The Hunting Wives and the Slaughter of Common Sense

 When I was a girl, the world flickered in warm tones of black-and-white and technicolor optimism. The television glowed like a campfire in the living room, and around it, we gathered not just for entertainment—but for formation. For memory. For what it meant to be good. What it meant to be us.

My parents were strict. Guardians at the gate. The kind that wouldn’t let a whisper of Three’s Company enter the sanctity of our evenings. No sir, not in our house. A man living with two single women? That was a scandal, they said. A dangerous idea. And of course, I snuck around corners to watch it anyway—heart pounding, barely breathing. I waited for the thing that made it wicked. But it never came. A little innuendo, maybe. A wink. Compared to the chaos of today, it was downright quaint—like a sock hop at a church picnic.

Back then, we had Happy Days and Leave It to Beaver. Lucy made us laugh, and the Love Boat brought us cotton-candy tales of flirtation and redemption. Even Miami Vice, flashy as it was, had lines it didn’t dare cross.

But now… now we’ve slipped into something else entirely. A carnival of shadows. A funhouse mirror of storytelling that no longer wants to elevate, but to erode. Teenagers tangled in bedsheets. Adults preying on the young. And it’s called entertainment.

But it’s not. It’s erosion.

Because when you stir the lowest urges in people and call it art, you aren’t freeing them—you’re binding them. You’re muddying their soul. You’re clouding the signal that tells them they were meant for something more.

Flourishing isn’t born from lust or thrill or scandal. Flourishing is born from purpose. From spirit. From the quiet discipline of choosing the good when the bad looks more fun. But what happens when we’ve been so dulled by the grotesque masquerading as glamour that we forget how to seek the good?

We reach for synthetic joy. Sugar. Screens. Pills. Vegas weekends and borrowed highs. We try to fill a soul-shaped hole with something that will never fit.

My daughter tried to talk me into watching a show called The Hunting Wives. I made it through one and a half episodes. Just enough to see the rot under the gloss. A mockery of Southern women, twisted into caricatures—hypersexual, reckless, vapid. Teenagers used as props. Sex scenes masquerading as plot. The message wasn’t even subtext: This is who you are. This is what you’re for.

And I thought: No. No, it isn’t.

But see, this is how we end up with men like Epstein and crowds who don’t flinch. This is how you groom a culture to protect predators and shame the protectors. You feed them filth until they think it's food.

We don’t need more shows like this. We need stories that remind us who we are. Stories with spines and souls. With reverence. With boundaries. With morals—not because they’re old-fashioned, but because they work. Because they keep the machine of civilization humming. Because they guard the spark that makes us human.

What goes on between loving adults? Let that be private, sacred, unbroadcasted. But don’t drag that darkness into the open air and act surprised when the crops won’t grow. We’ve got to bring back the light. The good kind. The kind that doesn’t flicker in shame, but glows with dignity. 

When we trade virtue for cheap thrills, everybody pays. And when we stop expecting better, we stop getting better.

We are meant to flourish. And we can. But only if we remember how.

So let’s turn off the trash, light a candle, and go outside and breathe for a bit. Let’s remember what goodness looks like. Let’s stir it back into our lives like sugar into tea—sweet, strong, and worth sipping slow.

 

Masked, Muzzled, and Muted: Watching the World Obey

 I used to think most folks had a working brain between their ears and a backbone under their spine. Thought they could sniff out a scam, patch a roof, love their kin, and still have the good sense to question anything that didn’t sit right. But let me tell you, 2020 came along like a nosy neighbor with a clipboard and a megaphone and all hell broke loose.

I saw grown adults suddenly lose all grip on common sense. They sprayed their mail with Lysol, double masked alone in their car, and acted like saying “I don’t know” was a hate crime.

Now don’t get me wrong, fear’s a mighty powerful thing. It’ll make you bake sourdough in your bathtub and turn your own mama into a biohazard. But what rattled me most wasn’t the fear…it was how quickly folks handed over their freedom like it was a fruitcake they never wanted anyway.

The worst part?

They stopped thinking.

Stopped asking questions.

Turned on their own blood quicker than a rooster in a henhouse full of hens that voted differently.

People who once preached “love wins” were ready to exile Grandma for going to church. Folks who posted “Hate Has No Home Here” on Facebook were wishing death on anyone who questioned the science…and I use the word science lightly, 'cause half of it changed more than my hairstyles in the last ten years.

Let me say it plain:

Common sense didn’t die. It just got shamed into silence.

And the ones who still had it? We got called selfish, dangerous, conspiracy theorists, and my personal favorite: grandma killers. (My grandma once killed a giant snake with a rake. So, if we’re being literal, that title’s already taken.)

But here’s the truth I keep tucked in my Duluth Overalls:

You can’t cancel truth.

You can muzzle it. Mock it. Lock it down.

But it always finds a crack to sneak back in, like weeds through pavement, or gossip in a beauty shop.

So if you’re one of the few who still thinks for yourself, bless you. If you stayed steady while the world spun sideways, bless you twice. You are not crazy. You’re awake. And you’re needed now more than ever.

Here’s What I Learned:

1. Fear makes people do strange things.

We’ve all got scars from it—so extend a little grace. But don’t confuse silence with love. Real love tells the truth, even if it makes Thanksgiving awkward.

2. Common sense is a birthright—but it must be protected.

If you feel crazy for thinking clearly, that’s a sign you’re sane.

3. Freedom is lonely at first.

But eventually, you’ll spot other porch lights flickering in the dark. Folks like you. Folks like me. And we’ll build a world again—not of perfect people, but of thinking ones.

I’m not bitter. I’m just wide awake.

And if that makes me an old bat with a biscuit tin and too many opinions, so be it. I’d rather be called a kook than lose my soul trying to please a crowd that’s forgotten how to think.

On Belonging and Biscuits

 The new book I’m working on? It’s got its arms wrapped all around one big idea: belonging.

Now, I know that word might sound simple, but mercy, it carries a lot of weight. Belonging isn’t just a feeling, it’s a basic human need, right up there with biscuits and being seen. When people don’t feel like they belong, they get frustrated. They get sharp around the edges. And when they say things like, “I don’t care if I belong anywhere,” what they usually mean is, “I’ve never really felt like I did... and I’ve made peace with it.”

That’s me, sometimes. Hard to peg down. I’m a little country, a little kitchen-table philosopher, and just odd enough to confuse even myself. People think I’m outgoing and I suppose I can be, but truthfully, I’m shy in that way that makes you wish for invisibility and applause at the same time. I’m loud for others but quiet for myself. I’ll cheer on a mom-and-pop bakery like it’s the Super Bowl. I’ll post about a mechanic who treated me fair like I’m their unofficial press agent. But when it comes to advocating for me? Whew. That’s another story. Self-promotion feels like trying to sell someone a casserole they didn’t ask for. Even if it’s the best dang casserole they’ll ever eat.

Anyway. Belonging.

I found myself realizing something recently while listening to the Try That In a Small Town podcast...which, by the way, is not just music. It’s storytelling, family, roots, the kind of talk that makes you feel like you’re sitting on someone’s porch shelling peas and swapping tales. They’ve got artists, athletes, country songwriters—you name it. And what struck me most? They like each other. I mean, really. You can hear it. That rare sort of chemistry where people don’t just work together; they look out for each other. It reminded me of something I’d almost forgotten.

I’ve had this long-standing fascination with the South. Started years ago with Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil—not because of the crime, mind you, but the richness of the culture. The architecture, the history, the food (Lord, the food), and mostly, the way people care. There’s loyalty. There’s tradition. There are monogrammed napkins and real fried chicken and unspoken rules about how to treat guests.

And it’s not just fantasy. Every time I’ve visited, I’ve been met with manners and warmth so thick you could spread it on a biscuit. That’s not nothing. That’s something. And I think I finally realized what it was that had always drawn me in—it’s that soul-level sense of belonging.

Now, I grew up in the Midwest, and if you ask me, the South and the Midwest are cousins. We work hard, we say “ma’am,” we show up with a casserole when someone dies. There's strength in our simplicity. And then I moved to the Northeast.

The Northeast has a different tempo. It’s fast and sharp and polished. And it is, how do I say this lovingly: status-obsessed. People up here treat eye contact like a security threat. Say good morning and they look at you like you’re selling a pyramid scheme. Everything feels like a transaction; who you know, what school you went to, what brand of boots you’ve got on. (Spoiler: mine are scuffed and beloved, thank you very much.)

But I still say good morning. Still smile. Still hold the door. Still sprinkle a little kindness like confetti, even if it gets swept up before noon. Because here’s the thing; I’d rather be seen as odd for being warm than blend in with the cold.

So now I’ve got this little dream rattling around in my head: I want to try living in the South. Not forever. Just a good solid month. A season, maybe. Long enough to know if what I’m drawn to is real, or if I’ve been romancing the idea the way we all do with places we haven’t lived in yet.

But every time I visit, it feels a little more real. The people are genuine. The food could convert a cynic. And the sense of family, of community, of “we got your back”—that’s the thing I couldn’t name until recently.

It’s belonging. And whether you’re in a small town, a big city, or somewhere in between, we all just want someone to say: “You’re one of us.” Warts and all. And maybe with a slice of pie.

Try That In A Small Town Podcast: https://trythatinasmalltown.com/