Camping, Trampolines, and Runaway Trailers

 

The fog is starting to settle in, creating an ever-thickening haze over childhood memories and fond recollections. As hard as I try, some memories just don’t come back. Why didn’t I inherit the same sharp, indexed memory as my sister Janet? When the four of us—Janet, Lisa, Dana, and me—sit together and trade old family stories, I often feel like the one who came unprepared. Janet will tell a story in detail, then end with, “You remember that, right?” I’ll shrug and admit I don’t. She gives me a little glare and a harrumph!—as if I’ve betrayed our shared history. Lord knows I try to remember. I want to join in, to laugh along, to add my own threads to the tapestry. But sometimes those memories are gone. 

Still, I’ve held on to the ones that matter most—the voices of people I loved. I can still hear Melissa’s warm “Hey, honey” across the telephone line when I called her during my mid-morning work break. I can hear Mom’s cheerful “Hey Ronald, it’s your mom” on an answering machine message that I still replay to myself when I need to hear her voice.  And I can hear Dad’s corniest jokes, delivered with such timing that even today, when I repeat them, I hear his voice, not mine. It’s funny—some memories make dents, some leave holes, and some of the tiniest little moments end up shaping who we are. 

 One of those shaping moments came from something as simple as a summer vacation. My mom, Ola Lynette Stone Howard, was the youngest daughter of a coal miner and a switchboard operator. My dad, LeRoy—the man with no middle name—was the son of a farmer and a housewife. They both grew up in small communities near Leeds: Dad in Eden and Mom in Markeeta. Neither of them had much, but together they gave us everything we needed. Vacations were never fancy. We didn’t fly on airplanes or stay in hotels. But what we had were weeks at Wind Creek State Park, Panama City Beach, Destin, St. Augustine, and New Orleans. To this day, I’d take those memories over any resort. Our very first weeklong vacation was to Wind Creek. Dad had worked for weeks gathering everything we would need for camping: a big family tent, a Coleman stove and lantern, folding cots, sleeping bags, and even an outboard motor to use with a rented boat. We were set for adventure—except for one problem. We were a single-car family, and Dad’s pride and joy was his 1964 Chevy Impala Super Sport. With bucket seats in the front and the four of us packed into the back, there was no way to fit all the camping gear in the trunk. Dad did the only thing he could—he rented a U-Haul trailer. The hitch clamped onto the bumper, and after hours of fiddling, Dad had it attached, loaded, and chained. He tossed in the gear, the food, and the gas cans, and we headed south. Somewhere between Chelsea and Harpersville, we hit a bump. The trailer jumped off the hitch and, still tied by its safety chains, began bucking like a rodeo bull behind the car. Dad eased off the gas, gripping the wheel, trying not to let it slam into the rear of the Impala. When he finally got us stopped, the trailer lurched forward and slid up close to the bumper like a scolded child. When Dad opened the trailer doors, chaos spilled out—everything was jumbled, dented, tossed about like a giant had given it a good shake. Worse yet, the hitch was bent. Dad managed to prop it back onto the bumper and tightened the chains, limping us slowly into Harpersville. There, a kind mechanic heated the metal with a torch, hammered it back into shape, and refused a dime for the work. He just smiled and said, “Get your family to Wind Creek.” 

 We did make it to Wind Creek and it was worth every moment of trouble. We swam in the lake, bounced on the in-ground trampolines, roasted marshmallows by the fire, and made friends with a neighboring family who camped beside us for years afterward. Mom and Dad made friends easily, but nobody could outdo Dad—he never met a stranger, only friends he hadn’t spoken to yet. As for me, I spent part of that week trailing along behind Dad as he chased his ever-elusive trophy bass. I don’t recall whether he ever caught it. What I do remember is that he kept on trying, and that I was right there with him. Looking back now, I realize life was simpler then. Our parents couldn’t give us the world, but they gave us the time, the care, and the memories that have lasted a lifetime. Those runaway trailers and trampoline jumps live inside me alongside the voices of those I miss. 

Life was simple back then, Life was good, and I sure do miss those days. 

Howards in the Garden of Eden

 

Howards in the Garden of Eden

My grandparents on my father’s side were Mamie Roxanne and John Washington Howard. Us kids called them simply Mamaw and Papa. When I was young, they lived in a little white house in Eden, Alabama, tucked next to a sawmill. That house seemed to belong to another time. Winters were kept at bay by the heat of a cast-iron pot-belly stove, stoked with wood scraps my grandfather gathered from the mill.

Lisa, Papa, Ronald, Mamaw

I can’t tell you if Papa ever had what folks today would call a regular job. What I do know is that he went to bed with the sun and rose long before daylight. He’d sip his coffee from a saucer, then walk up the road to crank the sawmill machinery to life. After greasing the cogs and setting the pulleys to spinning, he’d amble back down the hill just as Mamaw was pulling biscuits from the oven. She made them in a hand-carved wooden bowl, oblong from years of use.

Papa was already eighty-two when I was twelve, and Mamaw was seventy-eight. He didn’t say much, his voice hushed and cracked when he did, but I could tell he was listening more than folks thought. I’d catch a quick smile when someone said something silly. Tall, stooped, always in overalls, he carried the look of a man who’d lived his first life behind a plow before moving to Eden.

They had raised my cousin Wayne, who was grown and gone by the time I spent much time with them. By then, it was me and my sister Janet who stayed for weeks in the summer. Cousins Adrienne, Nina, and Bonita lived nearby, so we never lacked company. Without a television in the house—something I don’t remember missing—we made our own entertainment. Monopoly games stretched for days on the porch, and the sawmill itself became our playground.

Papa, Wayne, Faye, Mamaw

Once the workers were gone, we climbed conveyors, rode belts toward the blades, and tunneled into the mountain of sawdust that piled high at the edge of the mill. Papa warned us that one wrong move could trap and smother us, but warnings meant little to fearless kids. To us, danger was just another invitation. The drying sheds stacked with lumber twenty feet high became our Everest. And then there was the vat of creosote—twenty feet long and six feet deep. A chain dangled from a pulley overhead, and we’d swing across that black pool as if it were the Nile. More than once I ruined a shoe dipping too close, but by some grace none of us ever fell in.

Mamaw was always in her apron, cooking three meals a day. My favorite memory is of her fried apple pies. Papa would gather apples from the tree out back, slice them thin, and lay them out to dry in the sun. Once ready, Mamaw simmered them with sugar and cinnamon, spooned the filling into dough rolled from her big wooden bowl, and fried them golden. They never lasted long.

When she wasn’t cooking, Mamaw sat in her rocker with a dip of Brewton’s snuff tucked in her cheek. She kept a tin can beside her to spit in, and if one of us came crying with a bee sting, she’d rub a little snuff on it. “Draws out the poison,” she said, and whether it truly did or not, we always believed her. If she ran low, she’d send us to Old Man Lovell’s store with a few coins—enough for her snuff and a paper sack of candy for us. He never blinked when a twelve-year-old asked for tobacco; the world was different then.

Mamaw, 1955

Mamaw passed on February 29, 1968. I was twelve, and it was the first time I truly felt the weight of death. They held the wake in that little white house, her body in one room, surrounded by begonias she had tended with such care. I remember sobbing every time I walked in, overwhelmed by the thought that there would be no more apple pies, no more snuff cures, no more change pressed into my hand for a trip to Old Man Lovell’s.

After Mamaw was gone, Papa moved in with my Uncle Millard and Aunt Audrey in Oxford. To me, Oxford felt as far away as another country, and I didn’t see him much after that. He lived to ninety-nine, passing in 1984, and was laid to rest beside Mamaw in Lawley’s Chapel Cemetery, surrounded by family both before and after.

That little house in Eden still stands. Whenever I travel Highway 78, I glance toward it and feel the pull of memory. I imagine the sawdust pile, the creosote vat daring us to swing again, and the kitchen where Mamaw rolled out dough with her wooden rolling pin. Time has moved on, but in my mind, the place is still alive with laughter, danger, and the smell of fried pies cooling on the table.

I cry when I think of it now—not from sorrow, but from gratitude. Happy tears, for the sweetness of having belonged to that world.

far left- my grandfather John Washington Howard

And now we're a book!

 

I've finally made the leap into publishing. I've gathered stories from the blog, thrown in some original artwork and photographs, and put them all into a paperback book. It can be found on Amazon and there is also a Kindle version. 

Ron Howard's Simple Musings 

Life's little adventures, in plainspoken words

Homespun stories of growing up in a small city in Alabama during the 60's and 70's. Exploring my world, stretching my boundaries, and pushing the limits. Heartfelt stories of life as a feral child, a rebellious teenager, and a grateful and repentant senior citizen.

The Secret of Youth is Ignorance

 The Secret of Youth Is Ignorance

We did some downright foolish things when I was a kid—not just silly, but truly dangerous. I’ve already told the story about Ardell, Jethro, and the dynamite, but that was only one chapter in a long book of questionable decisions.

Take, for example, one of my high school classmates who learned the hard way that you don’t rest the muzzle of a loaded shotgun on the toe of your shoe and pull the trigger. It’s hard to walk with swagger when you’re missing your big toe.

One of our earliest stunts involved the rain-swollen drainage ditch that ran from Cahaba Hills and cut a path across Greenbriar Acres. After a couple days of heavy rain, that ditch turned into a frothing, muddy river. At fourteen or fifteen, that was an irresistible playground. We’d jump in right where it emerged from under Greenwood Lane, letting the current sweep us across the field toward Brierwood Lane.

Here’s where the stupidity came in: the ditch disappeared back under the road through a narrow pipe—small enough that if you got sucked into it, you weren’t coming back out alive. The only way to stay safe was to climb out before the road. But being the tough guys we thought we were, we dared each other to see who could stay in the current the longest. The bravest—or dumbest—was the one who got closest to the culvert before scrambling out. Looking back, it’s a miracle our names aren’t carved on headstones.

One of my proudest acts of idiocy took place my senior year at Leeds High School. If you’ve ever been to the stadium, you know the light poles on either side are enormous, with the home side poles standing well behind the bleachers. Those poles require a bucket truck for maintenance, but Mickey and I figured we could use them for something far more important—hanging a giant “Class of ’73” banner.

Our plan was simple and stupid: climb the stadium steps to the top row, leap from the railing to the light pole, scale nearly to the top, tie off one end of the banner cord, then jump back to the bleachers and repeat the process on the other pole. And that’s exactly what we did. We stood back and admired our work, sure we’d be legends the next day.

By noon, the wind had ripped the banner loose on one side. It hung like a wounded flag, flapping wildly until nightfall. Then came the Friday night football game. The stadium lights kicked on, the heat poured out, and our masterpiece went up in smoke—literally. By kickoff, there wasn’t so much as a thread left.

We also found ways to risk life and limb on the school bus. Back then, buses had to stop at railroad crossings so a “runner” could hop off, check for trains, and wave the all-clear. Our driver, Mr. Timmons, was one of those rare grown-ups who didn’t mind bending the rules. A few of us turned it into a contest—jumping off the bus while it was still moving, sprinting across the tracks, and waving the driver on. Each day, the bus slowed less and less, until the challenge became who could leap off at the highest speed without face-planting.

I made several clean runs, but I think it was Eddie Gosnell who set the record. Eventually, even Mr. Timmons decided enough was enough—probably worried that one of us would break a leg and he’d be out of a job. We moved on to other amusements, which I’ll get to later.

Looking back now, I can’t decide whether we were fearless or just too ignorant to know fear. Maybe that’s the real secret of youth—thinking you’re invincible, right up until the moment you’re not. And maybe the secret to getting older is realizing how many times you got lucky.

Just a bit of clarification

On August 7, 2025, Leeds Police Chief Irwin posted a statement on the Leeds, Alabama Police Department’s Facebook page. It described a traffic stop involving a young woman who had been speeding and driving erratically. She had no Alabama driver’s license, and no valid license from any state. When officers ran the identification she provided, they learned she was not in the United States legally. The stop ended with Immigration and Customs Enforcement taking her into custody.

The post quickly attracted a storm of comments—many of them negative toward the police. I added my own comment, expressing my appreciation for Chief Irwin and all the officers in Leeds. I wanted them to know they had my support and admiration for taking on what is, by its very nature, a difficult and often thankless job. Many people gave my comment a thumbs-up, but a few responded with the “laughing” emoji—a response I still don’t quite know how to interpret.

What struck me most, though, wasn’t the emojis, but the flood of name-calling. Dozens of people accused the police of lying, some calling them “pigs.” While it is certainly within a person’s right to say such things, I can’t help but find them offensive. And that’s the balance we live with in this country: you have the right to be offensive, and I have the right to be offended.

Having said that, I want to speak to the plight of the young woman who was detained. I don’t know her. I don’t know her age, how long she’s been in the United States, or the full circumstances of her life. I do know that the comments about her painted a picture of someone well liked—someone kind, hard-working, and undeserving, in the eyes of many, of detainment and possible deportation.

While my beliefs are generally conservative, I have mixed feelings about immigration. I believe in the rule of law and that anyone seeking a life in the United States should actively pursue citizenship. But deportation is where my views soften. This young woman, I learned, has been here since childhood. She graduated from our local schools. She has built a place for herself in the business community. By all accounts, she is an outstanding member of society and beloved by those who know her.

It’s because of this that I believe she should not be deported. I’ve heard it said that Immigration and Customs Enforcement focuses on “the worst of the worst”—the hardened criminals who rob, torture, and kill. This young woman has done none of those things. My hope is that law enforcement, immigration officials, and our elected representatives can open their hearts and find a way to integrate her fully into our society. Surely there must be a means by which productive, law-abiding immigrants are fast-tracked to citizenship instead of fast-tracked out of the country.

In closing, let me be clear: I still believe in the rule of law. I believe that immigrants should enter this country legally and pursue citizenship as quickly as possible. I also appreciate and support the Leeds, Alabama Police Department. These are the men and women who stand between order and chaos, who put themselves in harm’s way to protect and defend us. And while I may not always agree with every policy or decision, I will not forget the difficult role they play—and the humanity that exists on both sides of the badge.

Where Have All The June Bugs Gone?

 

Where Have All the June Bugs Gone?

Originally Inspired by a Blog Post from March 4, 2006
Reflected on Again—August 7, 2025

When I was a kid growing up in Alabama, catching June bugs was just about the most thrilling part of a summer day. They came buzzing through the humid mid-day heat like tiny, aimless helicopters, their wings humming, their flight paths unpredictable. We’d chase them through the backyard barefooted, laughing, dirt on our knees and twine in our pockets. And if we caught one—and we often did—we’d gently tie a piece of sewing thread around one of its legs and let it fly on a leash.

It was never cruel in our minds. It was joyful. The June bug danced in the air, tethered like a tiny kite, and we boys laughed and ran behind it as if we were somehow flying too. You could only keep one for a day, maybe less—before you had to let it go or watch it die. And yes, when one passed, we found a way to turn that into a prank, stiffened bug and all. We’d toss the dried body into some unsuspecting girl’s hair and laugh like fools as she shrieked and bolted for the porch, swatting wildly and calling for her mama. Mischievous? Sure. Harmless? Mostly. Memorable? Absolutely.

But this past weekend, Susan and I were working in the garden, pulling weeds and mowing the yard, and it struck me: I haven’t seen a June bug in years. Not a single one. No lazy buzz in the twilight, no telltale thump as one hits the porch light. Nothing. It’s as if they vanished when I wasn’t looking.

And so, I find myself asking: Where have all the June bugs gone?

Once they were everywhere, as much a part of summer as sweet tea and mosquito bites. I can’t say if they’ve moved on, if pesticides drove them out, or if time and climate have quietly erased them from the seasons. Maybe they’re still out there, just fewer in number. Maybe I’ve just stopped noticing.

What I do notice now, though, is how much I miss them—and the time they represented. Swimming in the creek, building forts in the woods, walking barefoot down a dirt road, catching lightning bugs in a mason jar. Life was slower then, simpler maybe, or at least it seemed that way through the eyes of a boy who had more curiosity than caution.

Today, I sometimes watch kids glued to their phones, indoors even on the finest summer day, and I wonder what their June bug will be. What memories will they chase in their later years? What harmless mischief will make them smile fifty years from now?

I suppose every generation mourns the fading sights and sounds of its own childhood. But I can’t help thinking we’ve lost something special when we lose the bugs, the creeks, the woods—and the freedom to roam.

So yes, I say it now with all the sincerity of a man who’s aged into nostalgia:
Save the June bugs.
Or at least remember them.

Look Out Boys, She's Gonna Blow!

 

Back in the late sixties, when I was a teenager, my dad worked at Hayes Aircraft in Birmingham. Hayes was a bustling place back then—busy as a kicked-over ant bed. Besides refitting cargo planes for the government, they'd landed a big contract with NASA to help out on the Saturn V rocket program. Folks worked twelve-hour days, seven days a week, and even though the pay was good, family time was hard to come by. But once all the overtime died down, we started living more like a family again. We'd go on outings, visit with Dad’s coworkers, and even take trips together with other families from the plant.

One family we spent a good bit of time with was the Busseys—we went camping with them one week at Wind Creek State Park, and we took lots of weekend fishing trips down to Lake Martin or Eufaula. Dad had plenty of friends at Hayes, but one stood out for sure: a loud, funny, sometimes braggadocious fella named Cecil. He was the kind of guy who could light up a room just by talking a little too loud and pulling out a hundred-dollar bill like it had just surprised him in his own coat pocket. “Well, would you look at that?” he’d holler, waving it around before tucking it into his wallet, laughing like it was the first time he’d ever pulled that stunt—even though it wasn’t.

Cecil had two boys, Joey and Jimmy. Joey was my age and Jimmy a couple years younger. On weekends when he had the boys, they’d come over, and our dads would plan little father-son getaways. That’s how we ended up on all kinds of misadventures together.

Now, Dad was a country man through and through—raised on Wolf Creek Road, where you made what you needed or did without. He could rig up a turkey call out of a Coke bottle and a rubber band or patch a busted gas tank with a bar of Octagon soap. I’m not kidding. Once, on a camping trip out by Golden’s Lake, our car hit a rock and cracked the tank. Next morning, Dad rubbed that soap into the hole until it sealed tight enough to get us to a garage. Cecil loved that story, retold it to anyone who’d listen. "I swear," he’d say, shaking his head, "LeRoy could fix a rocket ship with a roll of duct tape and a toothpick."

Joey and I got to be good friends. So one weekend, I was invited to stay with him and Jimmy at their mom’s house in Irondale. She let us camp down by a little creek that ran behind her place. We packed up sleeping bags, a few snacks, and some marshmallows for roasting. Just as we were heading out, Joey ducked into the garage and came back with a can of kerosene.

“Just to help get the fire started,” he said.

The fire did start, but it was slow and smoky, and we wanted a real campfire—the kind that roars and crackles like the ones you see in Westerns. So Joey grabbed the kerosene and poured it straight on the flames.

What happened next felt like it played out in slow motion. The fire whooshed up, a trail of flame shot into the can, and Joey flinched, dropping it right there in the dirt. It landed upright—blazing from the spout like a Roman candle. Without thinking, I yelled, “Look out, boys! She’s gonna blow!” and gave the can a hard kick.

It sailed toward the creek—but not before it sprayed a trail of burning kerosene right across Jimmy’s pant leg.

He screamed, took off running, and only made it worse. Joey tackled him and smothered the flames with a sleeping bag. Somehow, we put it out, and Jimmy was still in one piece. But we were scared stiff. We begged him to keep quiet and sleep it off. “You don’t wanna get us all in trouble,” we pleaded.

Jimmy wasn’t buying it. Within minutes, he was hoofing it home. We trailed behind, dread building with every step.

His mom’s reaction was... memorable.

She took one look at Jimmy, then turned to me and shook me like a rug. “You almost killed my boy!” she hollered. She called my dad, and I got sent home in a hurry. Jimmy ended up at the ER with second-degree burns on his leg.

I didn’t see much of Jimmy after that. He showed up at our place once more, just to show off his scars like a badge of honor. “See that?” he grinned, lifting his pant leg. “That’s from when y’all set me on fire.” He wasn’t mad—if anything, he seemed proud.

Cecil and Joey still came by now and then, and though we all laughed about it years later, I never forgot that night.

Looking back, we were just a bunch of boys trying to play grown-up. There was danger, sure. Dumb choices too. But we learned from it—or at least, we hoped we did. I think about how lucky we were that night by the creek, and I’m thankful for the way boys become men—through fire sometimes, both the literal kind and the kind that comes from being held accountable.

And every now and then, when I smell smoke from a campfire, I hear my own voice echoing down through the years:

“Look out, boys—she’s gonna blow!”