Dynamite Days: Ardell, Jethro, and Things That Go Boom

This is the story of a couple of teenage boys just trying to explore their world, have some fun, and stretch the boundaries of what a teenager should be willing to do in the name of excitement.

It was 1969. Ardell, a shy and not-too-bright ninth-grader, was friends with Jethro, another ninth-grader who lived all the way across town. They occasionally spent weekends together, exploring the woods, fishing in the creeks and ponds, and, from time to time, getting into a bit of mischief.

One particular weekend, Jethro was over at Ardell’s house, and the two set off to explore the woods near the limestone quarry that had, quite literally, helped build the city of Leeds. The quarry had been the town’s focal point ever since the cement plant opened in 1907. On weekday afternoons, the entire town would feel the earth-shaking boom of explosives as workers blasted limestone from the ground. But on weekends, the place went quiet—and that’s when local kids came out to play.

The area behind the quarry featured what the kids called the “cement creek” (pronounced “see-mint”), a drainage channel where water was pumped from the quarry to prevent flooding. Beyond the creek was a dump site filled with waste from the plant: piles of cement dust, chunks of clinker, and discarded ropes and cables. Kids scavenged these ropes for creek swings and other homemade contraptions.

That day, Ardell and Jethro stumbled across a group of older neighborhood boys hanging out near the quarry. One of them had managed to sneak down into the quarry and walk off with a box of blasting caps and—more shockingly—a piece of dynamite.

Now, it didn’t look like the dynamite you’d see in cartoons. This was more like a thick soup can, with two holes bored through the center to allow for threading the blasting caps and securing it in place for use in quarry drilling.

The older boys let Ardell and Jethro hang around while they tied blasting caps to trees, dropped them into holes, or stuck them in tin cans before detonating them with a 9-volt battery. They exploded about twenty-five blasting caps before someone suggested blowing up the dynamite. But after arguing about who was brave (or stupid) enough to do it, they chickened out and stashed the remaining blasting caps and dynamite in a sinkhole near the Leeds water treatment plant.

End of story, right?

Wrong.

Ardell and Jethro stayed behind and pocketed about twenty blasting caps. They spent the rest of the afternoon blowing up tin cans and tree stumps—until a kid named Kent (or maybe it was Kenny) wandered up. His dad worked at the cement plant, and when he found out what Ardell and Jethro had, he freaked out and ran home.

Nothing happened immediately. Ardell and Jethro figured they were in the clear.

Then Monday rolled around.

At school, Ardell bragged about the blasting caps and dynamite to two other buddies—both named Manny, one a cousin and the other a classmate. When those three got together, trouble usually followed. They wanted to go “blow something up.”

The trio headed to the other side of the small mountain near the water treatment plant and found an old oak tree with a hollow at the base. They inserted a blasting cap into the dynamite, shoved it down the hole, stretched out the wires, crouched behind a tree, and handed the battery to Ardell.

BOOM.

The blast was massive. It echoed across town. Flaming chunks of oak flew through the air and landed in the brush, instantly igniting the dry woods.

The boys panicked. They tried in vain to beat down the flames, but the fire spread too quickly. They bolted and ran all the way to little Manny’s house. When they arrived, Aunt Thelma—Ardell’s aunt and Manny’s mom—was staring out the kitchen window.

She turned and asked, “Y’all know anything about that big explosion?”

The three boys swore they had no idea what she was talking about.

Once again, they figured they’d gotten away with it.

But remember Kent (or Kenny)? He had gone home Saturday and told his dad that Ardell and Jethro had a box of blasting caps and a stick of dynamite. Kent’s dad told someone at the cement plant. That person told the police.

The very next morning, Ardell and Jethro were pulled from class by Principal Jerry Oxford. Waiting in the hallway were two police officers. The boys were escorted outside, put in the back of a police cruiser, and driven up the dirt road near the Leeds water treatment plant.

“Okay, boys,” one of the officers said. “Take us to the dynamite.”

Stunned and speechless, the boys walked the officers—and a cement plant employee—through the woods to the stash in the sinkhole. No one said a word. Once the explosives were retrieved, the cops didn’t arrest them. They didn’t call their parents. They didn’t even give them a lecture.

They drove Ardell and Jethro back to school like nothing had happened.

But of course, it had happened—and word had already gotten out.

Their parents knew. Principal Oxford knew. Punishment was waiting. But first came the humiliation.

Back in class, Mrs. Holt asked Ardell to tell the class what had happened.

“I’d rather not,” he replied.

“I insist,” she said. “We’re not leaving this room until you tell us all what happened.”

So Ardell told the story.

From then on, kids in the hallway shouted “Dynamite!” whenever they saw him. They’d yell it from school buses, from passing cars, even from sidewalks near his house.

The nickname stuck. Dynamite followed Ardell for the rest of his school days.

Jethro was never allowed to visit Ardell’s house again—but the two remained lifelong friends.

And the kids who used to shout “Dynamite”? Most of them are gone now, or too old to remember.

But Ardell remembers.

And looking back, it’s fair to ask: How did these kids survive childhood without blowing themselves up—or ending up in jail?

Only God knows.

Marbles, Monkey Bars, and The Lunchbox Kid

 

Marbles, Monkey Bars, and the Lunchbox Kid

This may not be the best title for this chapter, but it's the one that stuck. I’ve considered others, but none quite seemed to fit. Kids today are just different—nothing like I was when I was young. They don’t play the same games or even have the same kinds of toys. I haven’t visited many elementary school playgrounds lately, but I’ve spent enough time around toddlers and adolescents to know: kids today don’t play like we used to.

Nowadays, you see little kids clutching tablets like precious relics, eyes glued to the screen as if they were enchanted. And if you want to punish one of today’s toddlers, just threaten to take their device away—they’ll scream louder than if you’d spanked them. But I digress. This isn’t an essay on modern parenting. It’s about playing. And by playing, I mean getting outside, soaking up the sun, breathing fresh air, and doing the kind of things a child should do—at least, in my opinion.

I was a typical kid of the 1960s when I started elementary school. I was shy and naïve and didn’t make friends easily. One of the first kids I connected with was Bart Mitchell. He lived just past the big pasture that we played in when we weren’t in school. Bart and I stayed best friends throughout our lives. We went to school together, worked together, even shared an apartment for a while. Eventually, he became my brother-in-law. But back to the story.

I started first grade in a little white wooden building that housed the first and second grades. My teacher was Mrs. Florence Hurst. That’s where I began learning my ABCs and stumbled my way through Dick and Jane books. I remember being genuinely worried that I might forget everything I’d learned as soon as I got home. Kids think the oddest things sometimes.

We spent a lot of time on the playground, or so it seemed to me. There was a baseball field, big metal slides, swing sets, and monkey bars. And I don’t mean the low, padded ones you see today—I mean the real deal. You could climb up ten or twelve feet, and if you fell, you got hurt. Simple as that. The cherry on top of that playground was the nearby creek—the Little Cahaba River ran just outside the playground’s edge. My friend Jenny and I used to sneak off and explore it when nobody was looking. Then we’d slip back in, no one the wiser.

First and second grades were mostly uneventful. I managed to learn my ABCs, how to add and subtract, and I even discovered a love for reading. One of the first books my mom got me was titled You Will Go to the Moon!. It was a children’s book about space travel, rockets, and the future of moon exploration. I loved the idea of visiting the moon. Sadly, I never made it.

In third grade, I moved to the two-story red brick school building and landed in Miss Kirkendall’s class. That building has long since been torn down. Today, there’s a stone monument, a flagpole, and an electronic bulletin board where it once stood. It was during those years that school started to become more fun—especially before class and at recess.

That’s when the marble games began.

Each day, a group of boys would gather to play marbles—for keeps. First, we’d draw a circle in the dirt and each player would toss in a marble. That was the pot. Then, from a larger outer circle—the “lag line”—we’d take turns shooting our best marble, aiming to knock the others out of the circle. If you hit one out, you got to keep it. Simple and high-stakes.

I was good at marbles. I quickly built up a serious collection—Steelies, Oilies, Pearlies, Chinkies, Cat’s Eyes—you name it. I loved them all.

One kid I remember vividly from those days was named Jonathan. He was younger than the rest of us and had a nasty habit of running through our marble games, kicking marbles out of the circle with his feet. He was quick, too—usually managed to escape before we could catch him. If you got close, he’d swing his metal lunchbox like a weapon. And if he ever connected with that thing, it hurt.

We started calling him “The Lunchbox Kid.”

Funny thing is, he actually turned out to be a pretty nice guy later on.

Playground life was mostly innocent and simple. I don’t remember much about the classroom side of elementary school—except for one unforgettable day: November 22, 1963.

I was sitting in Miss Kirkendall’s classroom when another teacher walked in, barely holding back tears, and announced that President Kennedy had been assassinated. Miss Kirkendall explained what that meant, and I remember feeling a strange mix of confusion and sadness. When I got home from school, the news was on all three channels—and it stayed there for days.

Yes, I said three channels. Back then, we had channels 6, 9, and 13. Channel 42 didn’t come along until a few years later.

When I moved on to Leeds High School in 1968, everything changed for me. But that’s a story—or two—for another day.

Fearless Kids

 

Fearless Kids

My sister Janet and I were fearless as kids. Our mother never hovered over us the way modern parents do. Honestly, I don’t understand how kids today are supposed to grow into fully functional adults. Kids need to explore their world—to fall into creeks, slip in the mud, and occasionally get hurt. That’s how we learn our limits, what’s safe and what’s not.

The year I entered first grade, we lived in a garage apartment on Farley Avenue, just two doors down from Jimmy Moore’s Grocery. Anyone familiar with Leeds knows that to get to the elementary school from our apartment, you had to walk two blocks south—crossing the railroad tracks—then head west for another four blocks. Unless my memory is playing tricks on me, I walked myself to school. Maybe there were older kids I walked with, but I don’t remember clearly. What I do remember is that Janet and I used to roam all over that neighborhood, including downtown Leeds.

One of our favorite spots was the railroad tracks near the Central Club. We’d find all sorts of treasures—tiny glass bottles and old wooden batteries (yes, wooden). The railroad workers would toss them out when they were done. We’d take a piece of wire and connect the battery terminals to watch them heat up and glow red-hot. You could even start a little fire with them.

One of our greatest thrills was climbing the wooden cooling tower behind Magdeline’s Beauty Shop. You don’t see these anymore, but they were large wooden structures, often as tall as the building itself, with slats to let air pass through. Inside was a network of pipes that sprayed a fine mist of water. As the water dripped down, it cooled, and that chilled water was pumped back into the building’s AC system. Magdeline’s was next to McCraney Wholesale—now L.A. Salon—and Janet and I would climb that tower all the way to the roof. From there, we’d sneak across the rooftops, peeking down at traffic and trying hard not to get caught.

There was another cooling tower behind Moore’s Food Center, and we climbed that one too. We loved being above the town, exploring the rooftops, feeling like we had the whole place to ourselves.

As I got a little older, my friend Phil Ingram and I used to play over near Courson Seating. They had scrapped a bunch of old parts from their wood dust collection system, and one piece looked like a small water tank lying on its side with a hatch on one end. We’d crawl inside that big metal cylinder and pretend it was our spaceship.

I’ll never forget the day Phil and I were inside, talking and laughing, when a kid named Lloyd walked by. He heard us and knocked on the side, saying, “Greetings, travelers. Welcome to Planet Earth.” We let him climb in and gave him the grand tour of our ship. A perfect ending to another perfect day.

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When we were kids, our dad would take us to Panama City Beach most summers. We usually stayed a few blocks off the beach in little cottages or motels. One summer, as soon as we pulled up to our cabin, Janet and I started begging to go to the beach. We hadn’t even unpacked the car yet. After some pleading, my mom gave in. We changed into our swimsuits, grabbed our floats, and headed off.

We paddled out as far as we could, then started drifting down the shoreline, just enjoying the day. Time didn’t feel like it was passing. But eventually, we noticed a commotion on the beach—a crowd of people running back and forth, shouting.

Janet squinted and said, “It sounds like they’re yelling our names.”

That’s when we realized—we were the commotion.

We paddled back as fast as we could. When we hit the shore, Mom ran to us crying and scooped us into her arms. Dad came charging from the other direction, red-faced and furious.

“This vacation is over!” he shouted and stormed off to the cabin.

By the time we got there, he had already packed most of our stuff back into the car. We had to beg and plead for him to change his mind. Thankfully, he did. But that was the last time we were ever allowed to go to the beach alone.

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After our younger sister Lisa came along and got old enough—maybe nine or ten—the three of us spent a lot of time down at the Little Cahaba River. Though it’s officially called a river, we always just called it “the creek.”

We swam in that creek, fished in it, and caught crawfish. But the biggest thrills came in the spring when it flooded. The muddy water would rise and rush swiftly toward Lake Purdy. Back then, the Leeds wastewater treatment plant sat right on the bank, though it’s since been moved across a smaller creek. Soccer fields are there now, but back then, it was our playground.

Just before the sewage plant, the creek took a sharp turn. That’s where we played one of our wildest games. One kid would be “the catcher,” standing on the bank with a long stick. The others—one by one—would jump into the flood-swollen creek upstream and let the current carry them down.

The catcher’s job? Stick out the pole in time for the swimmer to grab on before getting swept past the bend and into the dangerous part of the water near the plant.

No boats. No life jackets. Just bare hands and nerves of steel.

Amazingly, we never lost a single kid to that game.

As we got older, our adventures got riskier. We jumped off cliffs into flooded strip mines, took canoe trips from Moody all the way to Hoover, explored the caves around Lake Purdy, and once spent an entire week detonating a box of old blasting caps we’d gotten our hands on (a story for another day).

And then there were Janet’s train-hopping days.

She and some friends used to hop onto freight trains right in Leeds, ride them through the tunnels, and jump off in Dunnavant, where another friend would pick them up and drive them back.

Of course, if I ever bring this up in front of my nephews, Janet denies it with a straight face.

The Bullies

 

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The Bullies

Kids are just weird. One day they’re your best friend, and two days later they’re chasing you down the street with a rock in their hand—only to be your buddy again by Friday. That pretty much sums up my experience growing up in the Rew Development.

When we first moved into our house, my sister Janet and I were thrilled to find a bunch of kids our age in the neighborhood. Within days, we were playing cars in the backyard, running through the woods across the street, and making fast friends. During daylight hours, life was good.

But things changed when the sun went down.

One night, while we were watching TV—probably something like Dragnet or Highway Patrol—my mom glanced out the window and let out a scream. There was something burning on the front porch. My dad rushed outside and stomped out the flames, only to discover the infamous prank: a flaming bag of dog poop.

The next day, I mentioned it to one of the neighborhood kids, confident they were behind it. They didn’t admit it—instead, they ripped a handful of chinaberries from a tree in their yard and started pelting me with them. Those berries were like little waxy marbles, and they hurt. For the next couple of days, I stayed inside, watching from the windows like a kid under siege.

Then, as if nothing had happened, one of the culprits knocked on our door and asked if I could come out and play. Just like that, I was back in the group.

That’s how it went for years. I’d be in one week, out the next. One minute we were exploring creeks, building treehouses, and playing in the yard; the next, I’d be running from rocks or getting chased on bikes—sometimes caught and roughed up by the two ringleaders while a small group laughed and jeered.

Some of those moments scarred me. Others shaped me. Three in particular are etched into my memory like granite.

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The White Dog Turd Incident

I was about twelve. Janet and I were playing in the front yard when two of the neighborhood bullies wandered over and started mouthing off. One knocked me to the ground and held me down, punching me in the face. The other picked up a sun-bleached, dried-out dog turd and shoved it into my mouth, holding my nose and mouth closed until I started choking.

That’s when my mother burst out of the house.

She yanked the kid off of me, only to be met by the bully’s mother storming over, yelling for her son to “knock him down again!” She repeated it every time I got up. It was the first time I ever saw my mom truly furious. She threatened to beat that woman senseless. Words flew like bullets, until everyone wore themselves out and went home.

And yet—within a week—I was back with that same group. It's hard to believe now, but I think I was just desperate for friends.

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The Swing

A few years later, my sisters Janet, Lisa, and I carved out a little haven at the creek where the overflow from Rowan’s Spring ran into the Little Cahaba River. We cleared brush, built a footbridge from scrap lumber, and strung up a massive rope swing from a tall limb that let us soar over the water. I even tied a wooden seat to the end of the rope. It was our playground, our sanctuary.

Then, one late-summer afternoon, a group of boys—led by one of the usual suspects—came stomping down the creek bank. They’d heard us laughing and playing and came to ruin it.

They threw our bridge into the water, claimed the rope swing as their own, and began hurling rocks at me as I swung out over the creek. I slowly climbed the rope to the limb above, out of their reach. I pulled the rope up with me so they couldn’t take it.

I stayed in that tree a long time, rocks and curses flying below me. I can’t remember how it ended—maybe they got bored, or maybe Janet ran home to get Dad. I like to think it was Dad who came storming down and scared them off.

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The Creek

The third memory is the most painful—literally and figuratively.

I was in eighth or ninth grade and told my mom I was “camping out” with friends. That phrase was teenage code for smoking cigarettes, drinking beer, maybe a little weed, and roaming around town trying to avoid the cops.

Later that night, after the usual mischief, we built a fire and settled in behind my friend Mark’s house on Cedar Grove Road, near the Little Cahaba. I crawled into my sleeping bag and fell into a deep sleep, thanks to the beer and pot. I had a terrifying dream: I was alone in the ocean, drowning, unable to swim.

Then I woke up—and I was drowning.

Some of the neighborhood bullies had found us, picked me up—sleeping bag and all—and thrown me into the creek. The soaked bag dragged me under.

My friend Mike jumped in and pulled me out, then immediately turned on the ringleader. The two had what we’d now call a "throwdown" on the creek bank.

I spent the rest of that night wet, cold, and miserable, waiting for the haze to wear off so I could go home. Time moves slowly when you're shivering and ashamed.

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People often ask why I didn’t fight back. Truth is, I was a sickly kid.

At age twelve, I was diagnosed with a rare neurological condition called Huntington’s Chorea—also known as St. Vitus Dance. At the time, I was one of only two known cases in Alabama. It affected my coordination and fine motor skills. I spent three months in Children’s Hospital and came home just after Christmas.

There wasn’t much I could do with my hands for a while. My dad bought me a Vox guitar and hired Steve Keith to teach me, hoping music might help. I never quite got the hang of it. Later, I turned to drums, and that did the trick. I played in the Leeds High School Marching Band for five years, right up until graduation in 1973.

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There were other moments—more fights, more chases, more quiet betrayals—but those three left the deepest marks.

Still, for all the pain, I grew stronger. And I never stopped hoping for real friendships, even in a world where trust could vanish in a single afternoon.

Course Corrections

It's time to get serious for a bit...

After high school—and a brief stint living in Georgia—I went to work at Builders Manufacturing Company in their stock warehouse. I started out pulling customer orders, palletizing materials, restocking shelves, and doing whatever else I was told to do. Later, I spent time welding steel door frames and even worked for a while as the painter on the door production line.

But I always wanted more.

I’d always had an interest in engineering and drafting, so I started asking for a promotion to the engineering department. I even volunteered to stay after hours, off the clock, just to learn how to detail doors and frames. At Builders, “detailing” referred to creating detailed shop orders that included cut lists, punch prep information for hardware, and instructions on how to bend and fabricate the raw materials into doors and frames.

In early 1975, I finally got the promotion I’d been chasing. I started in the engineering department as a draftsman and detailer. It felt like a real step forward.

At the same time, I was still straddling the fence when it came to my faith and lifestyle. I was in church every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night. But outside of church, I was smoking pot almost every evening. It was a different time back then, and a lot more people were lighting up than you might realize. Still, I was living a double life—active in church, dating Melissa (who would later become my wife), and yet secretly using pot almost daily. Melissa had no idea and wouldn’t have approved if she had.

Then came a turning point.

Builders Manufacturing was sold to the Jim Walter Corporation, and with the change in ownership came a new general manager and sales manager. The new GM, Dewayne, was laid-back and “cool,” the kind of guy who had weekend get-togethers on his houseboat when he didn’t head home to Georgia. The sales manager, Lee, was a bit more intense. At first, he came off as stern and demanding, but over time he proved to be someone who genuinely cared and expected the best from the people around him.

One day, Lee pulled me aside for a little talk. I don’t remember his exact words, but it was something like this:

“You know, you’re pretty smart. If you’d get your head straight and stop partying every night, you could really go places. Quit the dope smoking, get yourself together, and you’ll go far.”

That talk hit me hard—because I didn’t think anyone had noticed. I thought I was doing a good job of hiding my habits. But clearly, I wasn’t. Lee’s words stayed with me. I took them seriously. That conversation was course correction number one in my life.

Soon after, I got another promotion and started traveling for the company as a “Technical Field Manager.” Now, that title sounded a whole lot fancier than the actual job—but it was a big step. I visited job sites where customers were having issues with our products. My job was to figure out what went wrong, who was at fault, and how to fix it.

Later, I was promoted again to Engineering Manager, taking on even more responsibilities and travel opportunities. One memorable trip was to Chicago with Lee. Even though we were there on business, we carved out time to visit an art exhibition and enjoy a nice dinner—complete with a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. On that trip, I discovered Lee’s deep appreciation for art and music, and realized we shared many of the same tastes.

On the way home, we stopped at a little family-owned bakery where the owner, who lived upstairs, sold us warm loaves of freshly baked potato bread. After Melissa and I got married, we even attended art auctions with Lee and his wife Sharon. They gave us theater tickets for our first anniversary—something we never would have done for ourselves. Though I’ve only spoken with Lee a couple of times in the decades since, I will always consider him both a mentor and a friend. He played a huge part in shaping my career and, through his passions, opened my eyes to the wider world. So thank you, Lee—for course correction number one.

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Course correction number two was of a spiritual nature.

My family was the textbook example of a southern, small-town family—deeply rooted in the Southern Baptist Church. We were regulars at Leeds First Baptist, attending at least three times a week. I was around six or seven when we went to Vacation Bible School one summer. Most of my friends went too. We listened to Bible stories, made crafts, and at the end of the week had a big potluck. I remember building a balsa wood model airplane with tissue paper wings. One of the highlights of the week was a visit from local TV personality Cousin Cliff Holman.

That Sunday, during the altar call, I walked down the aisle and asked to be baptized. It made my parents happy. But in truth, it didn’t mark any deep spiritual awakening for me. I was baptized, yes—but not truly saved.

That realization didn’t come until 1976, when I attended a Bible study at Valley View Baptist Church, led by Robert Hitt. Robert had a real passion for the Lord and taught Scripture in a way that made everything clear—no fire and brimstone, no fluff, just truth. It was in that group that I came to understand my need for salvation. I saw clearly that I was a sinner in need of grace, and during one of those studies, I asked Christ into my life as Lord and Savior.

That was course correction number two.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not perfect. I still mess up. I still drift. I am, after all, only human—imperfect and flawed. But I am redeemed, and in the end, that’s what matters most.

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There are many people who have made an impact on my life. I’ll try to acknowledge more of them in future chapters of this journal. For now, I’ll simply say this:

Thank you, Lee—for seeing potential in me, challenging me, and being a true friend.

And thank you, Robert Hitt—for your spiritual guidance when I needed it most.

Treehouses, Cows, Swisher Sweets, and Playboy

 My adolescent and teenage years were spent in the Rew Development. When we first moved in, our street didn’t even have a real name—it was just called County Road. No number, no directional suffix, just County Road. It sounds odd now, but that’s how it was. Eventually, someone decided that wasn’t good enough and renamed it President Street, which sounds much more official, even if it didn’t change anything for us kids.

Right across from our house was a wide-open pasture with a small herd of cows. That field became one of our favorite places to fly kites. The cows usually stayed out of our way, meandering off to the far side of the pasture like we were more trouble than we were worth. Most of the time, anyway. I say that because one day I was cutting through the field on my way to my best friend’s house when I must’ve done something to offend the herd. Maybe it was the way I walked, or the sound of my lunchbox, but whatever it was, those cows suddenly took notice—and then took off after me.

There were maybe eight or ten of them, and when they started charging, I dropped everything and ran like my life depended on it. And maybe it did. I barely cleared the fence before they caught up. That little stampede kept me out of that pasture for quite a while. Eventually the cows were sold off, and the field became “ours” again. It was filled with broom sedge—some folks call it broom straw—a tall, rust-colored grass that grew about three feet high. It was perfect for playing hide and seek. You could drop flat on your stomach and disappear from sight in an instant. On the rare occasions when it snowed, that pasture turned into a snowy battlefield, the site of epic snowball fights that left us soaked, frozen, and grinning like idiots.

In time, the family that owned the land sold it off, and someone built a log cabin directly across the street from our house. One by one, more houses went up on that side of the road. For most people, that kind of development might seem like the end of the fun—but for us kids, it was just the beginning of a new kind of playground.

We made a daily habit of pestering the construction workers for scrap wood. Most of the time they were good-natured about it and would toss us whatever odds and ends they had lying around. We used every board, nail, and piece of plywood to build treehouses in the woods. When the workers left for the day, we’d sneak into the unfinished houses to explore. We’d climb through the rafters, crawl around under the foundations, and scavenge for anything useful to add to our forts. I swear we knew more about those houses than the people who eventually moved into them.

When I was in seventh or eighth grade, the Nelms brothers—who were a few years older than me, built the ultimate treehouse in a big oak tree right near the Leeds water treatment plant. That’s where the Leeds Memorial Park is now. Their treehouse was legendary. It sat high in that tree, just off the road that led to the sewage plant, and we knew it was off-limits. But that didn’t stop us from sneaking in when they weren’t around.

Me and a couple of my buddies would keep an eye on that treehouse like it was a military outpost. As soon as the Nelms boys rode off on their bikes or disappeared for the day, we’d make our move. We weren’t interested in the treehouse itself—we were after their stash. Swisher Sweet cigars and Playboy magazines. The holy grail of pre-teen rebellion. We thought we were living large: puffing on cheap cigars, flipping through glossy pages we barely understood, and laughing like fools.

One of my buddies even brought a bottle of English Leather cologne with him every time. After our little smoke session, we’d splash that stuff on like we were getting ready for a date with Raquel Welch. We genuinely believed the cologne would mask the smell of cigar smoke. It didn’t. But our parents never said anything, so either it worked—or they just figured there were bigger battles to fight.

Superman, Magnolia Trees, and Concussions

 ...I’ll get back to the bullies a little later, but for now, I need to touch on something I mentioned earlier—concussions. Seems like I was born to test the limits of how much damage a small boy could do to himself without actually dying. Looking back, it’s a wonder I made it out of childhood at all.

The first big scare came when we were still living in Midland City. We had this big ol’ magnolia tree in the yard, with low-hanging branches perfect for a five-year-old with no sense of self-preservation. This was during the golden age of Superman on TV, and I was absolutely obsessed. I wanted to fly so bad I could taste it. One day while Mama was in the kitchen cooking, I tied a beach towel around my neck like a cape and ran around the yard pretending to be the Man of Steel. But just running wasn’t cutting it—I needed to take flight.

So, up the magnolia tree I went, all full of courage and bad ideas. I don’t remember exactly what I thought would happen next, but the next thing I do remember is waking up in my bed, my mom and dad staring down at me like I’d just come back from the dead. Turns out I’d slipped and fallen from the tree. That towel I’d tied around my neck got snagged on a branch, and I was literally hanging there by my neck, limp and silent. By some miracle, Mama happened to glance out the kitchen window and saw me dangling there like a rag doll. She sprinted out, got me down, and somehow I lived to tell the tale.

But that wasn’t even the first time I got knocked out in that tree. Nope. That magnolia and I had a complicated relationship. I loved to climb, and I wasn’t afraid of heights—not then, anyway. One day I was way up in the branches again, probably higher than I had any business being, when the limb I was standing on just gave out. I came crashing down, limb to limb, like a pinball in a wooden machine. My head caught more than its fair share of branches on the way down, and I finally landed in the dirt, out cold.

Again, Mama was at the kitchen sink—our house must’ve been built so that she could keep one eye on dinner and the other on the backyard mayhem. She saw me fall and ran screaming out of the house, thinking I was dead for sure. Same scene: I woke up in bed with no memory of what happened, a goose egg on my head, and the worst case of nausea I’d ever had. Daddy had come home from work early and rushed me to the little hospital in town, where I spent most of the day in la-la land. That was my first real concussion.

The second one came years later when we were back in Leeds, living in the Rew Development. Our street was more like a shortcut for big rigs and delivery trucks than a quiet neighborhood road. We saw everything from poultry haulers to soft drink trucks rumbling past the house on a daily basis. It wasn’t unusual to find crates of live chickens spilled out on the roadside after a sharp turn or sudden stop. One time, my sister Lisa actually caught one and kept it as a pet for a while. That chicken lived in our yard like it belonged there.

Anyway, one summer afternoon, me and my sisters Janet and Lisa were out front when a Coca-Cola delivery truck rolled by and somehow dropped a large metal canister—one of those big compressed CO₂ tanks they use to carbonate soda. It just rolled off the truck and landed in the ditch like it was nothing. Well, it didn’t take long for us to drag it into our yard. The thing looked kind of like a scuba tank, with a heavy metal lid on top held in place by a big threaded collar.

Now, you’d think there’d be some kind of warning label on it, but if there was, I sure didn’t see it—or didn’t care. I stood it up, started turning that collar, and gas began to hiss out. No big deal, I figured. I kept unscrewing, and then—BAM—the lid blew off like a cannonball and smacked me right between the eyes. I flew backward and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

I wasn’t out for too long that time, but long enough to wake up to the sound of my sisters screaming and crying and talking about how much trouble we were all gonna be in. And they weren’t wrong. Daddy didn’t yell, but he gave me a long talk that stung worse than a spanking. Told me I “should’ve known better,” asked, “what were you thinking?” and reminded me just how easily I could’ve been killed—or worse, hurt one of my sisters.

Of course, that wasn’t the last time I did something stupid that ended with a hospital visit or a lecture about using my head. But those stories are for another day.