Once Upon A Time.....

Aground In Boston - Arrogance and The Old Lady: "The fog in Boston harbor wasn’t just thick, it was solid. Cutting off the reflection of light for more than a few feet. With no wind, the sea was like glass and the fog seemed welded to the sea, it was going no where. As the sun rose, it was hardly an improvement."
a true story..... Click on the title above to read more.............

The Ol' Fishin' Hole. | Gather

The Ol' Fishin' Hole. | Gather

One mans memory of his dad.. great read

I like being old | Gather

I like being old | Gather

A good article to read.... tells it like it is!! click on the title above!

The First Automobile - Granpa's Only Ride | Gather

The First Automobile - Granpa's Only Ride

My father used to tell a story a about the first car he ever saw. His family lived down a long dirt road in the coal mining country of northeast Alabama. They scratched out a meager living in the backwoods where his ancestors first arrived in the early 1800’s.

When dad was a young boy, the first automobile in the family was purchased by his uncle Jim-Tom. It was a Ford Model T. Uncle Jim-Tom lived on a farm down the road in a large “dog-trot”. It was a house with an open, wide area, right in the middle that ran from the large front porch to back. They say the old place once looked like and orphans home with all of Jim-Toms 10 kids running about. ... click on the title above to read the full story

Sunday Dinner, Love and Devotion

The closest and most devoted couple I ever knew, were Dink and Thelma. For most of my life they were the icon of the perfect couple. Almost anyone who knew them felt the same. He called her “mama” and she called him “daddy”. They only had one child and he  was born almost 10 years after they were married. The affection in their voices when ever they called for the other one was unmistakable. . Good at reading each others mind, they almost never had to communicate in full sentences. They existed like two parts of one thing

Both of them came from hard poor histories. Dink had a loving family but they were more than just dirt poor. Thelma was said to have “just growed up on her own” from a poor and rough family. Both of them though, had a great sense of humor and loved to laugh. When  first married, his family was not taken with her. They were serious people who spent every waking moment just trying to survive and a great hope hopes for their first born son. Dink was serious too in his work, but fell deeply in love with the little light hearted worry free girl from down the road. Thelma was slight and small and a “ball of fire”. It was said she had a hard time telling work from play and constantly got them confused. That didn't help her image out much when they first got married. On more than one occasion, she was found in the house playing on the floor with kids from the local community while Dink was out working in the fields.

She started out not knowing how to cook very well and spent little time in preparation for Dink’s noon meal, much less his supper. In that place and time, a farmers wife spent from sun up to sun down preparing meals for her husband and whoever else would be spending from day light to dark working in their fields. When I asked her about it, she said she was having too much fun in those days to spend all that time cooking, besides, she really didn’t know much about it. Dinks mother, must have spent a good bit of time walking down the their house to teach her, because Thelma eventually would become a renowned cook, known throughout the community for her skill.

It was amazing to watch her cook. She never used a measuring device of any kind and had no recipes written down. When it came time to cook, she was like a whirling little devil in the kitchen. No one could learn from her if she didn’t want them to, she just went at it so fast! A pinch of this, a smidgen of that and “just about that much” of something else. Every single thing she ever cooked came out exactly the same each time. Famous for her chocolate pies, they all came out perfect, with “calf slobbers” (egg whites) as high as a three layer cake, nary a one was too runny. Eating at Dink and Thelma’s was pure delight and everyone had plenty to eat. In her old country kitchen stood along dinning table which on Sundays no one could sit at. It was absolutely so full of food there was no place to site. She always made a point of making one two or even three dishes that were special favorites for whoever she knew would be there. We all had to line up and fill our plates, and then spread out through the little country house or out into the yard to eat.

Now this Sunday meal always followed a huge breakfast of every southern country delicacy there was. In those days, no body was on a diet, but no body was fat either.

I guess it was because the food was all natural home grown food of one kind or other and we all stayed moving constantly. (except for the nap after the noon meal). You couldn’t set in front of the TV all day cause there wasn’t much on TV and people would have thought you were sick or something if you did. No one had air conditioning and in Texas it was too damn hot to be in the house most of the time anyway. If all the work and play didn’t keep you slim, the heat would sweat it out of you.

After the noon meal was over, the table and the food was covered with a long, plain white cotton, table cloth. Today we wouldn’t think of not putting the left over away, but back then no body thought to do it… we never ended up sick from food laying out as long as it was under a white cotton cloth. What was on the table was the only food for the rest of the day. It was Sunday, and around here women didn’t cook after noon on Sunday.

She might cook up a batch of makings for afternoon home made ice cream, but the kids or the men had to crank it.

Thelma always said there was only one reason to be good at cooking, it was a way to love those who needed feeding. She was not proud of her ability to cook, she was proud of how much we enjoyed it. Each and every item had one main ingredient… Aunt Thelma’s love. She would sing and laugh while she worked in the kitchen, then sit at the table and absolutely beam watching you eat it. Eating her food, with her there with you, was like being held and loved and pampered by an angel who had a one track mind….centered on you!

If I Could Just Let Go................

A misty cold fog, hanging just above the point of freezing, grips the woods tightly. The sounds of life are swallowed up in the dreary cold, making it as silent as the grave. The woods, damp and cold, clings stoically to the earth as the fog and damp envelope it’s soul. 

In all my years, it’s a familiar place. Like another world which visits once a cycle. Waking on a day like this is similar to crossing a threshold into a realm which exists forever in a parallel with life that we only get to experience in small annual doses.  This journey into the woods fills my heart with a bittersweet welcome. Like a reunion with the earlier part of my life, never changing and assuring of life’s permanence amongst its ever changing  facade. Foreboding and endearing at the same time, it makes me want to remember how many times I have experienced this, and at the same time worrying me with the question of how many times do I have left. 

Sitting on a moss covered old stump deep within the woods, as the memories flood . The good times and the sad, and the sweet and the bitter. My wonderment at the  limbs and trunks and mosses as a child. Reeling in the mystical feel of the woods and her earthy spirit within, with fog closing off the rest of the real world with its mist. Watching the water collect and drip from the bare winter branches…. reminded as child how it symbolized the fertile possibilities of life. Like an ever flowing nourishment to be stored in the fiber of the woods awaiting the growth of spring and the warm days of summer. Special and surreal, the woods was a wondrous place as a child….. when the mist and fog made it into such a mystical wonder.. I never once really remember being too cold on days like this. Nor do I remember the humid heat in the same place during a rainy hot summer. 

But today I am no longer young and full of endless excitement for tomorrow. Today I am tired and old. Today I am full of endearing memories and the deep feeling that I am closer to “the other side” than ever before. The spirit of the place and time seems like an old friend sitting beside me while the spiritual world seems just a few feet away through the mist. Its here at this time, if I just let it happen…. I could drift into a realm far different than mortal life. If I just let go, I could hear the voices of my childhood and feel the touch of the loving hands that once held me. The warmth of my mothers soft hands and the strength of my fathers arms. It’s as if it would take so little effort to give my sanity over the foggy woods and let myself pass through divide between this world and another. 

Surely deep in these woods is a small clearing with a fire burning warmly above a bed of glowing coals. There, around it would sit all my family who is no longer alive, waiting, softly talking and laughing. They who knew me as a child, innocent, trusting and oblivious to pains and misfortunes life would hold. Sitting there in their old worn cotton clothes of yesterday, calm and peaceful, free from the burdens of this life finally at last.

No longer worrying, working and trying for some temporary goal they are sitting in a way of being alive we mortals have never fully known. 

I know the clearing must be there, I can almost see a path disappearing in the fog leading there. I cannot move or stand up. Its not possible for me to go there without letting so many things go. Somehow I know I could, and it would be no problem to come back. Oh but would I want to come back? I have let go before and drifted to a world of spirit. It’s a gift I have always had. In those days, I could let go just enough to see and hear things and to gain understanding at times. But as the years went buy it got harder and more dangerous. I would eventually sense if I let go too much or for too long I may not come back. It’s never been clear if that was the ultimate insanity, or if it was the awesome power of such a world and I was afraid I would not be smart enough to survive in it.

Now its all a fear of time. I am a lot older now….the wall between me and the afterlife is growing thinner. I know that world is over there too with the one I have seen and the one in that clearing. 

Hearing a sound, my mind returns to my eyes to look around. Nothing but a red Cardinal I see, in the cedar tree just a few feet away. Looking at me, he turns his head as if trying to understand. Another sound is made by a small rabbit working his way along the trail. He turns and gently hops his way up the path to the clearing and disappears in the fog. About that time the Cardinal takes wing, skillfully flying through the branches till he too turns and fades into the fog up the trail. Oh , how I want to follow….. but I am so afraid.

Is it just a temporary journey for me, or is it the trail to the place of passing over?

If I just let go….., If I would just let go……

Coffee Shop Perverts

 Coffee Shop Perverts

 In probably every small town (and big ones too) there sets a “coffee shop”. Now it doesn’t have to be a literal Coffee Shop, it could be a Restaurant, Gas Station, Convenience Store, Donut Shop, or is some rare cases, just a large old shade tree at a cross roads.

At such places you find a daily gathering of wise old men, a few dumb ones and some real kooks. In most of these places you will find waitresses who have seen better days and dollar tips by the handful. Its customer to leave a dollar tip, no matter how little you spend while there. In some places, if your just a member of these groups you leave a dollar even when you buy nothing. It is kind of like extortion. The waitresses lives for that dollar and you don’t want know what she might do to you or your food the next time you come in.

 Each town has its own special groups of these fellas… Some are referred to as the Perverts Club, the Dead Pecker Society, Wise Sages, Lazy Old Fart Crew… etc etc.

Often when these groups form in a combination convenience/store gas station out in the country that has a table or counter, is where you might find the a Pervert Club or Dead Pecker Society.

Despite the pot bellies, wrinkled faces, arthritis and bald heads.. these old boys spend a lot of time acting like they did post puberty.  Now, mind you, they are harmless old creatures… most only act or think like this except in a group drinking coffee in a place where strange women walk in and go out. Once they leave the place. Sex or the idea of it goes right back to sleep in their heads like always.

Whenever a female of any type, shape color, or deformity walks in the door, the sounds emanating from the old boys suddenly comes to a halt. As if they were connected by little wires, all their heads swivel in a straight line to female.

If she is young and beautiful, the ensuing silence fills the room like a thick fog for a minute. If she is wearing revealing clothing, a faint echo of inhalation, gasping, and  wind sucking takes place. For that matter if any woman walks in wearing revealing clothing the same thing happens. A couple of the old men’s face will turn pale as their eyes glaze over and at least one bald headed fellow will turn red like a thermometer, raising till his scalp is scarlet and tiny beads of sweat appear at the very peak of his head.

In most cases what do you think would be going through their minds? Visions of her without her clothing? Lustful thoughts to daring to mention?

Well sorta, but if she is young what you would probably discover if you could listen closely, is days gone by. Drive-ins, lakes in the moon light, old hay lofts or blankets in green meadows. First one then another, will softly and quietly speak of experiences long ago in their youth. The sights, the sounds, the feelings are all laced into what they have to say  while their eyes follow her around the store… Once she has left the conversations will venture to broken hearts, and immense exaggerations of their former prowess. Kind of like old rooster strutting around the pen know they have nothing to offer, but going thru the emotions anyway. Heaven forbid if the female subject smiles or speaks to them, for it would cause a brief moment of lurid smiles and tucking in stomachs.. and shuffling around not unlike a group of school boys be approached by an older woman.

There will always be at least one old fart who will then spoil the whole thing once she has gone with the declaration that the girl was probably the same age as his granddaughter, followed with a round of groans and disgust sweeping the table.

So there is a purpose in these gathers of country old timers.. and least for the ones called perverts or dead peckers… Its to take some wore out, useless, old codger back to his youth for at least the hope of one brief moment a da

Old Lady’s and Perfume

From my earliest days there has been a connection with old women and strong perfume. Even in the days before hardly anyone had perfume, old ladies somehow manage to walk around with a cloud of some sweet smelling aroma. The one that didn’t smelled like moth balls or some other unnatural thing. 

I can remember as small child going to the old country church with old women grabbing me and hugging me and my total inoculation of strong chemical odor. Sister Brooks was the worst. Oh I loved her and she was as sweet as could be, and she had a way of making me feel so special. She seemed so happy to see me, but God Almighty that woman would nearly knock me down with the smell of “Rose Water” and “Cashmere Bouquet” bath powder.  Then there was little Sister Shultz, not 90 pounds soaking wet, yet you could always tell she was there because her perfume would drive thru the crowd like a heard of cows coated in diesel oil. Of course everyone avoided crazy Sister Moore. She was known to have more than few screws loose, but we never could figure out why she reeked so bad of moth balls and  oil of camphor. 

You know, any little boy in those days didn’t take to being hugged too much and we hated the men tussling our heads. But the only sweet smell we could stand was the smell of fresh hay or peach pie. It seemed my Sunday clothes always smelled and I made momma put them out in the barn till the next Sunday. 

Now I am an old man and I loved messing up a little boys hair and teasing him. But for Gawd’s sake I drive my wife nuts about her hugging every kid in sight. And I have threatened her with her life if I can smell her perfume from more than a foot away. 

Why do they so it? The guys at the coffee shop say its because they stink and don’t want anyone to know it. Others say they have lost their sense of smell. But I wonder if there isn’t some secret school for women they all go to that teaches them to gas up the room just to be a pain in the butt and clear everyone’s sinus..

The Truth About Guns

Since the 1980’s, guns have been a major part of the American public discourse.

The NRA has spent billions promoting what they call “responsible gun ownership” and gun fanatics and others have lobbied hard to get laws passed which allow anyone to carry a gun who can afford the permits and the gun. (these are obviously not poor people in most cases). There are millions of people walking the streets in this country with a gun.

Gun ownership for a lot of people have has become almost a religious cult.

Yes, criminals do carry guns, and if they are outlawed, only criminals will have guns. There is a little truth in that statement, but it is more a play on words than serious philosophy. Hunting and shooting sport is a legitimate use of guns, true, but only certain types of guns are legitimate for those uses. You don’t hunt with high powered automatic rifles and pistols except to dispatch and animal at close range that has already been injured by a long gun at a distance. But truth is, an Uzi or such small automatic weapon is not needed.

The real truth about guns.

As a combat veteran and an avid gun owner, I think I qualify to speak on this subject. I certainly have first had knowledge about guns and their use against human beings.

The vast majority of people walking around with guns today, actually know nothing about the truth of guns. They speak boldly about their rights to carry one and how they would be needed in the event of a criminal act, or to hold and invader at bay. They talk eloquently about how having a gun makes the country safer. But in reality, it’s the same kind talk you would hear from a 8 year old child talking about fighter jets or space ships.

Most of them have target shot, and maybe even killed an animal with a gun. Some have practiced into fairly good marksmen. Some have studied and could quote all the facts and figures and rules of gun ownership. Others have studied guns to where they know every fact about hundreds of weapons and ammunition.. Not as many advocates are people who have been in the situation where they actually needed a gun, like a law enforcement officer. They all know guns can kill or cripple. They may even know about the consequences of gun use on an intellectual level.

But none of that relates to the real truth about guns.

Few gun advocates have ever known first hand the real truths of gun ownership.

Any gun, is powerful destructive force and a lot of them are an incredible destructive tool.  Look into the face of a human being shot in the head, if you can recognize the head from the bloody ball of red meat and brains and dangling eye balls….Or the blood covered cinnamon rolls of gut hanging from the belly of a person who has been gut shot.

The effect of a bullet on the human body is not the whole story either. The part few know and most can’t address, is the real truth behind the guns. The truth about their use on the human soul and psyche. In a real situation of self defense the world is lot different than can be imagined in practice. Often times the need to defend arises in a spilt second, and the opportunity to strike is very, very short. The mind can reels from the pumping of adrenaline  and the shock. It takes a considerable amount of time for the average person to be able to shift mental gears and grasp the situation, much less think logically and make decisions. This considerable of time my just be a second two a best, but in reality is far longer than that. Training helps cut down the time it takes to evaluate the situation, and make a decision, but no amount of training can have an approachable difference on even a professional who has not used his condition reflexes in a while. When an average gun owner is found in this situation it could be minutes before their mind reacts with all that is necessary to evaluate and decide on a correct response to the threat.. It maybe hard for some to comprehend just how big a problem it is, unless you have been thru it.

And there lies the problem with gun ownership for security, as a whole. Many people have been shot by their own gun in emergency situations, and have even shot people that cared for and loved by accident. Much less, innocent bystanders.

Once you have let the gun go off, you life will change drastically forever. From that second on, it will never be the same. The person you kill will be dead, and the people who cared about them will have their life forever altered by your action.
Once that bullet leaves the gun, it blows tiny dark seeds in your brain and soul. Theses seeds take root and grow an ever entangling swirl of wire like tendons through out your mind & soul forever… Yes they can be subdued, and weakened.. but they never leave entirely. Your whole life will be effected and probably your health. I don’t care how “righteous” you and others think your action was… this still happens to all but the psychotic without a sense of right & wrong.

Your family and your children, your friends will all look at you differently from that point on…..and you will not be able to explain what now is inside you. It will take a trained professional to help you cope.. but it may never alleviate anything. Without the professional help you can end up like millions already have from similar situations, dealing with debilitating depression, substance abuse and / or serious mental illness.

I believe this is how God designed it all, he seriously meant for us not to kill each other.. and a gun makes it very easy, and too often accidental. If you are going to own a gun… take it very seriously and with a lot of forethought .Seek out very serious training from people who have actually had to live through these situations (if you can find one willing) and train and practice constantly.. never let a week go by.

You will find there are very experienced gun owners who do not talk about it.. They are usually combat veterans and carry the dark seeds forever. But they are the few that really understand the gun, and all that comes with it. The person that is constantly talking about it, bragging about it or has it attached to his manhood is usually the wrong person to listen to. If they tell you war stories, they are probably telling lies or have serious mental problems or both, no matter how “sound” and ‘with it” they seem. War and killing permanently damages all.. its not a matter “if” or “how much”.. it’s a matter of those little dark seeds and how they are nourished or trimmed, and how they personally survive it.

From The Inside Racism

Life in the north eastern part of Texas in the last 70 years, can teach a lot of things. Over those years, many changes have taken place here and in people all across America. A lot of which may be hard to understand, but I hope to open a window here for a moment and try to let the light in.

The world I grew up in was not very complicated on the surface. At least, if you were white. “White Only” signs were an everyday thing. I never noticed them for years. Every place had a white only restroom and some places had “Colored Restrooms”. Wherever there were waters fountains you usually found two. A clean one marked “white only” and a dirty one marked “colored”.

Black people were everywhere in this area, but they only lived in certain areas, often on the other side of the railroad tracts. Any hard or dirty job was done by black people. Of course if it required skill and paid good money, you seldom found them at those jobs.

As a kid, they called me “Mr.” and ‘sir”. Even the ones who were older than my grandparents. There was one black woman in particular in my life, which seemed to have a hand in raising me and most of my cousins. Her name was Lula Mae. I never knew her last name. She had diapered my mother and everyone of her family in her generation and mine. I loved Lula Mae, she was the kindest and most loving person I had ever known.

When ever there was a special event in my mothers family. Lula Mae was always there working in the kitchen or setting the table or sweeping the floors and keeping us kids in line. Now this wasn’t like the movies, we were NOT very well off at all. But as I learned later in life, Lula didn’t cost much and many times she helped for free. 

She was closest to my mother’s older brother and his wife. They lived forever in the same area my mother’s grandfather settled in when he came here at the end of the Civil War from Mississippi.. Mom’s grandfather wasn’t wealthy. He was 16 when he came here on an ox wagon after both his parents died. But he had inherited part of a section of land in Mississippi and sold it, carrying the proceeds here with him. 

My mother’s older brother, was an extremely nice and easy going fellow. Worked at the local cotton gin as a foremen for 46 years without ever missing a day. He also lived his whole life without ever borrowing money. That was the result of seeing his parents loose what little they had in the depression, while trying to scratch out a living raising cotton. 

Uncle Allen was tall, bald headed and always had a twinkle in eye. A great fun loving man who never drank, worked hard all his life and smelled like chewing tobacco and cotton. Growing up, I thought he was as nice a guy as there was. Especially in his dealings with black folk. All the people who had ever worked for him were black and he had known them most of his life. Most of them seem to a kid as really liking him. He called the older ones Mr. and Miss, but always followed it with their first name. No one else I had ever heard did that. 

He brought them food when they needed it. Lent them money and carried them to the doctor. He said many times, when he had the money, it was better to pay one of them, than try to do something himself because they needed the money more. From time to time, if Uncle Allen was busy, and I would need to be somewhere else, he would have Mr. Guffy take me in his white Convertible Chevrolet, covered with fancy chrome. 

Mr. Guffy, was a remarkable man in that small town. He was a huge man with big wide shoulders and I had seen him more than once handle a 500 pound bale of cotton like it was made of air. One thing that made him so usual, was he had a college degree they said.. But he could never find work where it was important. Mr Guffy was a great guy, every time he saw me he would pick me up and give me a big bare hug. Many a time I rode on his big shoulders as he carried me around the cotton gin. 

Many times I would stay all day at the cotton gin with Uncle Allen.  Mr.Guffy would watch me out of the corner of his eye. If I wondered off where he couldn’t see me, he would come scoop me up onto his shoulder and take back to play where he could keep an eye on me. 

It was a wonderful time to be a kid in that place. All the adults, white and black, treated me like little prince. But my Uncle, Mr. Guffy and Lula Mae were my favorites. I guess I actually felt loved by them more than I did my own family. 

But I grew up, as we all eventually do. When I was about 11 or 12, staying with my Aunt and Uncle as a summer treat, I started to catch glimpses of that world not being exactly what I thought. On Fridays, if I was at the gin, Uncle Allen would load me in his Ford at noon and Mr. Guffy got in the back to go to Roses Café to eat lunch. I never noticed it before, but as soon as we all got out of the car Mr. Gufffy disappeared. In the past, when I asked my uncle where he went, he would say Mr. Guffy had a special place he liked to eat with other “colored folks”, and he would be back at the car when we got ready to go. This one day, as we sat in a booth inside Rose’s, I happened to look up toward the end of the counter just as someone swung the kitchen door wide open. There in the kitchen at a long table sat Mr. Guffy eating by himself.

Uncle Allen reached over and grabbed the back of my belt as I headed for the kitchen, and said “wow, there partner.. you shouldn’t go back there, you aint allowed.” Pulling me back, he pointed to my seat and I sat back down. This really bewildered me, my uncle said nothing else as I sat back up to the table and for the first time, I felt it better not ask any questions. This was the beginning of discovering a world I didn’t know.

After learning to read, there was more to discover… the water fountains I was not allowed to use often had the word “colored” on a sign near them. Every public restroom had another with the sign colored on it.  Places you went to eat had little signs on , or near, the door saying “No Coloreds”.

Some of the older black people would refer to me a “mister”, which in innocence, I always thought was a tease about me being a kid. As I eventually learned, truth was far different, it was required by white society and it was a way of having white kids indoctrinated to believe they were superior to blacks.

Whenever I was going along by myself with any of our “colored” friends, it was fun and different. In the white world adults always seemed determined to make sure I did, and said things proper. But in the “colored” world all I ever received was love and gentle correction. I still can’t help but attribute that to black people having a more accepting culture.

In time I would learn that Mr. Guffy, was threatened with his life if something ever happened to me while in his care. Lulu Mae was never threatened but she knew it instinctively.  Black people didn’t eat in the kitchen to be close to their people who worked back there, they had no choice. They used the back door of white peoples houses to knock on, and never entered a white home unless there was work for them to do.

“Colored Only” restrooms and water fountains were always dirty. I learned many years later from a black friend, no one cleaned them because they why take care of something which was used to enforce how inferior you were and you hate so much. I was told as a kid it was because “ni***rs were so dirty”.

Some kids took this all in stride and accepted it was just the way things were. Blacks were an inferior race, they stunk and were dirty. God had made them that way and who were we to challenge God’s will?

I grew up thinking my Aunts and Uncles were nice people who care for blacks, they controlled when they use the “N” word and never used it in the presence of black people. They gave all their things away to them when they no longer wanted them. Excess food from the farm was always given to them. After all, the worst whipping I ever received as a child was when I back talked Lula Mae. When ever I compared my family to the other whites in the community, they seemed so understanding and kind to black people.

I am ashamed it took till I was a grown adult by the time this was debunked in public with great attention. Not until the 1960’s did it become clear, most of the things I had grown up accepting about minorities were pure lies. What wasn’t an outright lie was a culturally reinforced strategy to keep whites in position of authority. My own families, who I thought were so good to black people, were just as racist as the rest… I still don’t think they truly understood what they were doing, but none the less, they never really looked on black people as equal

Coffee Shops and the Dead Pecker Society

All over this country, in rural communities and small towns, you will find a special group of older men gathering at each little establishment that sells fresh coffee.
Some call these groups of more advanced (age) Americans, coffee drinkers, the good old boys clubs etc.. They are made up of home grown philosophers, political pundits, practical technicians of junk and antiquities, historians, shade tree veterinarians and doctors, even scholars of coffee shop law.. But in about each and every group, there is at least one or more members of an elite association, the local chapter of the Dead Pecker Society.
While most members of this auspicious organization remain incognito, there are a few among them who do not care if you know they belong and embrace the glory of membership with relish. At the same time, others who would meet the initial qualifications of membership have no idea they could apply.
To understand the uniqueness of this group, one must have an understanding of the properties of pecker ownership. Each male is provided with the rudimentary makings of a pet pecker at birth. It doesn’t take long for the little pecker to demonstrate its potential for joyous exuberance. As time goes on, a deep and everlasting bond develops between the pet and its owner. At a certain stage in life the little critter grows not only in stature but willfulness. This provides it’s owner a great deal of challenge and excitement. Many years are spent learning to deal with the unruly companion. One is led into great but sometime perilous adventures that tend to dominate the owners life for many years.
This struggle is not without its great joys and triumphs which add to the timeless bond developing between the two. But there are great and seemingly never ending struggles and ordeals. At any point the owner experiences the great burdens which comes with ownership of a pecker for a pet and companion. One is expected both to master it benefits and to use it to deliver great pleasure and joy.. while never faltering or failing. The performance requirements become a great burden. The owner is even charged with the size and stature of his companion, even though he has no control over that aspect. Constantly feeling obligated to defend the little fellows luck, (or lack of it) from birth.
In the latter years the pecker becomes more easy to manage, while at times not being up to its old standards of performance. By then though, much as been learned by both of them, and great value to the owner and his wife develops….
Eventually for some,, the little fella becomes dull and uninterested. No matter how anyone tries, some just fade away until they are dead. From this point their only purpose in life is purely a directional one. Handiness is limited at keep the floor dry and the owners shoes clean.
And this, friends is where the owner as a decisions to make. Does he carry around his lifeless little friend, sheepishly tucked away and snuggled close by, while feeling demoralized, ashamed and greatly depressed.. or does he study the great things that this befalls him?
At this point in his life, if the owner has his primary head in the right place…he can discover the great liberties born of this tragedy. Once he embraces this, then he is eligible to join the great brotherhood of the Dead Pecker Society.
Their motto “Freedom thru Dysfunction”: describes the mortal escape from performance demands, affection demands and he can give up that dreadful addiction of always trying to get it! Pretty girls discover he is a nice guy, no longer a threat. The old boy gets to enjoy hugs and kisses from women who would never touch him otherwise
. He may even get to cop a small feel here and there, even though, the purpose of which, will probably escape him. No more does he worry about disobedience from his friend, nor the nagging in the company of beauty. He can forget the fact that women had become like the national Geographic… great visions of places he would never get to go.

So the next time you happen upon a group of advanced coffee drinkers in a small town.. look for the one with a extra calm and satisfied demeanor, who looks at you like a green pasture or a hill sides of beauty. Give the old boy and hug and a kiss on top of his head you will stimulate a part of his tired old brain that has seldom been used until the death of his little friend.

A Life So Dear

97 years ago today, in the woods of Alabama a child was born in a log house with a dirt floor. They say he was a tiny child and in those days a birth was a solemn occasion racked with fear for the mother and new born. It was all to common for one or both of them to die in the process or over the next few days. There were several children to be lost in this family over the years, but today the “middle’ son was born to survive.

He grew in dire poverty, but would say many years later he wasn’t really aware of it till he was grown and on his own. He would later take pride in the shoes on his feet as a man, but went many years before he ever owned a pair. The boy spent most of his child hood helping the family survive as did his brothers and sisters. Work was common to even the youngest if they could walk. It was hard raising enough food for them all to eat and raising enough cotton to hopefully one day escape the lowness of their life. What couldn’t be raised had to be shot or caught, and this led to the few pleasures in life for the child. Well, at least until the day he accidentally shot a younger cousin in a hunting accident as a teenager. This ended his days hunting for food or for pleasure.

What money the family could depend on was a small pension his grandfather received for his service in the Civil War. When the old man died in his 90’s was staying the boys room in the old clap board house they lived in at the time. This shook the family and without the pension the boys had to leave home to fend for themselves. The mother and father separated and she took the younger kids while the two oldest boys headed out for the west to find work and a new life.
The best means of escape for the coal mining region of Alabama was the train. With no money to ride as paying passenger the boy, the boys oldest sister’s husband help him jump a freight train. They rode together for along ways until the brother in law had to return home. They boy now 19, rode on alone to Texas where there was some relatives and stories of plenty of work. The ride ended when he was kicked off the box car by a “rail road bull”, a heavy handed person hired by the railroad to clear the trains of “hobos”
The boy grew into a man in Texas, married and had a lot of kids. His life was filled with ups and downs but it lasted until 1988. Into his 70’s he still had a child’s twinkle to his eyes, when he grinned.

Was he a success you ask? Well, not the way most measure it. He had escaped poverty all right when he left Alabama and had some pretty good years. But in the end he only had a couple of used cars and a little brick house in the suburbs paid for. About a week before he died he told me, “ I can’t ask for much more in life… I have had a good time, have kids I love and who love me and grandkids to boot. I’ve known a lot of friends and most of them big troubles looks so small now…..God has really been good to me.”

This a lot more I could say about him, and volumes I could write. But the memories are to sweet to write through the tears still today. He was as close to my soul as a man could be.


Papa, I still miss you…. Happy Birthday