Cilla McCain's Blog

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In light of the recent revelations in The Washington Post’s article “At War with The Truth” it’s only appropriate to point out that these…

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“Well regulated.” Did you know those words appear in the 2nd Amendment? You probably are, but I’m not sure rabid supporters of the NRA are aware of this fact. Before I go any further let me clarify by saying I don’t have a problem with anyone who wants to own a gun. Own it, shoot tin cans with it, go hunting, hell, cuddle up with it at night. I don’t care. But I do care that fanatical gun right activists cannot let go of the idea that weapons such as the AR-15 shouldn’t be banned. Our childre...

On my way home to Georgia, after Spring break in Florida (I won’t name the exact year thank you very much) my skin was sunburned beyond belief. Why I thought slathering Panama Jack oil on my lily white skin would magically transform me into a tanned goddess, I have no idea. Then again, that’s probably what the bottle claimed to do and back then SPF of any level was something to be avoided, much like a hangover in church. But I digress.

I was riding in the car with my friend Sally — and somebod...

Some of the most poetic, prophetic, and truthful words ever written about war can be found in the lyrics of Bob Dylan’s Masters of War. It sums up the differences between the people who fight our wars with the people who receive the untold benefits. As I write this post, the song swirls in my mind with incessant ruthlessness. I suppose I just know too many victims to be able to ignore this imbalance of power.

“War is a spectacle of killing, horror, injury, and death.”

This is what criminal defe...

https://medium.com/media/254b7c8b05c64beb8c41c000a0d46ebc/href

It’s not easy to shock me anymore, but during a recent a conversation with a former female Marine about military rape, I received the shock of my life when she adamantly stated: “Military rapes are few and far between, and most of these bitches are filing false charges.”

Whoa. It’s not that I don’t believe false charges are sometimes levied. But to say that rapes are few and far between demonstrates the deep-seated denial currently...

My mother was always a free spirit.

I’ve always been curious about the unknown; the things that lurk in darkness. My earliest memory is proof of this sometimes dangerous trait. When I was about 3-years-old, I spotted a beehive nestled in the crook of low-lying tree branches.

While my mother sat on the nearby porch talking with several of her friends, I could not resist picking up a stick and poking it into the hive; stirring it like it was cake batter. Within moments those bees flew straight up my dress.

I don’t know who was screaming the loudest — me, my mother, or all of the ladies on the porch — but I’d be willing to bet those screams could be heard from Atlanta to Savannah. Mom reacted with Ninja-like precision to rescue me. Why did I do it? Hell, I don’t really know. I was three. But if I had to guess, I suppose I just wanted to see what would happen. That part of my psyche hasn’t changed. But now the hives are bigger and some would say — more hazardous. Through it all, through everything, my mother is there to snatch me out of harms way whether I want her to or not. She rarely criticizes or complains about it. And though I’m sure she’d like me to believe it’s because of her refined demeanor; I know better.

My grandmother told me many stories of how my mom (who is one of seven children) was always getting into something better left alone. One of my favorite stories involves a money-making venture between my mother and her oldest brother. They concocted a plan for my uncle to gather the neighborhood kids to watch my mom climb a big tree. If the kids wanted to see Mom climb to the lowest branch, they had to pay a penny. If they wanted to see her scamper to the higher branches, the cost went up accordingly. She was the embodiment of To Kill a Mockingbird’s “Scout Finch.” So, I guess my insatiable curiosity is the result of DNA.

While my mother wanted me to learn to be strong, my Grandmother stressed the importance of being a lady. They always seemed to be at odds with each other.

My grandmother was the most elegant woman imaginable. I loved watching her style her hair into a perfect French Twist; making certain no bobby pins were visible. She taught me how to put on pantyhose without creating a run or snag. Her bedroom and clothes always smelled of perfume and powder; all the things that appeal to a little girl. When she passed away, a coat I’d gifted to her was returned to me by my youngest aunt. On the long drive home after the funeral, the smell of my grandmother’s unique scent mixed with her perfume and powder filled the car. Once home, I sealed the coat in a plastic bag to capture its smell for as long as possible.

My mother is no slouch in the lady department herself. Tall and slender, in her youth she had long black hair and bright blue eyes which contrasted beautifully against her alabaster skin. On and off during her late teens and early twenties she would model clothes in ritzy Florida boutiques. To this day, despite sometimes needing a cane, she has a majestic gait. Like my grandmother, when she walks into a room, heads turn. But she is more than beauty. She came of age during the feminist movement of the 1960’s when goals for women were changing. Instead of stifling her independent spirit, she set it free. This was a thorny move; especially in the South, where the expectation to conform was still strong. Nonetheless, my rebellious mother exchanged her dresses for bell bottomed jeans and got rid of the bobby pins to allow her hair to flow free.

And God help us, her mouth flows free too.

That mother of mine is able to size people and situations up in an instant with 99.9% accuracy. And while she keeps her opinions close to the vest publicly, she never hesitates to let me know if she believes someone is taking advantage of me. One of her biggest criticisms is that I give people who have done me wrong, too many chances for redemption. Recently, while I was facing such a dilemma she lowered the boom: “I watch you work your ass off helping people who will steal credit for your accomplishments and are out having a good time while you sweat.”

She was right and once again, my mother’s Ninja skills had come to the rescue. All of the things she learned the hard way, she warns me about in the hope that I won’t have to experience it with the severity she had to endure.

My mother is the most fearless person I know. But I don’t think I’ve always appreciated that facet of her personality. When I was growing up, she had to work, so I spent a lot of time at my grandparents home; as a result much of my ideas about life were gleaned from a distant generation. Now, I can relate to her and she has become my touchstone.

These days, her long black hair is a short and sporty silver. I see my grandmother in her mannerisms. And I hear her in my mom’s laughter. She’s more nostalgic too. What were once harsh memories have become funny ones instead.

Most women, whether we like it or not, eventually morph into a version of our mothers. In the last years of my grandmother’s life she wore slacks more often than dresses. Today, my mother shops for dresses more often than for jeans. These changes are not about fashion, it’s the result of an inner transformation and appreciation.

The other day, I heard the sound of my mother’s voice coming out of my own mouth. So, I guess I’m transforming too. But I have a long way to go before I’m the tower of strength that is my mother. Until then, in spite of her warnings, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to pass by a beehive without wanting to stir it up with a stick.

Sorry about that Mom.

Originally published at www.huffingtonpost.com on June 6, 2017.

Dr. Cyril Wecht, M.D., J.D.

Fake news or “yellow journalism” as it used to be called, is quite simply the making up of facts to sensationalize a story for the public’s consumption. Money and power are of course the cause, as it is for most evil in the world. What fascinates me is how quickly people accept lies as the truth. I’m not saying that mainstream journalism hasn’t had its share of problems, but the ethical journalists I know, have to jump through hoops of fire to prove their story is f...

It was morning, a long time ago. I’d just moved to the Georgia Mountains during a down pour the night before and I felt like road kill. To be honest, despite its beauty, I was not happy about this place being my new home. I’d recently given birth to my youngest child and my beloved grandmother (Maw Maw, I called her) had passed away at almost the same time. Upon my arrival, I fell asleep in the new house without removing my makeup. So, on this particular morning, I had that hungover raccoon-eyed look. But I didn’t concern myself with that as I loaded my baby in the back of my Thunderbird and headed to the nearest grocery store for supplies.Making my way through the aisles in zombie mode - just grabbing anything and everything - I was exhausted. Looking around at the other people, I felt totally out of my element. Yes, I’m Southern and they were Southern, but these were mountain people - a different breed altogether. I didn’t think I would ever feel at home again.I made it through the checkout line (still in a haze) having mindlessly purchased enough to fill up two carts. I remember that the store had to get a little old man to help me navigate to my car. This was about the moment that I started to feel a bit embarrassed - because there I was with my big Buddha baby, breasts still too large for my frame, and day-old makeup. What I didn’t know, was that the clouds were about to lift. Something was about to shake me out of my stupor and help me to realize that everything was going to be okay - I wasn’t on another planet after all.Like I said, the little old man was helping me with the second cart. But he walked through the automatic doors in front of me instead of behind because I’d told him to look for a red T-Bird. After he crossed the threshold, I had to stop walking to let a man who was passing by make his way. That man was you.There you were - a legend - right in front of me in the middle of nowhere.I’ve always had a photographic memory and I took a picture of you in my mind. You looked back at me, probably hoping the massive package of toilet paper on my cart wasn’t blocking my view enough to make me slam into you. It wasn’t. You looked right into my bloodshot raccoon eyes, and put your hand on the back pocket of your Wrangler jeans before continuing on your way.Though I tried not to stare, I noticed the morning sun was reflecting off of your smooth braids. You looked happy and rested as you stopped at the passenger window of a white vehicle and “chatted” with the person inside. Nobody else seemed to notice your presence, making me think my exhaustion was playing tricks on my mind. So, I quietly asked the sweet little old man, “Excuse me Sir, but is that Willie Nelson over there?” He looked up from the trunk of my car long enough to glance your way. “Yep,” he replied before continuing his work.I put my sleeping baby in the car seat with my mind now awake and racing. “Should I go and ask for an autograph?” I thought. A quick look in the rear view mirror and the answer was “No.” But the rear view mirror also revealed that you were looking my way. Whether you were hoping nobody was going to approach you or pondering how in the hell I managed to get all of those groceries into my small T-bird, I don’t know. But my pride in appearance made me drive away and mind my own business....for about three minutes.I’d no sooner left, when I decided to turn that car around and go back to the parking lot. But alas, as quickly as you had appeared in front of me, you’d left the same way.Still, my spirits were greatly lifted by that chance encounter. I knew I wasn’t so far removed from the world, that I couldn’t find my way back anytime I wanted. I grew to love the mountains and its people. And everytime I come back and pull into the Food Lion parking lot, I think of you; the creative, gentle and rebellious soul that is Willie Nelson.Thanks for the comfort.Cilla

The following speech was transcribed from a news release version, which is located in the Speech Files of the Robert F. Kennedy Senate Papers at the Kennedy Library. For more information please contact Kennedy.Library@nara.gov or 617.514.1629.Robert F. KennedyCleveland City ClubApril 5, 1968This is a time of shame and sorrow. It is not a day for politics. I have saved this one opportunity to speak briefly to you about this mindless menace of violence in America which again stains our land and every one of our lives.It is not the concern of any one race. The victims of the violence are black and white, rich and poor, young and old, famous and unknown. They are, most important of all, human beings whom other human beings loved and needed. No one - no matter where he lives or what he does - can be certain who will suffer from some senseless act of bloodshed. And yet it goes on and on.Why? What has violence ever accomplished? What has it ever created? No martyr's cause has ever been stilled by his assassin's bullet.No wrongs have ever been righted by riots and civil disorders. A sniper is only a coward, not a hero; and an uncontrolled, uncontrollable mob is only the voice of madness, not the voice of the people.Whenever any American's life is taken by another American unnecessarily - whether it is done in the name of the law or in the defiance of law, by one man or a gang, in cold blood or in passion, in an attack of violence or in response to violence - whenever we tear at the fabric of life which another man has painfully and clumsily woven for himself and his children, the whole nation is degraded."Among free men," said Abraham Lincoln, “there can be no successful appeal from the ballot to the bullet; and those who take such appeal are sure to lose their cause and pay the costs."Yet we seemingly tolerate a rising level of violence that ignores our common humanity and our claims to civilization alike. We calmly accept newspaper reports of civilian slaughter in far off lands. We glorify killing on movie and television screens and call it entertainment. We make it easy for men of all shades of sanity to acquire weapons and ammunition they desire.Too often we honor swagger and bluster and the wielders of force; too often we excuse those who are willing to build their own lives on the shattered dreams of others. Some Americans who preach nonviolence abroad fail to practice it here at home. Some who accuse others of inciting riots have by their own conduct invited them.Some looks for scapegoats, others look for conspiracies, but this much is clear; violence breeds violence, repression brings retaliation, and only a cleaning of our whole society can remove this sickness from our soul.For there is another kind of violence, slower but just as deadly, destructive as the shot or the bomb in the night. This is the violence of institutions; indifference and inaction and slow decay. This is the violence that afflicts the poor, that poisons relations between men because their skin has different colors. This is a slow destruction of a child by hunger, and schools without books and homes without heat in the winter.This is the breaking of a man's spirit by denying him the chance to stand as a father and as a man among other men. And this too afflicts us all. I have not come here to propose a set of specific remedies nor is there a single set. For a broad and adequate outline we know what must be done. When you teach a man to hate and fear his brother, when you teach that he is a lesser man because of his color or his beliefs or the policies he pursues, when you teach that those who differ from you threaten your freedom or your job or your family, then you also learn to confront others not as fellow citizens but as enemies - to be met not with cooperation but with conquest, to be subjugated and mastered.We learn, at the last, to look at our brothers as aliens, men with whom we share a city, but not a community, men bound to us in common dwelling, but not in common effort. We learn to share only a common fear - only a common desire to retreat from each other - only a common impulse to meet disagreement with force. For all this there are no final answers.Yet we know what we must do. It is to achieve true justice among our fellow citizens. The question is now what programs we should seek to enact. The question is whether we can find in our own midst and in our own hearts that leadership of human purpose that will recognize the terrible truths of our existence.We must admit the vanity of our false distinctions among men and learn to find our own advancement in the search for the advancement of all. We must admit in ourselves that our own children's future cannot be built on the misfortunes of others. We must recognize that this short life can neither be ennobled or enriched by hatred or revenge.Our lives on this planet are too short and the work to be done too great to let this spirit flourish any longer in our land. Of course we cannot vanish it with a program, nor with a resolution.But we can perhaps remember - even if only for a time - that those who live with us are our brothers, that they share with us the same short movement of life, that they seek - as we do - nothing but the chance to live out their lives in purpose and happiness, winning what satisfaction and fulfillment they can.Surely this bond of common faith, this bond of common goal, can begin to teach us something. Surely we can learn, at least, to look at those around us as fellow men and surely we can begin to work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us and to become in our hearts brothers and countrymen once again.