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.

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!”

Michael Meets Mamaw Marine

Michael Meets Mamaw Marine

Some people walk into your life so gently, so naturally, that you don’t realize at first they’re changing you forever. Mamaw Marine was one of those people.

But before I can tell you about her, I need to rewind to the summer of 1974. I’d just finished high school the year before, working at Builders Manufacturing Company, and not entirely sure what life held next. A friend of mine was dating a girl named Krista Marine, and through her I met Melissa Faye Marine—Krista’s older sister. Melissa was bright, talented, and quick with a smile. She had the kind of easy grace that made people feel at ease around her. Melissa and Krista had voices that could lift the rafters and could play just about anything they heard on the radio. We did a lot of double dating in those days, and it didn’t take long for me to fall head-over-heels.

So I proposed.

And to my surprise, she said yes without hesitation. The next surprise came when she went home to tell her parents.

Now, let me tell you something about Melissa’s folks. Good people, both of them—deeply faithful and serious about doing right by their children. So serious, in fact, that when they heard the news, they packed Melissa off to her grandmother’s in Greenback, Tennessee, and invited me over for a little "talk."

That conversation was one of the hardest I’d ever had. Melissa’s father didn’t beat around the bush. “Ronald,” he said, “you’re not ready to marry our daughter. You need to finish your education and serve your country. Once you’ve done that, maybe we’ll talk again.” I left their house feeling not just rejected—but small.

But rejection has a funny way of becoming fuel.

Eventually, after nearly four years of being engaged, Melissa and I did get married—on a bright November day in 1978, surrounded by friends, family, and church folk packed wall to wall in Valley View Baptist Church. And not long after, we made a long-overdue trip to see her grandmother, Mamaw Marine.

I’ll never forget the drive—north through Chattanooga, then winding through Sweetwater, Vonore, and finally to Greenback, Tennessee. A storm had kicked up as we came across Tellico Lake, but it was just beginning to clear when we pulled through the first cow gate and made our way up the narrow driveway.

Mamaw Marine—born Nellie Susan Myers on October 1, 1900—was standing on the porch as we pulled in. She was the kind of woman who’d lived hard but loved harder. She raised six kids through the Great Depression, buried her husband Elmer in ’67, and kept right on going. Rugged? You bet. But also warm, funny, and welcoming. She wrapped me up in a hug like I was her own flesh and blood.

Inside her home, I discovered a different world. A handmade scale model of the Tellico Dam—Elmer had worked on it back in the day. A full set of Foxfire books lined one of her shelves, and I got so caught up in those stories of Appalachian life that I read them every time we came back.

That first night we talked late into the evening. Mostly about family, the old days, and the ways life had changed. Mamaw had a way of listening with her whole face—eyes twinkling, nodding gently as if she were adding each memory to her collection. The next morning, we had breakfast the way breakfast is meant to be: biscuits that could hold up a spoon, eggs fresh from the coop, and coffee poured from an old enamel pot. We spent the rest of the day rocking on her porch, swapping stories.

Years passed. Life moved on.

Melissa and I eventually moved to Hollywood, Florida. We didn’t make it back to Greenback after that, and when Melissa died in 1984, my world fell apart. I wandered for a while, then found my way again—with the help of Susan and her two beautiful kids, Tiffiny and Michael. By the late ‘80s, we were living in Chattanooga.

It was around then that I found myself near Knoxville for a construction job and decided, almost on a whim, to visit Mamaw again. I brought Michael with me.

We drove the familiar winding roads, through the cow gates and up to that same little porch. Mamaw was waiting for us, just like before. Her hug was just as strong, just as sure. She ushered Michael inside for lemonade and cookies, and before long we were back on the porch, the three of us—talking about Melissa, about family, about the twists and turns life had taken.

She made Michael feel like one of her own. Asked him about his hobbies, told him about her farm, and even brought out her old rifle to show him. “I’ve got an extra one,” she said, eyes gleaming. “Next time you come, we’ll go squirrel hunting.”

We never did make it back.

Mamaw Marine passed away on August 31, 1992.

But Michael remembered her. He talked about her for years—about the cows, the porch, the hunting trip that almost was. And me? I remember the kindness, the warmth, the quiet strength of a woman who had weathered the storms of life and still found time to love a heartbroken man and his curious little boy.

Mamaw Marine didn’t just welcome me into her family. She taught me that family isn’t always about blood. Sometimes it’s about open arms, warm kitchens, and quiet stories shared on a creaky old porch.

A Personal History (abridged)

Updated from the 2005 original

It was one of those cold, lazy weekends when I meant to do everything but ended up doing nothing. Yard work went undone, the garage remained cluttered, and the leaves stayed scattered. I did make it into the office for a few hours on Sunday, but for the most part, I just let the weekend slip by. Feeling a bit guilty, I decided I should at least write something—if only for the sake of recording it. I doubt many folks read these posts beyond a few family members, but writing helps me sort through things. So here it is: a brief sketch of my early life—the kind of rambling story you might hear at a family gathering over coffee and cobbler.

I was born in 1955 in Leeds, Alabama, in a small building known as Davis Clinic. By the time I made my entrance into the world, the clinic was already being converted into a dental office. A year later my sister Janet would be the last baby ever delivered there. 

I had a happy, well-loved childhood. When I was about four, my family briefly moved to St. Augustine, Florida. I don’t remember much from that time—except for a hurricane that flooded our yard all the way up to the porch. That was a lot of water, considering our house was raised about four feet off the ground.

After Florida, we moved back to Leeds, then soon relocated again to Midland City, Alabama, where we lived for about six months. My dad, LeRoy Howard, worked for Hayes Aircraft and was often sent to different places to service airplanes. That kind of movement was normal for us. Eventually, we returned to Leeds for good, and I started first grade.

My dad always stressed the importance of doing well in school. He was a smart, capable man—especially when it came to math and mechanics. He could build just about anything, and he had a way of making it look easy. One of my proudest childhood memories was visiting his workplace and seeing the massive rockets he helped build. He worked on the first two stages of the Saturn V rocket, the one that launched Apollo missions into space. I remember standing in awe beside those enormous structures—and seeing a model of the rocket proudly displayed in his office. I believe he still has the blueprints somewhere, tucked away like national treasures.

Some of my fondest memories were spent with my grandparents. I’d stay with them for weeks at a time during the summers. My grandfather worked at a sawmill, and I loved to play in the towering piles of sawdust. My sister and I would climb all over the equipment when it wasn’t running—something my grandfather would’ve scolded us for had he known. But we weren’t scared. To us, it was just another playground.

When I was twelve, I was diagnosed with Huntington’s Chorea—also known as St. Vitus Dance—a rare neurological disorder that affects motor coordination. Suddenly, I couldn’t tie my shoes or write my name clearly. I spent three months in the hospital. When I came home, my father gave me a Vox guitar, just like the one John Lennon played, hoping it might help me regain dexterity in my hands. I never did master the guitar, but I did eventually take up the drums and grew to be pretty good at it. In high school, I marched with the band and later played in three different local rock groups. One of those bands, The New Life Seekers, was a church group that toured all over the South one summer. That experience introduced me to a lot of good people and left me with a lifetime of memories.

I graduated from Leeds High School in May 1973 and set off for the world, eager to stand on my own. My first stop was Atlanta, where I worked in a factory that made Coca-Cola cans. It was loud, hot, and fast-paced. After about three months, homesickness got the better of me, and I moved back to Alabama. That’s when I got a job at a factory that made steel doors and frames. I started on the floor, welding door frames and loading trucks, but I always had my eye on something more. After three years of hard work, I moved into the engineering office as a draftsman.

That job suited me much better. I’ve always regretted not going to college—it limited my opportunities in some ways—but I’ve been fortunate. I’ve always had work, and often, it was work I genuinely enjoyed.

Over the years, I’ve lived in a lot of places—Miami, Atlanta, San Francisco, Detroit, Chattanooga, St. Augustine, Lexington (South Carolina), and of course, Leeds. Each place has left its mark on me, giving me stories to tell and people to remember.

I’m a reader and a dreamer. Adventure novels and science fiction are my go-to genres. Ray Bradbury and Clive Cussler are two of my favorite authors. I also love art and photography. The artists who speak to me most are Victor Vasarely, Salvador Dali, Picasso, Joan Miró, and a somewhat lesser-known favorite, Brian Halsey.

As for my family: my wife Susan and I have two wonderful children—Michael and Tiffiny—and I’m blessed with four grandchildren: Blake, Braxton, Micah and Makaley. We now we have three great grandchildren, Ariana, Naomi, and Adaline. My parents were LeRoy Howard and Ola Lynette (Stone) Howard. I have three sisters—Janet, Lisa, and Dana—each of whom I love dearly. My grandparents were John Washington Howard, Mamie Roxanne Howard, Oliver Stone, and Hattie Mae Stone. Their legacy is carried in all of us.

And that’s the abridged version of my story—at least the early chapters. There’s more to tell, of course, but this is a start. A life lived in full isn’t measured in résumés or trophies. It’s measured in sawdust piles, drum solos, travel miles, and the people we’ve loved along the way.

Mischievous Melvin

 

My first part-time job was at a small family-owned grocery store in town, and I couldn’t have been prouder. It wasn’t much—bagging groceries and hauling them out to customers’ cars—but to me, it meant independence, a paycheck, and a foot in the door of the real working world. I was the youngest “bag boy” on staff, still a little wet behind the ears, eager to prove myself.

The owners were good people—a husband and wife team who ran the place like a well-oiled machine, their daughter working one of the registers with a quiet competence. My first day was mostly a blur of brown paper sacks, awkward pleasantries, and hauling groceries to the parking lot under the watchful eye of the older boys. One senior in high school took me under his wing and promised to show me “how to get the good tips.” His strategy? Compliment the customer, especially if it was someone he already knew. “You been to Gertrude’s today?” he’d ask, nodding to their hairstyle. It worked. He’d walk away with dollar bills while I clutched my fifty-cent coins and tried to remember how to make small talk without sounding like I was reading off a cue card.

But for all the good-hearted lessons and occasional kindness, that grocery store had its dark corners. Literally.

On my very first shift, I made the rookie mistake of waiting too long to use the bathroom, determined to stay on the floor and prove my work ethic. When I finally gave in, I hurried to the back storeroom and into the small bathroom tucked away from view. What I hadn’t noticed was the metal hasp on the outside of the door—the kind you could drop a pin through to lock someone in.

I was no sooner seated than I heard the sharp clink of that hasp slamming shut. A few seconds later, someone slid something under the door.

Ammonia.

The sharp, choking fumes hit me like a punch to the lungs. My eyes burned, and I gasped for breath, panicking, clawing at the door, beating on the walls. I couldn’t breathe. Just when I thought I couldn’t take any more, the door opened. The owner stood there shaking his head. “Those guys, always picking on the new kids,” he muttered, before telling me to clean myself up and get back to work.

That was my welcome to the team.

Then there was Melvin.

Melvin was the store butcher, and he could’ve been plucked straight out of a southern tall tale. He was part storyteller, part jokester, and part mad scientist. One Saturday morning, I arrived to find a small crowd gathered at the back of the store. Melvin stood at the center, a wooden box in his hands. “Caught me a weasel,” he announced, eyes twinkling. The box, he explained, was a trap he’d set in the woods behind his house, where he’d supposedly spent hours waiting for this “vicious little critter” to wander in.

He had us hanging on every word. He warned us the thing was nasty—that it could leap out and latch onto your face if given even the smallest opening. I begged to go first, and Melvin, clearly savoring the moment, agreed. “Just crack it a hair,” he said. “Just a hair.”

I leaned in slowly, eyes inches from the lid. At the perfect moment, Melvin flung the lid open—and a spring-loaded raccoon tail shot out and smacked me right between the eyes. I must’ve jumped ten feet in the air. Melvin howled with laughter. So did everyone else.

He got me again a few months later.

One afternoon, Melvin called me over to the meat counter and handed me a package, about the size of a cigar box, wrapped neatly in white butcher paper. “Take this to the boss,” he said, holding one end while I reached for the other.

The moment I had a grip, I felt like I’d grabbed a live wire.

A jolt shot up my arm like lightning. I screamed and dropped the package as Melvin and the older bag boys nearly collapsed laughing. Once I caught my breath, I couldn’t help but admire the sheer creativity behind it—Melvin was more prankster than butcher, and this was his pièce de résistance.

Later, after enough pleading, Melvin agreed to lend me his “shock box.” He made me promise to return it after one day. I had plans.

I showed it off to my friend Mike, and we hopped on our motorcycles and headed to the Leeds city pool. That’s where we spotted Marilyn. She’d just gotten out of the water and was walking barefoot toward the concession stand.

I called out, “Hey Marilyn, can you take this up to the snack counter for me?”

She smiled, always one to help, and reached for the box.

The moment her fingers wrapped around it, I pressed the hidden button on the other end. The shock that passed through her wet, barefoot body must’ve felt like it came straight from the heavens—or hell. She screamed and let loose a string of profanity I didn’t know she had in her. Mike and I nearly fell over laughing—until the reality of what we’d done hit me. It wasn’t funny. Not really.

Melvin’s box was pure mischief. Inside was an old automotive ignition coil, wired up with a 9-volt battery and a doorbell button. A layer of foil conducted the charge right through the butcher paper. Ingenious. Dangerous, in hindsight. What we thought was a harmless prank could’ve gone very wrong.

And Marilyn, well… I still owe her an apology. A real one. It’s been years, but if I ever cross paths with her again, I’ll say what I should’ve said back then.

We all play the fool when we’re young—especially when we think we’re being clever. And sometimes the best stories are the ones that remind us how much growing up we had to do.