The Listener (a short story)

Susan and I spent an hour yesterday morning in the waiting room at St. Vincent’s East Outpatient Surgical. It wasn’t our first visit, and likely not our last. The place was clean, quiet, and comfortable—the kind of quiet that feels padded, as if someone wrapped the world in cotton.

Most of the people there were around our age, a few perhaps younger. Some sat with spouses, others alone, but every single one was hunched over a cell phone. The entire room glowed with that cold blue light that makes faces look ghostly.

Nobody spoke. Not to their neighbor, not even to the receptionist. The only sounds were the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the soft tap-tap-tap of thumbs on glass. I’ve sat through my share of silences in my life—in hospitals, on fishing docks, at funerals—but this one was different. It felt hollow.

Susan was filling out a form, her reading glasses sliding down her nose. I leaned back and shut my eyes for a moment. That’s when I heard it—a faint murmuring, like someone whispering through an old radio just below the range of ordinary hearing.

I looked around. The television in the corner was muted, the receptionist busy at her computer. Nobody else seemed to notice. I tugged out my hearing aid, thinking it might be feedback, but the whisper grew clearer when I did.

It wasn’t one voice, but many. A shimmer of overlapping conversations, every syllable half-formed, as if words were trapped inside a storm. When I put the hearing aid back in, the sound vanished. I decided not to mention it to Susan. She’d only give me that look that says, You’ve been tinkering with too many old radios again.

---

When they called Susan’s name, a nurse led her back for her procedure, and I was left alone among the phone people.

The whispers started again almost immediately. I got up and walked toward the vending machine. In its polished metal front, I caught a reflection—not my own, but the faint outline of someone standing behind the row of chairs, watching. I turned around. Nothing there.

The reflection vanished too, replaced by the warped image of my own face. I felt that old tingle in my fingertips—the same one I used to get when a radio signal was about to come through. Back when I worked at the station, I could always tell when a frequency was right. The air had a certain pressure to it, like the world holding its breath. That’s what the waiting room felt like now.

I stepped outside to the car and dug through the glove compartment until I found my little portable AM radio. It’s been with me for decades—black plastic, half the buttons worn smooth, but it still picks up a signal like a charm.

When I turned it on, the dial hissed with static. Then the whisper came through stronger than before—a jumble of human noise, like dozens of people talking at once, each too soft to make out. I turned the knob slowly, and every frequency was the same: no music, no talk shows, just those whispers.

I leaned closer.

“…look at me… keep scrolling… don’t look away…”

That’s when I realized the voices weren’t coming from the radio. They were coming through it.

---

Back inside, the waiting room was just as I’d left it, except maybe quieter. The nurse who’d taken Susan back was staring at her tablet, mouth slightly open, eyes blank. For a moment, I thought she might have stopped breathing. Then she blinked and looked up at me, dazed, like someone waking from a dream.

I tuned the radio again. The static built, rising to a low hum. The lights overhead flickered. A man across the room dropped his phone and rubbed his eyes. A woman near the window looked up, startled, as if hearing sound for the first time in years.

The whisper grew sharper, hungrier. I could feel it feeding on attention like oxygen.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I tuned the radio to a dead frequency—one often used  to calibrate antennas—and began to hum. A low, steady note. The sound spread through the room like a ripple in water.

The hum met the static, and for one brief, beautiful instant, everything fell silent.

The lights steadied. The nurse blinked again. A young man near the window glanced around and said, almost apologetically, “Hi.”

That broke the spell. A few others laughed quietly, embarrassed. Someone coughed. The sound of real conversation returned—hesitant at first, then natural, like a muscle remembering how to move.

A few minutes later, the nurse called my name. “You can come back now—she’s in recovery.”

---

Susan was sitting up in bed, drowsy but smiling.

“How was the wait?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said, “quiet as a tomb. But I made a little noise.”

She laughed and squeezed my hand. I kissed her forehead and helped her get dressed. Before long we were driving home through the late-morning sun.

I kept the radio on low volume. For a while, all I heard was static. Then, faintly, a voice whispered—soft and far away:

“We hear you too, Listener.”

I smiled, shook my head, and turned the dial until I found a gospel station. The choir’s harmonies filled the car—rich, imperfect, and human.

Out the window, cell towers lined the highway like iron cathedrals, their red lights blinking in rhythm with a world that never sleeps. Susan dozed beside me, her hand resting on mine.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt the silence between us wasn’t empty at all—it was alive, and listening.

---

I'm not finished yet

 I want to give a huge Thank You to anyone who has ordered my book on Amazon. If you read it an honest review (on Amazon) would be greatly appreciated.

https://www.amazon.com/Ron-Howards-Simple-Musings-plainspoken/dp/B0FMS5TJNP/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_pl_foot_top?ie=UTF8

I have a few ideas for future work. Below is a preview of story that has been percolating in my brain for a little while...

The Curious Life of Ardell Broward

Introduction

Ardell Broward came squalling into the world sometime in the middle of the 1950s, in a little red-dirt town called Leeds, Alabama. Leeds wasn’t much to look at back then—just a handful of brick storefronts, a factory that made pants, and a church for every flavor of sinner. Ardell grew up there, somewhere between the train tracks and the better neighborhoods, never quite fitting neatly into either side.

He wasn’t what folks would call “book smart,” though he always ended up sitting beside the bright kids—the ones whose daddies sold insurance or owned grocery stores. Maybe it was luck, or maybe Ardell just had a way of looking like he belonged, even when he didn’t.

Adventurous by nature and restless by design, Ardell’s life would swing like a church bell on a Sunday morning—one moment he’d be singing in the choir, freshly baptized and full of holy conviction; the next, he’d be barefoot in somebody’s pasture, puffing on a joint and talking about cosmic energy and “the meaning of it all.”

Some folks said Ardell never could decide which side of the fence he was on. Truth is, he didn’t see much of a fence at all—just a long, winding road filled with odd detours, questionable companions, and stories that only a man like him could live through.

And so begins the tale of Ardell Broward—equal parts saint and sinner, philosopher and fool—making his way through life one misadventure at a time.

Chapter One

Ardell started off being a wanderer early on, always itching to see new things and just get “out there.” He had a sister, Janey, who was three hundred and fifty-four days younger, and the two of them were practically inseparable.

Janey had already met death once, having drowned in the bathtub when she was only two. If not for a neighbor who performed artificial respiration, her short life would have ended right then and there. But that experience changed her. At two years old, she had already faced the one thing most people fear the most—and come through it different somehow. Fearless. Bold. A little wild.

Five-year-old Ardell and four-year-old Janey made the perfect pair of explorers. They would often slip away from home to explore “the world”—which, to them, meant the few dusty blocks surrounding their house. Their mother loved them deeply, but she wasn’t the kind to keep an eagle eye on their every move. And so, Ardell and Janey roamed.

Sometimes they’d wander down to Jimmy Moore’s Grocery, where they’d shake the soft drink machine until loose change fell into the coin return. Other times, they’d wriggle their skinny arms inside and fish out a bottle of Coke. They only got caught once, and Jimmy Moore didn’t even tell their mother. Instead, he laughed, bought them each a soda, and told them not to make a habit of it. For Ardell and Janey, that felt more like a reward than a punishment.

When they weren’t at Jimmy Moore’s, the two could be found poking around the alleys behind Magdalene’s Beauty Shop or climbing the old wooden cooling tower just to reach the roof. From there, they could see the town of Leeds stretched out like a patchwork quilt—their kingdom, for the moment.

Later, when the family moved to Midland City, Alabama, their wandering ways didn’t stop. They’d ride their bicycles blocks from home, climbing into the hayloft at the local feed store or sneaking into the Baptist church to swim in the baptismal. Pastor Waters caught them more than once, giving a stern lecture about respect and holiness—but he never told their parents. And in the end, that only made Ardell and Janey bolder.

For such young kids, they were fearless. They rode their bikes all over the little town of Midland City, with no sense of danger and no idea how far was too far. Janey’s bike still had its training wheels, but that didn’t stop her from following Ardell wherever he went, sometimes riding a mile or two from home.

One warm afternoon, when adventure was calling louder than usual, they decided to pedal all the way to the other side of town. There they met a grown man who invited them into his workshop. And just as innocent children might, they went right in—two little kids sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, watching the man tinker with his tools while he told them stories. They stayed for the better part of an hour, completely at ease.

Looking back, it’s the kind of thing that seems almost unimaginable today. But back then, in that small-town world where everyone knew everyone else—or thought they did—trust came easy. Maybe too easy.

Ardell never could remember much about that man, only that he smelled faintly of oil and sawdust, and that his hands were rough, like someone who worked hard for a living. The man told them stories about building birdhouses and fixing up old tractors. He even gave Janey a peppermint from a jar on the workbench. When the sun started dipping low, he told them they’d better get on home before their mama worried.

They pedaled back, carefree and laughing, racing through the golden light of late afternoon, Janey’s training wheels rattling like applause on the pavement. Nothing bad happened that day—nothing at all. But something about the man’s eyes, or maybe just the quiet of that dim little shop, stuck in Ardell’s mind long after they rode away. It wasn’t fear exactly, not yet. It was something else—a first flicker of understanding that the world might not be as safe as it seemed from a child’s height. He didn’t talk about it, not to Janey and not to Mama. He just tucked it away somewhere deep inside, one of those memories that didn’t feel important until much later.

And so life went on for the Broward kids—wild, curious, and still mostly innocent—but a tiny seed of caution had taken root in Ardell’s heart.

Married, with Kids

 On February 22, 1985, I married Susan Shaw Franks and, upon vowing to love, honor, and cherish, became “Dad” to nine-year-old Michael and ten-year-old Tiffiny. Without question, that day stands among the greatest of my life.

Before Susan, I had never pictured myself raising children. A year earlier I had been widowed, and what followed was a season of reckless survival.

Nights blurred together in seedy Miami bars, with too much liquor, too many drugs, and an aching emptiness that no amount of noise could cover. My routine was grim: get off work, collapse for a few hours, then hit the streets until dawn. Coffee, shower, work, repeat. I was on a downward spiral, certain that my life had lost its purpose.

But God had other plans. He nudged me out of Miami and into Dothan, Alabama, where I went to work with some former colleagues. Life there moved slower, and within a couple of months I met Susan—a strong woman raising two children on a convenience-store wage. From the start, our conversations circled back to Michael and Tiffiny. She told me about the years of moving between Leesburg, Florida, and Joiner, Arkansas and how determined she was to give her kids stability. I doubt Dothan was meant to be her permanent stop, but once we crossed paths, everything shifted.

The more time I spent with Susan and the kids, the more normal life felt again. I had convinced myself that God had sent me to take care of them, but I soon realized the opposite was true—they were sent to rescue me. They pulled me back into the real world, the world of ordinary, decent people.

Marriage didn’t erase our struggles. I carried debts from my Miami days, and Susan had been scraping to make ends meet. But we made do. Instead of bar-hopping, I poured myself into fatherhood. We took camping trips, bowled on Friday nights, and sometimes piled into the car for spontaneous Saturday drives that often carried us across state lines. No destination, no agenda—just the joy of discovering the world together.

I even built a treehouse in the woods behind our house, a project that grew bigger every weekend. It sprouted add-ons and even a ramp that stretched from the yard up to its deck. Before long, it became the neighborhood hangout. To the kids, I wasn’t just Michael and Tiffiny’s dad—I was the *cool* dad. Truth be told, I relished that role more than they ever knew.

Michael especially had been yearning for a father. He wanted someone to fish, camp, and explore with—someone to call “Daddy.” Suddenly, my life had meaning again. We fished every creek and river around Dothan, sometimes renting a boat for the day. One favorite spot was Cypress Creek, a little stretch of water just off Highway 231.

One evening, Michael and I stumbled across a car hidden on the trail near our fishing hole. It sat abandoned, but I kept us focused on fishing. Days later, the car was still there, unsettling us both. Michael wanted to "check it out", but I feared that the owner might be lurking nearby.  Weeks passed before the mystery unraveled on the evening news: that car held over two hundred thousand in cash, a .357 magnum under the seat, and drugs in the trunk. Michael shouted, “See, Daddy? I told you we should’ve looked inside!” I had to laugh, reminding him that the police would’ve taken the money anyway. 

Fishing became our ritual. I passed down my favorite lures—ones I had inherited from my father. Michael lost more than a few of them to tree branches or snags under the water, and I fussed, though I secretly lost just as many myself.

Together we fished across Alabama, Georgia, Florida, South Carolina, and Tennessee. Our favorite waters ran beside my sister Janet’s property, where we caught countless fish and collected a lifetime of stories.

It has been nearly a decade since Michael and I last fished together. His work—tearing down and rebuilding commercial jetliners—keeps him busy. I couldn’t be prouder of the man he’s become, yet I miss those days on the water. Maybe now, in retirement, I’ll carve out time again. Maybe I’ll dust off my rods, and maybe Michael will join me, just like he did when he was a boy eager to tag along with his dad.

Life with Tiffiny was different, full of the challenges and joys of raising a teenage girl. We bowled, roller-skated, and took road trips. Once she began dating, I couldn’t resist grilling her boyfriends as if they were applying for jobs.

Her poor prom date had to outline his education and career goals before she whisked him out the door, mortified. I probably embarrassed her often, but we had fun, and those years left me with memories I cherish.

There’s a sweet but fleeting season when your children see you as the smartest man on earth, when they trust you completely and call out for “Daddy.” That time passes too quickly. But the memory of it lingers like sunlight after a long day, warming me still.

And so, I think I’ll head out back and rummage through the shed for my fishing gear. You never know—Michael just might call, and if he does, I’ll be ready.

Missed Connections

Over seventy years I have gathered a good many friends, but I cannot say I’ve held on to most of them. Life has a way of scattering people. What felt like lifelong bonds on the school playground dissolved once diplomas were handed out and jobs or college pulled us in new directions. Back then I assumed friendship was like family—once formed, it would always be there. But I’ve learned that friendships are often more like seasons: some long and steady, some brief and bright, each beautiful in its own time.

When you enter the workforce, the cycle begins again. Coworkers become daily companions—people you spend more time with than your own family. Some of them leave marks so deep that you imagine you’ll always remain close. But then jobs change, someone moves away, and the connections thin. For years I believed that effort—or perhaps guilt—should keep those ties alive. Yet what I see now is that friendship requires more than sentiment. It requires shared space, common purpose, and mutual desire to keep the thread unbroken. Without those, the cord frays.

I admit I haven’t been the best at maintaining ties. I can go months or even years without a call, then swoop back into an old friend’s life and expect things to feel the same. We hug, we laugh, we promise to do better. But we rarely follow through. And sometimes, when I do try to reconnect, life intervenes: illnesses, busy families, or a sense that our paths no longer align. At first I take it as rejection. Later, I realize it’s simply the natural flow of life. They haven’t betrayed me; we’ve just grown in different directions.

There’s another way to look at it, though. Perhaps friendship is not meant to be permanent in every case. Maybe its purpose is to give us what we need for a particular time, then release us to move forward. That doesn’t make the bond false; it makes it timely. And perhaps the real test of friendship is not its duration but the way it changes us while it lasts.

Technology today gives us chances our parents never had—social media, video calls, quick texts. And yet, I sometimes feel more disconnected than ever. A “like” on a photo doesn’t carry the warmth of a shared cup of coffee. So I ask myself: is it the technology that fails us, or is it that true friendship still demands the old-fashioned things—time, presence, patience—that can’t be replicated on a screen?

I started out thinking of this as a confession of guilt for not doing enough to keep friendships alive. But maybe it’s less about guilt and more about grace. Perhaps the best I can do is treasure the people who were part of my journey, honor the gifts they gave me, and remain open to new connections still waiting ahead. Life is not an endless chain of missed connections; it is a series of meaningful ones, some lasting, some brief, all part of the tapestry of a life well lived.

Cruising, Pyramids, and Port Shops

 

Cruising, Pyramids, and Port Shops

Last March we booked a seven-night cruise to the Bahamas and the Western Caribbean. We’re not really the cruising type, or so we like to say, but this was with family and friends, and we knew it would be an enjoyable getaway. We boarded the MSC Seashore on Sunday August 31 and set sail for MSC Ocean Cay Marine Reserve, a private island owned by the cruise line. 

We were there for two days and I finally got that swim in the ocean that I have been yearning for. 

There is just something about swimming in the ocean that revives my soul. I feel at one with nature while floating in the ocean, free from the cares and weight of the world.

 I become almost childlike as I frolic on the beach and dive into the warm waters of the Caribbean. We spent two days on Ocean Cay walking the beaches, swimming in the lagoon, taking many pictures and videos, and enjoying food from the buffet which is provided by the cruise line. Once our time was up here it was time for a day at sea, skirting the coast of Cuba as we made our way to the Yucatan Peninsula.

We arrived in Costa Maya around 8 a.m. and met our tour guide Carlos at the port. I had booked an excursion with a company called Toucan Tours and they would be taking me, Susan, and Susan’s cousin Jennifer to the Chacchoben Mayan Ruins. We were taken by golf cart to the tour company, which is located outside the port area. While we waited were offered Tequila, Cerveza, Soft Drinks, and water. As it was just a little past 8 a.m. I politely declined the tequila and cerveza, opting for a bottle of water instead. In the spirit of honesty, I did let Carlos know that I’d be having that beer that he offered me once we were headed back to port. We loaded into a van, fifteen of us, plus our guide Carlos, and the driver. We left the port area on what was probably the roughest road I have ever encountered before turning onto the highway that took us for an hour-long ride through the Mexican countryside. We saw a lot of poverty and damage from recent tropical storms that swept over the Yucatan in 2024 and 2025. The poverty and property damage was heart breaking but there were also many roadside markets and taverns which added to the charm of the area.

Once we arrived at the Chacchoben Mayan Archeological Zone we took a few minutes to have some refreshments, stretch our legs, and browse the souvenir shops. I took this opportunity to purchase a permit which allowed me to shoot video of our tour and with permit in hand we were off. As we walked the pathways towards the ruins Carlos gave us the history of the area, its’ indigenous peoples, and the history of the Mayan pyramids, going into great detail about the construction as well as the lore behind the “coloring” of the pyramids, red from the blood of thousands of human sacrifices. We also learned about daily life of the Mayans and their use of local plants and herbs, which were used as medications. We chewed the leaves of clove trees and experiences their mouth numbing effect. We were guided to one of the lesser pyramids and had a few photo opportunities before making our way to the much larger pyramid at that site.

 I was able to climb the massive stone steps which, believe or not, were just the base upon which the larger pyramid was built.  It was neat exploring the area around the large pyramid, imagining what it must have been like to see it being constructed. I shot a little video of myself wandering the site, looking for monkeys, and scanning the horizon for natives. Before long it was time to meet up with my fellow travelers and make our way back to the bus for our cerveza and the trip back to port.

While we were on our way back to Costa Maya, we passed many roadside markets where locals were selling fresh pineapples, dragon fruit, mangoes, and freshly baked cakes. I think that every one of us on the bus bought some fruit and a few of us bought the cakes as well. Everything that we tasted from the roadside vendor was delicious!

Once we arrived back in Costa Maya we detoured to the Mahahual Ocean-side resort where Susan, Jennifer, and I enjoyed lunch while people watching. The resort area is very nice with boat rentals, scuba diving, sunbathing, and many bars and eateries. I took a short walk down the beach ans shot a few pictures before heading back to our departure point, arriving just as they were about to leave without me!

After a short ride back down that wash-board road to the port we exited the bus, thanking our guide and driver for the great time that we all had. And now for the part of the port excursion that was not a thrill for me. Many people never leave the port, opting instead to spend the day drinking at the many bars, dining at the local restaurants, or shopping. Yes, I said shopping. The entire port of Costa Maya was constructed solely as a port for cruise ships and someone figured out early on that there were no better customers than captive cruise ship passengers. The cruise lines even have seminars the day before arriving in port to give you shopping tips, pass out discount coupons, and sign you up for personal trips to the diamond merchants with a shopping advocate. When we arrived back at the port we were herded through what seemed to be endless diamond shops, facial cream dealers, and souvenir vendors. If there was a way to get back to the ship without being herded through retail hell I did not see it. As we walked through the endless shopping opportunities sales people would run up to us to ask what the strange fruits were that we carrying. After the third time that this happened I figured out that was just a way to get us to stop and talk, giving them an opportunity to lure us into their stores because after all, they obviously knew what the fruit was that we were carrying as they no doubt saw it hundreds of times a week, if not a day.

Well, we finally made our way through the many shops and arrived back at the ship where we had a well deserved nap before making our way to the upper deck to watch our good ship MSC Seashore depart the port of Costa Maya. Next stop, Cozumel.The morning after leaving Costa Maya, we woke to Cozumel rising out of the turquoise water. The port looked lively even from the ship—brightly painted buildings, the thrum of music carrying across the harbor, and vendors already setting up for the day.

Cozumel is one of those ports that feels like it was made for travelers. The island itself is rich in history and beauty, but the moment you step off the ship, you’re swept up in a kind of carnival atmosphere, street performers, guides calling out excursions, the scent of grilled food wafting through the salty air, and, of course, the diamond merchants, facial cream, and souvenir sellers beckoning at every step.

We had a little more freedom here than in Costa Maya, and that suited me fine. Our plan was simple: explore, find a free beach so that I could swim, maybe grab some of the local food, and soak in the island. We wandered through the waterfront, dodging mopeds and bicycles, taking in the color and energy. Every corner seemed to offer something—handmade crafts, silver jewelry, street food, and, of course, the ever-present tequila tastings.

What struck me most was the contrast between the bustling port, and the quieter stretches just a few blocks away. Step off the main drag and you find narrow streets shaded by bougainvillea, local families sitting outside their homes, children chasing a ball barefoot in the dust. It reminded me that Cozumel, for all its cruise traffic, is still a community of people living their lives, raising families, and doing their best to thrive.

We skipped lunch and after not finding a suitable beach we walked back toward the waterfront and spent some time just people-watching, the ocean glittering behind it all. Cozumel is a place that seems to hum with energy, and while I enjoyed the sights and sounds, I also found myself grateful for the steadying rhythm of the sea waiting back at the ship.

That evening, as the Seashore pulled away from the island, I stood at the rail again, watching the last bits of land fade. The sky turned shades of orange and purple, and I thought about how travel always leaves me torn—part of me wanting to stay and soak up more, part of me eager to see what’s next.

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.