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/

How to Corrupt a Country Without a Shot Fired

Yuri Bezmenov didn’t come stomping in like some villain in a spy novel. No, sir. He drifted in quiet as a hush puppy frying in a cast iron skillet, carrying a warning wrapped in manners and memory. He was a man who’d seen behind the curtain, a former Soviet propagandist who ran from the cold and found himself telling the American people how their whole beautiful country could fall apart—not with bullets, but with ideas.

His warning wasn’t about tanks and bombs. It was about slow rot—like a peach gone soft on the windowsill. He called it ideological subversion, a way to unravel a country from the inside out, like pulling a thread on a Sunday dress until the whole thing comes undone.

There were four steps to this quiet sabotage, and honey, if they don’t sound familiar, you haven’t been paying attention.

Stage 1: Demoralization (15–20 years)
This first step is the slowest. You don’t shout people into hopelessness. You whisper them there.
Start in the schools, swap wisdom for ideology. Turn history into a shame spiral. Make goodness seem naive and tradition feel like a punchline. It doesn’t take long before folks can’t tell what’s real anymore.
We see it now:

Students who believe free speech is dangerous but TikTok is gospel.
Folks so cynical they’d rather mock than mend.
Teachers walking on eggshells, scared to speak up against keeping the biologically stronger out of the biologically weaker dressing rooms and sports areans. .
Once people are demoralized, you could wave truth in front of their faces and they’d still blink past it like it’s a smudge on their glasses. It ain’t ignorance—it’s conditioning.

Stage 2: Destabilization (2–5 years)
Now that folks are unmoored, you start rattling the rafters. Undermine trust in every institution that used to steady a person: justice, economy, even neighborliness.
You don’t need to break the system. Just bruise it bad enough that people start thinking it’s not worth saving.
You’ve seen it:
Police defunded in towns where folks sleep with one eye open.
Every news station telling a different version of the same story.
Grocery store prices climbing like summer kudzu.
It’s like living in a house where the lights flicker and the floorboards creak—but no one’s calling the electrician. They’re too busy arguing about whose fault it is.

Stage 3: Crisis (2–6 months)
This is the part where it all goes sideways. A spark hits the gasoline and the chaos goes national. Could be a virus, a riot, a recession. Doesn’t matter. The goal’s the same: panic.
And when folks are panicked, they’ll trade almost anything for the promise of calm—even if it means handing over the keys to their own freedom.
Remember?
COVID lockdowns that felt more like house arrest.
Cities on fire in the name of justice.
Toilet paper wars in the supermarket aisle.
A crisis doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to make people afraid.

Stage 4: Normalization
And then, when the dust settles and folks are too worn out to argue, you call it normal. You wrap control in pretty paper and say, “This is just how things are now.”
Surveillance sold as convenience.
Censorship spun as protection.
Silence praised as civility.

The truth is, we’ve been frog-boiled. We’re standing in water that started out cool and easy, and now it’s bubbling, but we’re still trying to convince ourselves it’s a hot spring.

So What Now?

Bezmenov didn’t spill these secrets to scare us. He did it because he’d seen what happens when folks don’t fight for their own minds. He wasn’t waving the American flag—he was holding up a mirror.
The way back is quieter than the way down. It starts with teaching truth like it’s a birthright, not a relic. It’s turning off the noise and listening to that still, small voice that says, “This isn’t right.”
Read banned books. Ask questions no one wants to answer. Raise kids who have backbones and manners. Don’t trade your conscience for comfort.

You want to fight propaganda? Start by telling the truth—even when it’s out of season.
This isn’t just a battle for policy or politics. It’s a battle for the soul of a country. And we don’t need an army—we need people who remember who they are.
Let them come for the hearts and minds. We’ll be sittin’ here with truth in one hand and grit in the other.