Sunday, August 13, 2017


Today, I forgot how to fold towels.

At first, I thought I was just distracted thinking about Donald Trump, Hell, and hand baskets, but even as I worked to refocus on the domestic task at hand I just didn’t have it in me. I attempted different combinations hoping to achieve the correct soft shape, but to not avail. It was as if today I awoke with this particular skill evaporated from my repertoire.

I do not come by domestic prowess naturally. In fact, my default is a rather healthy masculine don’t care, don’t notice, attention-deficit driven, I would rather be shooting hoops sort of setting. However, as it turns out, through thirty years of marriage, working from home and raising three boys, I got pretty darn good at carrying my weight in that department. Some could have called me a domestic czar. I don’t think they did, but they could have. I am pretty sure my motivation originated with the hope that housework would result in swinging from the chandelier - you’re my hero affections. It doesn’t really work like that no matter what the manuals say. It just kept me likeable.

Fortunately for my wife, my mother, God rest her soul, taught me how to do laundry the year I graduated high school. She probably waited too late, but I won’t put that on her. I remember her emphatically stressing the importance of clean well-folded laundry and how I needed to know how to do it properly for when I go away. “Girls notice these things,” she would say. Mama also reminded me often that girls like boys who had clean kept fingernails, white teeth, and shined shoes. And, of course, how the rescue squad would appreciate my clean underwear.

I am surprised that I wasn’t left to my own laundry devices after the morning I blamed her for me not having clean socks and missing the school bus. Maybe I was, but I don’t remember it lasting long. You see, my mom wasn’t a real neatnik or anything, but she did have a sort of laundry fetish. She took great pride in her laundry skills and spent a lot of time in that little room hanging and folding. In her sixties she went pro and worked part-time at a laundromat where she was paid to do other folks’ clothes. Boy, were they lucky. She seemed to really enjoy it and would have probably done it for free.

So, one Saturday afternoon, she led me to the small room where Tabitha, the cat, lived in the window above the dryer. “Dang, look at all the money in that jar!” Mama was saving the random coins to fund something unknown to me. "Finders keepers," she bantered.

The lesson became pretty intense and overwhelming quickly. Step-by-step we went through the paces – turn all the clothes right side out, empty the pockets, unroll the socks, sort them – whites with whites, colors with colors, unless they were permanent press, jeans separately or with rock n’ roll t-shirts. I do remember, shortly after our lesson, I botched this part and ended up with a shrunk pale blue “Eat a Peach” tee. The Allman Brothers deserved so much better.

Whites were washed on hot, permanent press on cold, jeans on warm – or was it – only washed on warm and then rinsed on cold? Not “in cold,” but “on cold.” There were pliers sitting on top of the washing machine to aid in turning the settings since the knob had broken off.

Once a large load of whites was inside the barrel she began a dissertation on the differences between Clorox and Clorox 2, when to add them to the wash and what to listen for. I am sure she was brief, but she lost me quicker than she had begun. Next, I was schooled about the timing nuances of fabric softener, which I never did get the hang of. Thank the lord for today’s dryer sheets.

Speaking of drying, I seemed to have a better attitude for that. Perhaps, it was because I knew that the washing was over, I was closer to being done, and dirty was clean again. It gave me a sense of accomplishment and the feeling that the world was turning again.

Very important note: Mama directed me to always shake out the clothes when they come out of the washer. She said it cuts down on wrinkles and they dry faster. Don’t dry anything on high except for towels. She approved the drying of tennis shoes, but you had to put a chair in front of the dryer door in order to keep them wrangled inside and the operation running. Permanent press clothes go on low. Brian’s middle age hint: take blue jeans out of the dryer while they are still a little wet and let them dry naturally over the shower rod. This is so you can actually fit into them again.

I remember, years ago, my friend Paul told me that he was at a laundromat in West Nashville and the lady that worked there told him that Lane Brody would drop off her clothes to be cleaned, but she always washed her own underwear. I never forgot that story. Perhaps laundry fetishes are hereditary.

Bzzzzzzz! Like the warm spring day in North Carolina that it was, fresh-smelling clean clothes were awaiting my response. T-shirts were to be freed first as they wrinkle quickly. Mama showed me how to fold them perfectly, but I haven’t done it since that day. Jeans were next. “Don’t fold them with a crease in the leg,” she cautioned, “Unless you like that look.” “What look?” I asked. “Like a nerd,” she replied.” Nerd was her word for dork. She showed me how to match the inseams, fold them over once and iron with the palm of my hand. My white almost-knee socks with the colored wide stripes near the top were rolled while tighty whities doubled easily. Button-up shirts went on a hanger, without the cardboard (save those for nice pants).

The next dryer load, consisted of the dreaded sheets and towels. Now, there is nothing intuitive about folding towels correctly, but it is important business that must be considered when they have to reside in a linen closet shelf. I can feel the female readers dying to share their knowledge as they read this. Sometimes this wakes me in the night. Thirds. Right? I was never good at math either. Forget the sheets, by the way.

Load after load, to my surprise, my teenage self became a man, not a woman, as I learned the ins and outs of doing clean laundry that day. And, I wonder, just now, if Mom was so fastidious about this job because so much of her life was consumed with dirty laundry, the kind generated by years of mental illness and poor choices, which she tried not to hang out. Metaphorically speaking, this must have been her way of coping and controlling the only thing she could, which made her proud and things could start anew.

I’m still not an expert at doing the laundry, not even close, but through every single step of it I always remember that day and my dear mother. If only I could remember how to fold towels.

Saturday, January 14, 2017


December, 2016.

It happened.

We both witnessed it.

We were both there.

But, only one of us saw it coming.

It was not me.

I try to be aware. Not just aware, but fully conscious. Mindful.
Conscious of energy. Life. The exchange between me and other people. Animals. The universe. God.

I've always felt the need to be aware, but never enough to be awake. However, in the past five or six years this intentional journey of spirit has shaken and waved me back and forth across the doorways and windows of what is really happening. It is all alive. Connected. Living. Breathing. Waiting for us to pay attention and join in the dance.

Sometimes I peer at it through open blinds or through a veil and other times I am courageous and walk through the threshold and plug into it. More often, of late, I am distracted with depression, anxiety, or some political panic brought on by social media.

This particular day, winter gray, damp, breezy, I felt on. Lit. As if I expected miracles around every other corner.

Jerusalem Cafe. Miracles happen here, mostly in the form of affordable tasty Mediterranean cuisine, but often in the shape of a shiny Middle Eastern smile from the raven-haired young lady working the register. I've never seen such joy and, I suppose, love emanate from anyone. Her energy captures you like a white fitted sheet blowing in the wind from a clothesline. Others notice and they comment to her about her light.

Today would include such an encounter, but first, I would wade through a tiny sea of Arabic speaking immigrants that were dressed different from me and spoke in rhythms and dialects I did not understand. They had all noticed as I pushed the glass door open, entered and wiped my feet on the black rubber mat.

As if my eyes were fixed on Jerusalem itself, I began walking through the middle of the restaurant toward the counter to order and my familiar unknown pal. Looking down, I captured glimpses of Mediterranean fare from others' plates; falafels and shawarma on the right of me and on the left, an older gentleman in a gray business suit with darkish skin, steel wool beard, and covered head was hunched over a saucer of tabouli and pizza-sized unleavened bread.

I stared at his plate longer than I should, looked up slightly and met his black eyes.

He caught me.

He was expecting me.

His energy hooked me and held me in place. In what I remember as slow motion, he moved. His arms came from his lap and his knuckled fingers grasped the flat bread. My peripheral field of vision blurred as he looked up and into my eyes with an Al Pacino-glare and tore the bread perfectly in two.

Awake, I knew something familiar was about to happen. I received the piece of bread with both hands. Our eyes locked and in my head, the words I had muttered many times in church, usually on the first Sunday of the month echoed, “Thanks be to God."

I pulled off a bite of bread and slowly put it in my mouth. It was chewy, almost warm.

With clarification, I spoke out loud to him, "We're breaking bread."

He nodded a bit and smiled, "Yes, just like biblical times."

He then took a bite and we chewed and nodded our heads at each other, eyes fixed on the moment. I swallowed and nodded again.

Feeling the transaction was complete, I turned and walked away and life’s video began to roll at 1x speed again. I ordered my usual from the young lady at the counter, paid, and turned back to take a seat.

Immediately, I looked at the corner table where my new friend was sitting only to find it empty. I searched toward the door and through the thinning crowd. He was nowhere in sight. I never heard the front door open and no cars were driving away.

I sighed and breathed in the remaining cords of his energy grateful for consciousness.

Thanks be to God. Thanks be to the Jerusalem Cafe.

As-salāmu ʿalaykum.


Howdy Friends and Neighbors and young'uns out amongst the Interwebs!

I am resurrecting this blog for now and then shortly moving to my new website. I have been through a lot of life and find myself writing again, finally. I pray for all y'all and our country. I hope you enjoy my new entries!


Friday, October 12, 2012


God Bless our Wounded Warriors. We need to take care of these folks and I have gotten involved with a very unique and wonderful story. How could I NOT?

A friend of mine in N.C. sent me a message on Tuesday this week and demanded that I write a song about the Mustangs for Warriors Project and Jim Thomas, master horseman and American Veteran. He was leaving Silk Hope NC on Monday October 8 and taking the better part of 10 days to ride two mustangs (that were wild 3 months ago) down the highway to Clemson S.C. to the Extreme Mustang Makeover. Over 300 miles!

I learned all I could about Jim and his mission. A few thoughts trickled from my pea-brain and I typed into my iPhone. My brain spit back a few melodies that sounded in my head like a Toby Keith acid trip - cartoon patriotic shock-and-awe.

I evaded.

I had not had a shower in over two weeks. Haven't I revealed the finer aspects of my mid-life crisis yet? Well - it got interestingly interrupted by having to remodel our bathroom. So I am showering at the gym, the neighbors and my mother-in-law's (visual). So, I have had a shower, just not in MY shower. So I overheard that my MIL was out of town in Wisconsin and I decided to have some one-on-one time with her bath. It was glorious up until the moment, thirty seconds in, where an Alan Jackson "Drive the Itty Bitty Little Man" beat came pouring out of my noggin. iPhones a flyin' and hot water running off my elbows - I sought out the record app and the notes app simultaneously while realizing that I had been showering with my glasses on. Which explains a lot that I won't get into. I called my friend Fred and left a message, "dude, we have to go to S.C. next week to shoot video of this guy on a horse. I am writing the theme song in the shower."

A half a verse later I was cold, wet, and feeling washed up.

I dried off my novel clean body and my glasses and headed home and to bed.

I lay down at 11:13pm. At approximately 11:13 and some change the lyrics to the chorus came to me. Okay - I am awake now. Went to "The Hole," (basement office)and turned everything on. At 3:39am - I had written and recorded the tune below. I am proud of it. And proud to be acquainted with Jim's story, the Wounded Warriors, and proud to be the dirty American I am.



Now, Cowboy Jim - it ain’t about him
Give any man a shirt off his back
Sergeant major vet in a black Stetson hat
He works ‘em with a gentle tack (you know …)

A wild mustang ain’t so hard to tame
If you whisper and you follow through
Three months to train with an elbow sprain
Jim, why do you do whatcha do?

It’s about the ride
It’s about the freedom
It’s about doin what’s right for the one’s who fight
For our believin’

It’s not about me
It’s not about you
It ain’t about the blood
It’s about time, it’s about love

A wounded warrior is a prized possession
Our black and blue, red white and blue
It's all about love and that answers the question
Why do they do what they do?

Big ol smile, doin 300 hundred miles
Two ponies, in worn out boots
October rain storm on this Carolina morn
Jim, why do you do whatcha do?

It’s about the ride
It’s about the freedom
It’s about doin what’s right for the one’s who fight
For our believin’

It’s not about me
It’s not about you
It ain’t about the blood
It’s about time, it’s about love

Yeah, push comes to shove
It's about time, It's about LOVE...

© Brian Hilligoss, Brother Briar Music 2012, SESAC

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Friday, August 17, 2012


Those of you who have followed my blog know that most of what I post is original madness. The passage below I plucked from the September issue of Sun Magazine today and found it simply beautiful and thought provoking.

I am not that familiar with author, Megan McKenna, but plan to change that as I begin examining the parables of Jesus more closely in seeking more anchors of truth.

An Excerpt from Parables: The Arrows of God by Megan McKenna

"There was a woman who wanted peace in the world and peace in her heart and all sorts of good things, but she was very frustrated. The world seemed to be falling apart. She would read the newspapers and get depressed. One day she decided to go shopping, and she went into a mall and picked a store at random. She walked in and was surprised to see Jesus behind the counter. She knew it was Jesus because he looked just like the pictures she'd seen on holy cards and devotional pictures. She looked again and again at him, and finally she got up enough nerve and asked, 'Excuse me, are you Jesus?' 'I am.' 'Do you work here?' 'No,' Jesus said, 'I own the store.' 'Oh, what do you sell in here?' 'Oh, just about anything!' 'Anything?' 'Yeah, anything you want. What do you want?' She said, 'I don't know.' Well,' Jesus said, 'feel free, walk up and down the aisles, make a list, see what it is that you want, and then come back and we'll see what we can do for you.'

"She did just that, walked up and down the aisles. There was peace on earth, no more war, no hunger or poverty, peace in families, no more drugs, harmony, clean air, careful use of resources. She wrote furiously. By the time she got back to the counter, she had a long list. Jesus took the list, skimmed through it, looked up and smiled, 'No problem.' And then he bent down behind the counter and picked out all sorts of things, stood up, and laid out the packets. She asked, 'What are these?' Jesus replied, 'Seed packets. This is a catalog store.' She said, 'You mean I don't get the finished product?' 'No, this is a place of dreams. You come and see what it looks like, and I give you the seeds. You plant the seeds. You go home and nurture them and help them to grow and someone else reaps the benefits.' 'Oh,' she said. And she left the store without buying anything."

Friday, June 15, 2012


in the box - tidy, controlled, and safe
in the box - everything has its place
but I can't find anything
in the box - I am resourceful
in the box - I see myself
in the box - love has its place and is always there. I see it
in its box
in the box - I am grounded
in the box - God is with me
in the box - is home

out of the box - loose, free, and wild
out of the box - nothing has its place
so I always know where everything is
out of the box - I create
out of the box - I AM myself
out of the box - love can be anywhere
so it is everywhere
out of the box - I fly
out of the box - God is IN me
out of the box - is not home
it is where I live...

Copyright 2012, Brother Briar

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Light Through My Window

Three a.m.
Alone on the sofa with my thoughts and a terry blanket from my twelve-year old son. Recommended it as the “best in the house.”

Light through my window.
A view seldom contemplated these days,
yet forged into my memory from another time.
As a boy, being sent to bed earlier than self-prescribed I would peer out from my single bunk trying to make sense of night time mystery.
Tonight, in the wee hours before dawn, my blankie and I cling to each other.
Old hackberry tree limbs reaching, clawing over the neighbor's roof,
Scant leaves of early spring, silhouetted by moonlight giving backdrop to their host's frozen tentacles.

Light through my window.
A white washed pane’s edge reflects the mood of the night outward, vertical and brilliant.
Finding its brightness amidst the darkness and shadow-woes like a silver stake.
Slicing as a beacon behind which I lay; stirring from my crushed feather pillow.
I lie curiously and wonder what lurks beneath the ledge of brick mould upon the grass and leaves, out of sight from my gazing.
Against the foundation like a spy on a mission, perhaps, some furry creature steps or scurries out of my view on their way to harass a nocturnal neighbor.

Light through my window.
Dimly the backdrop casts color now, of pinks and grays.
Is the new day dawning so soon or my eyes giving way to accepting the night's true hue?
The glow from the street lamps from a block away, I believe.
Reflecting toward the cloud base and then mirrored down and picked up by my north facing, constant pane.
Call those dark ones out of the forest to my window.

Light through my window.
A portal set for me to capture the night, its secreted residents, in wary doses.
And yet, I imagine its force as a destination for that world outside.
The lower pane’s whetted outline still shimmering. Beckoning.
“Come look at the boy inside!”

Light through my window.
My stomach growls. My forehead perspires. Awakened fully from my mind’s carried-away adventures.
The night doesn't sleep nor do I. Only the Sand Man, apparently.
I must forage and act as those reaching limbs in the darkness, craning mine to hover peanut butter and jam.
Feeding my soul and the boy inside - me.