someone. And the right partner, would also have known that.

But... that’s — not this story.

A friend married a few years back, for the second time. Already I see sadness in him. There’s no question but there’s some “buyer’s remorse” there… though being a private person, he has said nothing.

When he married the first time, as a very young man, I wanted desperately to take him and his prospective bride aside to beg them to consider waiting at least just a couple years. They loved each other… or thought they did. But even a couple years would have shown them both that they wanted, at heart, completely different things out of life. They married… and many of their years together were not happy… and in the end – it ended.

And now he has married again... to a woman who is the 2.0 version of wife #1 -- but with a more un-nerving edge to her. He considered her to be sweet, like-minded, and delightful. She was intrigued by his personality, and his position in life. They honestly didn’t know each other well enough to marry. They “courted” for a couple years, but the courtship consisted of phone calls & visits back and forth -- with weeks apart in-between. Someone should have reminded them both: anyone can be on their “best behavior” for a few weeks at a time... and verbal exchanges over a phone can hide -- a lot. 'For a long time.

And now, he has the look of a man who wishes he’d mulled over his life choices and options a bit more… while she is actively rearranging their entire lives. My heart aches for him. But he is proud... stubborn... and nothing would have deterred him from this choice... or made him take a deeper dive into considering it. I'm not the only person who wishes he would have done so. But anyone who would have suggested more consideration... a slower pace... would have only encountered his wrath.

So... why is this playing in my head? Obviously, it's none-of-my-business. But I care about my friend; I want to see him happy. And I keep remembering another conversation, with yet another friend, about his own first, failed, marriage. He said the thing that hurt him most was that, after his marriage fell apart, so many of his friends and family members spoke up, noting that they had always felt the union was "ill-advised" at best. "Why," he asked, "didn't anyone say anything before we got married?" I asked if he felt he would have actually listened, if anyone had done so -- or if he would have just been angry. "I would have listened," was his unhesitating response. "It would have set me to doing some self-reflection, most definitely."

That's not always the case though.

My friend who's now in his 2nd marriage, is not naive. He does not lack intelligence. His life has given him a full -- often distressing -- panoramic scope on people, predilections, and proclivities. He chose... what he chose. But... even when my friend was a young man, I always thought:

"Any woman who is his girlfriend or wife, is going to have to understand she will never--or at least rarely -- be #1 in his life. She will almost always come behind his career... any children he may ever have... his friends & extended family... his faith & spirit… even, often, himself... ."

I didn’t consider any of that to be inherently bad or selfish... but it definitely had to be parameters his prospective mate could accept and live with. He's a good man. ‘Kind, decent, funny, and caring… but on his own terms. He has no inclination to “babysit” a spouse, or feel that he should choreograph his every move with her. And while the first rush of “love” may declare “...anything at all—so long as you’re happy!” -- everyday life often changes that viewpoint. That’s the tipping point… for my friend… for so many people.

Now, with the insight of years behind, I might even have suggested, had he ever wanted my opinion -- which he did not -- that my friend never marry at all… … but instead have chosen a life-companion with whom he could share partnership, support, & intimacy... while they both continued to live full, autonomous lives. ' Preferably, probably, in separate homes… or cities… or states. I’m sure my friend would be beyond thrilled to know how I would have “fixed” his life for him. No problem. I may analyze & hypothesize adjustments to what I perceive... but he doesn't have to consider, or buy into, anything I might think.

I just hope he'll give credence & credibility to his own thoughts & needs. Because he does know this: if things are not right for one person... and there's no way to make things genuinely & honestly okay... things will never "magically" become right for two people--or more. It will only become two or more people living perpetually in anger, sadness, and self-doubt.

©️ dmj 2026
(6-22-2026)

William Faulkner, Have I Got a Story for You! (Part I)

William Faulkner, was an astute & poignant chronicler of life in the post-Civil War / early 20th century south. He was altogether a brilliant writer who brought to life the ethical problems in the changing south, as well as the social, emotional, and physical burdens of shifting lifestyles and mentalities.

I admire him as an author. I have not yet managed to forge my way, fully, through even one of his books. There’s a simple reason for this: it was always hard for me to read a Faulkner novel… when I was forced to live a Faulkner novel.

My immediate family – the five of us – managed to bring a full Faulkner character list into the confines of our 1,825 sq. ft home. ‘Some of us playing double roles, yet. We had alcoholism, mental illness, infidelity, social isolation, family alienation, untreated physical illness and injuries, and gender discrimination, among other things going on. 'And half of us did it with a genuine southern accent in the bargain.

My parents were born and raised South Carolinians. All of my family is from the South Carolina, North Carolina, Tennessee, and Georgia areas. I was the first “Yankee” to be born into my family. My parents landed in Wisconsin in 1953, thanks to the G.I. Bill, and my father’s love of hunting and fishing. He had taken a job in Los Angeles – but did an interview in western WI as a courtesy, since it had already been set up. One look at the wonders of the Mississippi Valley region though, and he called L.A…. rescinded his job acceptance… packed up his wife and 6 week old daughter (my older sister)… and left Knoxville, TN to head north.

Dad loved horses... and his dream had been to buy a small farm close to the mid-size WI town we lived in, so he could raise & breed them. My mother, however, wanted nothing to do with moving “to the country” where she’d have to listen to “…deer stomping and frogs burping…” day & night. As a non-compromise, my father bought an asbestos sided house on the busiest street in town, barely a block from a hospital, and a convent. My mother – loathed the house, and she loathed living in WI. To be fair, she hated living anywhere except for Winnsboro or Columbia, S.C. -- the towns she had lived in all her life. Even Knoxville had been accepted reluctantly, as only a temporary residence, while my father finished school.

By the time I came along in 1957, my father was drinking heavily -- well on his way to becoming a highly functional alcoholic -- and he had taken a mistress. Occasionally, he’d bring her home to have dinner with all of us. He never referred to her as his mistress, of course, but even as a toddler, I was well aware something was way off. The town we lived in wasn’t big enough for this situation to be buried. Neighbors were scandalized -- and intrigued. My mother was angry -- and depressed... to where she spent the bulk of her days in bed. My sister and I just kind of enjoyed the peace that descended on the house, once the primary warring factions split up. That happened when I was roughly eight. Prior to then, my father hadn’t spent much time at home… but afterwards, his appearances occurred only on Sundays, and holidays.

My mother did rally herself from her growing depression and agoraphobia long enough to make a third attempt at a “band-aid baby.” The result was my brother… and damned near a death sentence for my mother. By the time he turned three, Mom handed him over to my sister & me to raise – and succumbed fully to bi-polar illness, and rheumatoid arthritis -- neither of which she was willing to seek any treatment for. A few years down the road, both of her legs had to be amputated due to sepsis, and she died early, at only age 63.

(To be continued)

©️dmj
July 2026

William Faulkner, Have I Got a Story for You! (Part II)

Our house functioned with a strong patriarchal focus – despite the patriarch not even being in residence. As the sole reigning son, preference was given to my brother in almost everything: money, attention, medical care, life experiences… . My brother admits to this day, “We didn’t have much growing up – but I got the lion’s share of what we did have.”

There’s an example of this that still bothers me to this day: when I was in college, as an archaeology student, I had the chance to do a summer semester in Egypt. I’d managed to earn & save most of the money I would need, with the exception of about $800. I asked my parents if they could consider fronting me the money—with the understanding I’d be paying it back, with interest. I was given only a “We’ll think about it,” as a response.

In this same time-frame, my sixteen yr. old brother had been bitten by the motorcycling bug, and was trying to buy a new motorcycle. One afternoon my father stopped by and handed my brother a $1,200 check. 'The down-payment for the motorcycle. Egypt was never mentioned again, by any of us. It’s not something I ever want to be petty about… and yet, I don’t think there could have been a more on-point example of how “sons vs. daughters” were treated in my family.

My sister and I also -- more troublingly -- had genuine medical needs that were ignored, including my sister’s congenital heart defect, and my scoliosis. Had my sister been treated as a child for her condition – which would have been a fairly simple procedure – it probably would not have killed her when she was 63.

Our primary functions seemed to be viewed as housekeepers, babysitters, cooks, and nurses for our mother. We were encouraged to go to college & get degrees though—my sister and I. It wasn’t due to any thoughts of female equality, or furthering our potential. It came down to the simple fact that all my parents’ friends were happily sending their daughters off to college, along with their sons. For my parents to have discouraged us doing the same – especially when we were both excellent students – would have been questioned. Openly, and deeply.

‘Couldn’t have that. Appearances were everything, after all. But we did have expectations set out for us: my sister was to become a teacher; I was supposed to have become a nurse – mostly to take care of my mother, of course. Neither of us, ultimately, did what we were supposed to do… but we made those decisions only after our mother was dead… and with the knowledge that our father didn’t care one way of the other.

In any case… my sister & I raised our brother as well as we could, and tried to keep him from becoming totally feral. Surprisingly, he turned out to be a fairly decent guy – not at all the twat one might have expected. My sister, by age 14, was beginning to have her own problems with bi-polar disorder -- totally untreated, of course, until she sought help for herself, as an adult. Still, she she earned two Masters degrees and became a successful college educator. And I... finished a Masters and a Specialist's degree... had two wonderful kids... and a reasonable good career in middle school education.

We had our successes… our happy moments... as most dysfunctional families do…, though, in her 40s, my sister once bitterly noted: “That’s just it though, isn’t it? Why should we have to fine-comb our lives to ferret out an occasional good memory or happy time? Does that happen in normal families?”

I can speak only for myself, but I don’t view my younger years as tragic or traumatizing. I had autonomy… I learned how to take care of myself… I learned not to expect anyone else to ever be at all concerned about me. I don’t think either of my siblings, or I, grew up with any real expectation that we’d be protected, or truly cared for, by our parents.

It probably has made me a very uninviting romantic prospect for most men… but it’s also had the positive effect of never letting me feel panicked about my ability to take care of my children, or myself. ‘Far more value in that, I think.

And it’s what came through in so many of Faulkner’s novels too: that the hardships & utter ridiculousness of life, often led to the characters in his books becoming… maybe not better people… but distinctly people with more insight and self-awareness. 'People with ability to handle themselves in a world they didn’t even recognize, anymore.

©️dmj
July 2026

Anywhere but here... .

Pretty sunset, huh? It reminds me of those posters we'd put up on our bedroom walls in high school or college, to remind of us some supposedly profound thought... or simply to provide a pretty image, and give ourselves a "...wish I were there..." moment of distraction.

Today I'm not feeling very profound, or focused, or happy... and it's starting to become more a normality, these days, than I like. Today I've spent an inordinate amount of time mourning the person I once was... the country I once inhabited... the people I once called friends... .

'Everything -- it seems. I'm grieving everything. Nothing seems right, optimistic, or hopeful -- least of all me.

I was always good at pulling myself out of a tailspin. I'd allow myself a certain amount of time to feel like shit -- usually minutes, to an hour or so -- and then I'd summon in some far more intelligent, wise, and patient version of myself to commence with a pep talk that even Vince Lombardi would have approved. I learned to do it as a toddler. No adult in my life was going to comfort me, and tell me things would be okay... but I'd look around and logically -- I felt pretty sure they would be.

No matter what was going on, the world would be chugging along fairly normally, people were doing their "people things," and there seemed to be no reason to feel that circumstances wouldn't eventually right themselves. I'd pin my hopes on that, and go back to chasing grasshoppers, or coloring, or whatever my life consisted of as a preschooler. 'Rinse and repeat... through all my school years, college, parenthood, and most of my career. Believe it or not, I have been a fairly sunny, optimistic person throughout my life.

When did things start to slide a bit? Not with the deaths of my parents. My mother died a month before my oldest son was born. I was pre-occupied, to say the least -- and our relationship had never been warm. My father's death was harder. To this day I miss him -- but I'd known for years it was going to happen. My father had flat-out refused to get the nearly aged-out, artificial valve in his heart replaced. I understood his reasoning, and defended his right to dominion over his own life... but it didn't make the situation any happier. In the same week he died, my first cousin Bobie -- a Gulf war vet --commited suicide... and one of my great-aunts died.

My sister's death in 2015? Maybe that was the first crack. Her death was unexpected, and preventable -- had she received the care she needed, at the moments she needed it. The doctors at Centennial in Nashville, TN were excellent -- but they couldn't put to rights the medical neglect of literally decades. As much as we got on each other's nerves --Jo & I were also each other's "ride or die." The world really didn't seem as wide or bright, without her in it.

And... what to say of the last decade, 2016 to 2026? There has been little good that has come out of these last 10 years -- not socially, politically, technologically, or medically. Long-standing, credible, proven constructs have been decimated in the name of ego, money... and honestly, sadism. People are being treated horrifically... wars are raging... our planet is being ripped apart... and we're ALL the losers. No one is going to "win" in this era -- not even the people who sincerely believe they'll see the(ir) biggest triumphs in the history of the world.

Perhaps none of us have real reason to feel hopeful or cheerful... and more importantly -- no reason to feel irked with ourselves for not feeling so. Is this where we give ourselves enough grace to say feeling ridiculous, sad, and ineffective is probably, at the very least, a fairly astute viewpoint at the moment?

I think so. 'Commence hoping & praying for a better day to come. It's better than nothing. More than anything, I'm personally sick & tired of feeling like I should feel somehow ashamed and embarassed for even wanting good, hopeful, "normal" things in my life... in other's lives... in our country... and in the world. It needs to end.

©️dmj
7-28-2026

I've been a single parent for all but the first 5 months of my eldest child's life. Actually, that's being generous. I was a single parent, essentially, for those five months too -- but because my child's father was physically around... and even ocassionally held his son... I will reluctantly give him co-parenting credit for those months.

He had said he wanted children... with me. We planned a life together. But shortly after the birth of our son, things started to turn. Parenthood was fun only as long as he got attention & congratulations from his friends. It was something of a drag when it involved changing diapers, two o'clock AM feedings, and a colicky infant. 'Not that he was involved in those things -- but they disturbed his peace. He didn't like the changes to me either. I was "too preoccupied" with being a mom... I was "fat" now--and when was I going to snap myself back into shape? And let's not even get started on the sexual aspects. My body was not the same after childbirth -- and he was dissatisfied. All "red flags" as women today would say -- and they're right. But this was over forty years ago. I was "in love" -- or thought I was... and I wanted our son to be around his father.

As a commisioned officer in the U.S. Army, my son's father was due to leave for Ft. Rucker, AL at the end of September, for helicopter flight school. The plan was for me to finish closing out our apartment, and then follow a few weeks after. That plan changed two days prior to his departure.
That sounds like the opening to a "Dragnet" episode, or an "Alfred Hitchcock Mystery" doesn't it? It nearly was.

We lived in a tiny efficiency apartment located on a major, busy street. It consisted of a comfortable living room area, a tiny kitchen with a decades old gas stove and an ancient refrigerator... a bedroom section around which a previous tenent had cobbled a doorless enclosure that looked out into the kitchen area, and a miniscule bathroom mere feet to the side of the bedroom. When our son was born, we moved the small table from the kitchen to the living area, and placed his crib where the table had been -- about ten feet away from the stove, and in clear view of our doorless bedroom.

A couple evenings before my son's father -- let's just start calling him Carlos -- was scheduled to depart, we were all heading for bed. Our son had already drifted off to sleep in his crib, and I did my usual nighttime routine of checking to be sure doors & windows were locked, and the stove was 100% turned off. I went to bed, with Carlos following about ten minutes later.

That night -- a fairly warm, muggy September night -- he did something unusual though: walking into the bathroom, he opened the window that looked out on the busy street. Our apartment had air-conditioning, which had been on earlier, and on the few occassions I'd tried opening the window at night, Carlos complained that the traffic from the street annoyed him. When I asked him about the window on that night, he shrugged. "I just want some fresh air," was his response. I didn't think anything more about it. I, personally, loved open windows, as opposed to being shut up in an air-conditioned box.

We all slept well throughout the night -- even our son, who at not-quite five months old, ocassionally & inconsistently enacted the miracle of sleeping for a solid 7-8 hours. In the morning, I got up -- carefully crawling over Carlos so as not to wake him -- and wandered into the kitchen area to check on our bundle of joy. He was already drowsily stretching, and signaling he wanted his diaper changed, & food in his tummy.

It was then that the first whiff of natural gas, no doubt from our ancient stove, hit me. 'Faint... barely there... but unmistakable. I went over to to the stove thinking there had to be a gas-line leak of some sort, and discovered one of the burners turned on... barely on -- but definitely open, and leaking gas into our apartment.

Now--this is important: as I stated previously, this stove was old and had a couple features that are very important to this progression of events.

1) The only way to turn on a burner was to push the knob for the burner in, and turn it, at the same time. It was virtually impossible for anyone to merely "bump" against the stove and accidently turn a burner on. Two actions had to be preformed simultaneously.

2) The burners on the stove had to be manually lit. With a match. No "auto-ignite" on that thing.

And then, there's the bonus "third thing:" my nightly ritual of checking the stove to be very certain all burners were, in fact, turned off.

All of this was racing through my head as I shut off the burner, turned & picked up my son, and went into the living room throwing open windows and the door. By this time, Carlos had come out of the bedroom to bid us good morning, and suddenly his out-of-character "open-window" choice of the night before clicked into a mental-slot as well. I stood gazing out the window, my son in my arms, for probably five minutes mentally richocheting between the horror of my suspicions -- and telling myself, "No -- that's just not even remotely possible... . "

Carlos never questioned the open windows and door. I never questioned him. I changed & fed our son & made some breakfast for Carlos & me -- and over breakfast concocted a story about how my sister was dying to see her nephew, and the two of us would be at her house for the rest of the day. Carlos never laid eyes on our son again. He departed for Ft. Riley a day later. I saw him off... closed out our apartment... and then sent him a snail mail letter telling him we would not be joining him, and that I felt it best to end our relationship as it was. "As it was" included, at that point, a second son mere weeks into development, that neither of us was aware of at the time.

Decades later, a friend -- a guy -- asked why I had never questioned Carlos. My response was that it seemed pointless. If his intent had been to kill our son -- obviously he'd never have admitted that. At best, he'd have said he didn't have a clue how the stove got turned on... and at worst, I would have been the one blamed. "Guess you didn't do such a good job of checking the stove, now, did you...?"

I could practically hear Carlos sneering the words. I'd already spent plenty of time mulling that over as a potential possibility through the decades -- even though I know -- know -- I checked things thoroughly that night, just as I did all nights.

My friend was silent for a few moments and then said, "You know, if your son had died, he'd have been catching the plane to Alabama right on schedule, anyway. The police would have let him go after five minutes of questioning -- military guy, after all -- and you would have been the one left grieving a deceased child, while dealing with cops who probably would be thinking you engineered his death. The military would have fully protected Carlos too."

I just nodded. He was right. There wasn't anything else to say.


©️dmj
July 30, 2026

Rock-a-Bye Baby

The "M" Word: a Rant in
5 Short Paragraphs

You know, for a long time, I thought I did not believe in romantic love. But what I really do not believe in -- is marriage. 'Legal marriage. 'Which, by the way, became a construct in the United States only around 1913 or so. 'Just before World War I. Prior to that, most unions were sealed in a church--overseen by whatever God one believed in... and an entire community of gimlet-eyed and weirdly intuitive fellow worshipers.

I don't know of anybody in the world who has been helped or protected by a marriage license or marriage contract. I think it's time we call it a failed experiment. Legal marriage, that is. I am 100% supportive of people having spiritual commitments to one another. I mean, if you want to move in together... live your entire lives together, Huzzah! Go for it.

My feeling is, you'll probably be there with each other because you truly care. You'll actually want to be with each other. It won't be because a legal contract -- a piece of paper -- stands between you. It will not be because that contract will turn your life into a hellscape... one where you're almost discouraged from talking to one another in any sort of civilized, caring, mature fashion... if either one of you decides it's time to leave. There has never been a man, woman, or child who has been protected or helped by a marriage license. Quite the opposite, actually.

Okay, so that's my rant on marriage. I wouldn't mind, in truth, finding a mutual romantic union. And I wouldn't mind getting into a spiritual commitment with that person -- even at my vast "old" age. But marriage? Marriage? Hell no.

Honestly -- even living in the same house ... city... or state is something I'd hope we BOTH would want to be very circumspect & cautious about, particularly as two people (me and my non-existant mate, that is) who have lived the decades we have, & grown into the lives we now lead. 'Doesn't mean we couldn't still be one another's partner... confidant... Muse... & all 'round "ride or die." People don't have to share the same roof, to be that to each other. And they don't have to sign a piece of paper either.

©️dmj
August 1, 2026