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.

Cousins Make the Best Friends

 

Cousins Make the Best Friends

When you're a kid, cousins are more than just extended family—they’re your first best friends, your co-conspirators, your partners in crime. For me, time spent with the Barber cousins was golden, filled with scraped knees, laughter, and long summer days that seemed to stretch on forever.

I was still in elementary school when Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan moved their big family from Gate City out to Markeeta, Alabama. They settled into a house on the winding Markeeta Road between Moody and the far end of Lane Drive. Back then, that area was wide open for exploring—woods, fields, and the old strip mines that carved their way through the land like scars from another era. It was a boy's paradise.

Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan had six kids—seven, once Cindy arrived. Layne was the oldest, and I thought he was the coolest guy on earth. He played trumpet in the high school band and spent hours listening to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, working tirelessly to master “The Lonely Bull.” Next came Danny—quiet, thoughtful, and strong. He was into weightlifting and had a strange habit of inviting us to punch him in the stomach just to prove how tough his abs were. After watching a documentary about Houdini, I remember thinking that might not be the smartest challenge to offer.

Then there was Tony, the artist. He had a real gift and went on to become art director for a television station in Dothan before eventually answering a higher calling and becoming a pastor. Curtis was closest to me in age and probably the smartest of the bunch. He could identify every military aircraft by silhouette, sound, or shadow. No surprise, he ended up a teacher and later a school principal. Then came Stephen, the jokester and tagalong. He was always up for an adventure and usually the first to start laughing and the last to stop. Cindy, the first girl in the lineup, had to be a little tough growing up in that house full of boys, but she held her own with charm and a sharp wit. And finally, there was William—funny, energetic, and endlessly entertaining. He had this ridiculous trick where he’d tuck his ears into his ear canals, run up to you, and pop them out at just the right moment. It never failed to make us laugh.

Weekends and summer days were filled with adventures. We'd hike the strip mines behind their house, wade in creeks, and roam as far as the Cahaba River. Sometimes we’d end up at a place called Blue Hole, a swimming spot near the Trussville Golf Club, or clamber over the massive concrete ruins of the old Washer Camp from the coal mining days—remnants long since buried under layers of dirt and time. After a day out in the Alabama sun, we’d come back to Aunt Nell’s kitchen for a steaming bowl of her goulash with a slab of cornbread on the side. Looking back, I think I would’ve moved in with Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan if I’d had the chance.

Eventually, Uncle Dan answered the call to pastor at Markeeta Baptist Church, and later the family moved again, this time to Harpersville. They lived in a big two-story house we called “the Hill House,” perched behind a cotton field off Highway 280. It had a cellar—always a mysterious place to a curious boy. My sisters and I would visit, running wild through the cotton fields, walking the railroad tracks, and exploring every nook and cranny of that old house and town.

By the time they moved to their next house, Layne and Danny were both grown and married. Curtis had taken to showing off the model airplanes he built with painstaking care. One summer, Curtis took me fishing at a little stream that ran through a nearby pasture. I scoffed at the idea of catching anything in such a shallow trickle—until he pulled out a big bream with his first cast. After that, I was hooked—pun intended. We fished together many times after that, upstream at the spring-fed pond that fed the creek, often tying our rods to our bikes and pedaling off at first light.

It’s funny how vivid those memories are—fishing in the summer sun, climbing through woods and ruins, chasing each other around the mines, ending the day with a meal and a good laugh. Life was simpler, sweeter somehow. And even as time passed and we all grew up and scattered, those moments stayed tucked away in my heart like prized possessions.

Today, I’m on the downhill side of life, and I find myself thinking more and more about those days. We only seem to come together now for funerals, standing in quiet circles of grief, catching up in hushed voices. But I want to change that. We’re all retired now, or near enough to it. Wouldn’t a cousins reunion be something? We could sit around swapping stories—about the time Layne let us ride around the mines in his VW Beetle, or when someone stuck a dart in William’s head (we all remember it; no one knows how it happened), or that wild first car ride with our cousin Kenny.

There’s still time for laughter. Still time for stories. And if I close my eyes, I can still hear the cicadas buzzing over the pasture, smell the goulash in Aunt Nell’s kitchen, and see William running at me, ears tucked in tight, ready to pop.

Cousins really do make the best friends.

The Trophy Fish That Was…Then Wasn’t

 

The Trophy Fish That Was…Then Wasn’t

Dad and I did our best talking in the quiet hush of a lake at dawn. On most Saturdays we kept it local—Lake Logan Martin was practically Dad’s back yard—but the routine always felt like a grand adventure. We’d hitch the boat to his maroon ’64 Impala Super Sport and roll through the sleepy streets of Pell City while the sun was still a rumor.

First stop was always a little mom and pop store, the kind of place that had a little bit of everything including gasoline, motor oil, fish bait, and food. Dad loaded the counter with Saltines, a fist‑sized hunk of hoop cheese, and several tins of Vienna sausages. “Breakfast of champions,” he’d say, sliding coins across the worn pine counter.

By seven‑thirty we were idling away from Nick’s Fish Camp, the flat water shining like a sheet of hammered pewter. Dad pointed the bow toward one of his “secret spots”—really just half‑remembered coordinates in a mind that mapped the lake better than any chart. He tied on his faithful purple rubber worm and began the slow, meditative dance: cast, count to ten, reel one turn, pause, twitch. I was fifteen, convinced patience was a disease, so I fired a silver Rapala across the cove, snapping the rod tip the way the pros did on television.

We worked three coves that morning, soldiering through a sun‑shower and netting a couple of respectable keepers. Around mid‑afternoon a downed oak caught Dad’s eye—limbs splayed underwater like a giant’s ribs. For once he ditched the worm and clipped on a medium Rapala. One flick of his wrist and that lure landed a whisper away from the branch.

The explosion that followed sounded like someone had dropped a cinder block. Water frothed. Dad’s rod arched so hard I thought it might snap. The fish bored straight down, then rocketed beneath the boat, trimming a perfect figure eight before launching into the air—green bronze and furious. I grabbed the dip net, promptly tangled it in the trolling motor, and caught a burst of uncharacteristic barking from Dad. Lesson learned: sometimes help is a hindrance.

Ten breathless minutes later he brought the bass alongside, coaxing it into the net himself. When the cooler lid slammed shut, Dad’s grin said it all: this was the ten‑pound wall‑hanger he’d chased his whole life.

At the marina near Stemley Bridge, he held court on the dock, retelling the battle to any angler within earshot. “Got to be double digits,” he predicted, easing the fish onto the scale.

Nine pounds, thirteen ounces.

The smile faltered but didn’t fall. “Scales here must be off,” he muttered. We raced to another marina. Nine pounds, eleven. Fish, it turns out, lose water weight faster than pride. Back in the Impala, Dad drove in silence, the cooler gurgling like it knew the verdict.

When we reached our backyard in Leeds, I stood ready for the grand decision—taxidermy or freezer. Dad lifted the bass onto the picnic table, studied it a moment, then fetched the scaling knife. Silver flecks flew like confetti. By dusk the “trophy” was sizzling in a cast‑iron skillet, perfuming the house with cornmeal, Crisco, and a faint hint of humility.

He never mentioned that fish again. For Dad, a goal unmet—no matter how close—was simply that. Close didn’t count; standards were standards. Yet I think he knew the lesson landed anyway. I learned that day that sticking to your word is worth more than bragging rights on a wall—and that sometimes the real prize is a quiet evening, a plate of fresh‑fried bass, and the memory of a battle shared between father and son.

My Hero, My Dad

LeRoy Howard – My Hero, My Dad

On March 5, 1929, in a small wood-framed house beside a sawmill in Eden, Alabama, my grandparents John W. Howard and Mamie Roxanne welcomed their fifth child—a boy. The house had no hospital bed, no white coats, just a cast iron potbelly stove for warmth and a midwife to guide new life into the world. When the midwife asked what to name him, Mamie answered plainly, “His name is Lee Roy.” But the midwife, perhaps out of habit or preference, wrote “LeRoy” on the birth certificate. It was never corrected. From that moment on, every legal document bore the name “LeRoy Howard,” and that curious little quirk—(n) for middle name—followed him his entire life.

There is so much I wish I could tell you about my dad’s early years, but the truth is, I don’t know much. That’s one of my deepest regrets—never sitting down with him long enough, or often enough, just to ask. To listen. To understand the man who raised me. I knew him best in the years after he married my mom, Lynette, and started our family. But before that, he had already lived a remarkable life.

Dad was only ten when World War II broke out, but even as a boy he was stirred by a deep sense of patriotism. Like so many young men of his generation, he couldn’t wait to serve his country. The story in our family was that my grandparents “fudged” his age so he could enlist, and I always assumed he’d joined at seventeen. But digging into records years later, I discovered the truth: my dad was just sixteen and a half when he joined the U.S. Navy on September 17, 1945—barely more than a boy, heading off to basic training in San Diego, California.

During his Navy service, Dad served aboard several ships, including the U.S.S. Thippe, Cortland, Frontier, Frank Knox, Lloyd Thomas, and Keppler. He rose to the rank of Boatswain’s Mate Third Class by 1948 and received the World War II Victory Medal, the China Service Medal, and the Good Conduct Medal. For a kid from Pell City, Alabama, those were no small achievements. He came home a seasoned young man with the world already written into his eyes.

After the Navy, the country was booming. The GI Bill gave returning veterans a path to opportunity, and my dad wasted no time. He began learning sheet metal forming before he even left the service. After discharge, he worked at United States Steel in Fairfield, commuting over 70 miles from Eden, carpooling along old Highway 78. But fate had other plans. In January 1952, a tragic accident near Cook Springs changed everything. A freight truck lost its brakes and crushed the car Dad was riding in. One man died. Dad and two others were critically injured.

He spent three months recovering. When he was well enough, he and his brother Adran opened a small gas station right in front of the sawmill, next door to home. It wasn’t a long-term success—neither of them were especially business-minded, more interested in fast cars and long nights. But it gave them freedom and a little money to enjoy life. Dad spent many of those nights at places like The Robert L Club or Rose Hill Night Club, where music and laughter flowed freely.

It was during this time that he briefly dated a young woman named Theo Stone. Things didn’t click, but one day he came knocking again—this time not for Theo, but for her younger sister, Lynette. That visit changed everything.

Dad went to work for Hayes Aircraft on June 10, 1953. A year later, in late May 1954, he proposed. They were married on June 5, 1954, and life began in earnest. Together, they raised four children—myself, Ronald LeRoy, born in 1955, followed by my sisters: Janet, Lisa, and Dana.

Dad never stopped striving. He worked his way up at Hayes, completing the Modern Management Program in 1960, and earned a supervisor role. In 1967, he began working on the legendary Saturn V project. Hayes had been contracted to build the launch umbilical tower’s swing arms at Cape Canaveral. While Dad didn’t work on the rocket itself, he worked on a full-size mock-up of the booster’s first stage, a task he took great pride in. One of my fondest memories is the day he took me to his workplace. I still remember the massive bay floor, the model of the Saturn V rocket, and the way his office overlooked it all. In that moment, he seemed larger than life.

Later, with Hayes’ target division, Dad traveled widely—even to the White Sands Missile Range, where he met Chuck Yeager more than once. Though he rarely bragged, you could always tell when something meant something to him. That was one of those things.

Away from work, Dad found peace in the quiet of nature. He loved to fish, especially at Lake Eufaula. His tackle box was full, but it was the purple rubber worm he trusted most. And no matter how long it took for a bite, he never lost patience.

He loved numbers—math problems, logic puzzles, strategy. Every night after dinner, he’d sit down and conquer the New York Times crossword puzzle. He had a razor-sharp mind and expected the same drive from us. Education was non-negotiable. He wanted all his kids to go farther than he had, to reach higher, think deeper.

He was also a man of faith, and he lived it—not in a showy way, but steady and sincere. He gave countless hours to his church and to Carpenters for Christ, where he found purpose in both fellowship and labor.

Of course, my dad wasn’t perfect. He stumbled sometimes, like all of us do. But he always found his way back. His faith, his love for family, and his relentless work ethic guided him home each time. He never wavered in his commitment to us—his family. Because of him and my mom, I had a wonderful childhood. I grew up safe, cared for, and loved.

Dad passed away on June 2, 2015. Now, ten years later, with Father’s Day approaching again, I find myself missing him more than ever. I talk to him often—at least in my heart. I thank him daily for the gifts he passed down: his mechanical skill, his sharp logic, and the unshakable sense of responsibility he lived by.

I wish I had taken more time to ask questions, to really know the man behind the tools, the math puzzles, and the quiet strength. There are so many mysteries about his life I’ll never solve. But I do know this:

He was my dad. He was my hero.

The Summer of ’68 and the Great Treehouse

A Story of Friendship, Bullies, and One Lost Tooth

It was the summer of 1968, and I had just turned thirteen. I was still a wimpy kid in most folks’ eyes—especially after the year I’d had. A year and half earlier, I’d spent time in the hospital with Huntington’s Chorea, what the old folks called St. Vitus Dance. It had left me shaky, jerky, and worst of all, unable to do the simplest thing most kids take for granted—tie my own shoes. That stayed with me until I was about fifteen. It was a humbling thing.

That summer, though, was supposed to be the start of something better.

School was going to change soon. Back then in Leeds, we didn’t have middle school. You went from seventh grade at Leeds Elementary straight over to the high school across town for eighth grade. It was a big leap. Everyone whispered stories about the upperclassmen and how they’d torment us—wedgies, ear thumps, ripping the locker loops off your shirts. I only ever got a few good ear thumps, but still, I wasn’t exactly eager about the change.

But before high school, there was still summer—and we planned to make the most of it.

Bart Mitchell, Dennis McGee, and Jeff White were still my best buddies, but they didn’t live in my neighborhood. I had to deal with the neighborhood bullies on my own. It seemed like every time we built a fort or a treehouse, they’d find it and either tear it down or take it over. So that year, we decided to stretch our boundaries.

My sisters and I had passes to the Leeds city pool, but you can only swim so many hours in a day. When we weren’t at the pool, we explored the woods. Back then, where Pinecrest Apartments stand now, it was all wild land—stretching from Highway 78 to Valley View Baptist, from President Street to Carolyn Street in Cahaba Hills. A kid could get lost in there all day.

That’s where we planned our next great treehouse—hidden away from the road and far enough from Rew Development to keep the bullies at bay.

I had started hanging out with Jack and Gary Meacham, and together with my sisters, we set out to build the ultimate treehouse. Valley View Baptist was building a new education wing, and it provided a steady supply of scrap lumber—no piece too small. We’d haul off what we could and spent weeks working on that thing. It was our clubhouse, our hideaway, our castle in the trees.

Jack and Gary didn’t come out much once the building was done, but one of my sisters’ friends, Terry Penny, visited now and again. For a while, the treehouse felt like the safest, most comfortable place in the world. Maybe too safe. I got careless and told a few too many people about it. Worse, I invited a couple to help finish it up. I won’t name names, but that turned out to be a mistake.

School started back in the fall, but after school, we’d still hang out there, adding little touches and just enjoying the space. Then one day, Jack and I decided to check on the treehouse—and found it ruined.

It was completely destroyed. Lumber was scattered everywhere, and some of it had ugly words scrawled on it—leaving little doubt who was responsible. Turns out, one of the people I’d trusted had gone to his buddies in Cahaba Hills and told them about it. They brought in a couple of the regular bullies, and together, they tore the whole thing apart.

I went home that day feeling sick and betrayed. I figured that was the end of it.

But Jack had other plans.

The next day at school, he was fired up. He was determined to call out the guys who’d done it and make them pay. Now, when I say “pay,” I mean a good old-fashioned fistfight. You see, we all rode the same school bus, and except for one, we all got off at the same stop—Rowan Springs.

Word spread fast. By the time the final bell rang, it seemed like half the bus knew about the fight and got off to watch.

Now here’s the thing: the treehouse was mostly mine. I was the one wronged. But I was also the wimpy kid. I’d only been in one fight before, and I got the “dog crap beat out of me,” as the saying goes. Knocked down over and over until a bystander took pity and broke it up.

So there I was that day—just an onlooker again. But Jack stepped up.

Funny thing is, Jack hadn’t even cared all that much about the treehouse. But he saw the injustice, and that was enough for him. He called out one of the guys—not even the ringleader, just one of the crew who helped tear it down.

The fight started—and what a fight it was.

They went at it for what seemed like an hour, both landing punches that would’ve made a prizefighter proud. The crowd was roaring. Then, near the end, Jack took a hard punch right to the face. He stood firm, but the other guy howled and said he’d broken his hand. That ended the fight.

Later, we figured out why—he’d actually broken one of Jack’s front teeth. Jack never fixed it. He wore that chipped tooth like a badge of honor from that day on.

Jack and I stayed good friends all through high school. After that, life scattered us. I spent most of the next forty years living in other states. Jack built a business not too far from Leeds. Whenever he visited his folks, he’d stop by my parents’ place and ask about me.

It was always a rare treat when I happened to be home at the same time. We’d sit and talk for hours about the old days.

Then one day, visiting my dad’s grave at Lawley’s Chapel Cemetery, I noticed another familiar name—Jack Meacham. He’d passed in 2019 at just 64.

A good friend, gone too soon.

If your car ever got hit by a snowball on President Street during one of our rare Alabama snowfalls—that was probably me and Jack. Mischief-makers and treehouse builders, just trying to make a summer last forever.

1984: Heartbreak and a Year of Living Dangerously

 

1984: Heartbreak and a Year of Living Dangerously

Back in 1980, I packed up my whole life and moved to South Florida with Melissa, my wife. I’d landed a job as Chief Engineer for Firedoor Corporation of America in Miami. That title sounded mighty important at the time—had a nice ring to it on a business card—but truth be told, it didn’t change much. I was still doing the same kind of work, just with a shinier label. Still, the pay was better and I thought I was climbing the ladder.

Melissa and I settled into Hollywood, Florida—just a stone’s throw north of Miami—and except for a guy named Tom Stone, an old co-worker of mine, we didn’t know a soul down there. That kind of lonely gets into your bones after a while, but I was chasing something I couldn’t quite name. More money, more status, maybe just trying to prove something to myself.

My folks back in Leeds, Alabama, used to say they wished I’d find what I was looking for and settle down. What they meant was, “Come on back home, son.” But I’d gotten a taste of city life—restaurants, nightlife, even had a membership to the Miami Playboy Club where I’d take clients for lunch. Yeah, it was that kind of life.

Then everything changed.

Around 1983, Melissa started showing signs that something wasn’t right. She was off balance, got weak and confused at times. Eventually the doctors told us she had multiple sclerosis and sarcoidosis affecting her brain and lungs. It was like getting the wind knocked out of us, and the first doctor gave us hope that never really showed up.

After a few months of hospital visits and no improvement, we brought her back home to Birmingham and checked her into Brookwood Medical Center. That’s when we heard the hard truth. She wasn’t going to get better. We decided she’d stay with my folks in Leeds so I could keep working. They took such good care of her—waited on her hand and foot like she was royalty.

I brought her back to Florida for a while, but it was just too much. She couldn’t be alone, and I couldn’t be there all day. She started imagining things—wild stories she’d tell me when I got home, stuff that clearly hadn’t happened. That’s when I knew she was slipping away. Another doctor gave us the final blow: there was no recovery in sight. I sent her to spend some time with her family in North Carolina. We talked all the time, but my work started to suffer.

She came back to Florida one more time, but things got worse. She fell into a coma not long after being admitted to the hospital again. Her folks and younger brother came down to be with us.

On Valentine’s Day 1984, the doctors told me she wouldn’t make it through the night. That same day, my sister Lisa was in labor with my niece, Cory. I leaned down and whispered in Melissa’s ear, “Please don’t go today. Lisa’s in labor.” I like to think she heard me because she hung on a couple more days. She passed peacefully on the evening of February 16.

Her body was flown home to Birmingham, and two coworkers drove me back to Leeds. I was numb. I remember almost nothing from those days, just flashes. What I do remember is this: the love people had for Melissa. The funeral procession stretched for miles. My dad said, “If you want to know how much she was loved, just look behind us.”

I went back to Miami, but I was just going through the motions. I didn’t pray. I didn’t lean on my church. I was mad at God—angry in a way that only a broken man can be. I started drinking, then spiraling. The nights got longer, the mornings got harder. I’d wake up with hangovers in strange places—sometimes in Liberty City, sometimes in Little Havana. Bars, backseats, bad decisions.

I started mixing in drugs—weed, cocaine. I saw some dark things in that world. Beatings. A shooting. Honestly, I think I was trying to die without doing it myself. I just didn’t want to be here anymore. But, somehow, God didn’t let me go.

Then one day, Larry Masters called. We’d worked together back in Leeds. He said the company we worked for had moved to Dothan, Alabama, and they needed an Engineering Manager. I said, “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” It was the first good decision I’d made in a while.

I flew to Dothan, took the job, rented a house, and started digging myself out of debt and despair. I still cried most nights, but work kept my hands busy. The new company was learning how to deal with custom architectural jobs, and I was the guy explaining the ins and outs of it all. That challenge helped steady me.

Then one day, Vic Shultz walked into my office.

Vic was all swagger—red-haired, straight outta Wisconsin, and full of confidence. He threw a little get-together at his apartment clubhouse and made it his mission to pull me out of my funk. We'd talk, sit around listening to music, and slowly I came back to life. Vic had just gotten out of a bad marriage—I never asked questions—and he was always chasing women. One day he was dating a convenience store manager named Margaret, and she had a roommate named Susan.

One night, Vic tells Margaret, “There’s this guy I work with, widowed, sad, good heart—you need to set him up with Susan.” Margaret brings it up to Susan who replies, “Fine, but the guy better not be expecting any hanky-panky.” (Her words, not mine.)

We went to dinner and then out dancing at a place called The Red Barn. I danced one dance—I’m awful—and then we mostly just talked. Susan could talk up a storm. She loved her kids, Tiffiny and Michael, and told me all about them. I liked her right away, but we didn’t see each other again for a while.

A few months later, I ran into her at the convenience store where she worked. We started talking again, and eventually we went out a second time. That night she told me more about her life, her friend Pat who was like a mother to her, and her family in Leesburg, Florida. When she talked about her kids, her whole face lit up.

She invited me over to meet them. Tiffiny put on a whole show, acting like a movie star. Michael came bursting in from outside yelling, “Mom, he’s got a limo!”—because of my tinted windows. I laughed harder than I had in months. When I left that night, all three of them hugged me. It felt like coming home.

The more time I spent with them, the more I felt like I belonged somewhere again.

One night, I told Susan I wanted to marry her—but I asked the kids first. Tiffiny ran to get Michael, and when I said I wanted to marry their mama, they both lit up. Michael hugged me and said, “I’m gonna have a Daddy!” I cried like a baby. We got married the very next day. Vic was my best man.

Not everyone tells this story the same. There are things about 1984 that are just between me and God. There are parts of Dothan I’ve left out on purpose, and Vic, bless him, has kept those chapters closed too.

I don’t see Vic much anymore—haven’t laid eyes on him since 1995—but he’s still in my life, in that quiet way only old friends can be. He shows up in my Facebook feed, and I know he’s still watching out for me.

So Vic, if you’re reading this—mark your calendar for the end of August. I’m coming to see you. We’ll drink to old times and new ones, to the wives we love and the kids that saved us. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll smoke a stogey and remember what it felt like to be invincible.

Tunnel Rats in the Rew Development

Tunnel Rats in the Rew Development

“Tunnel rat” usually refers to soldiers during the Vietnam War—men who volunteered to crawl through the tight, dangerous underground tunnel systems built by the Viet Cong. But in our little corner of the world, the Rew Development, “tunnel rats” had a whole different meaning.

This story is about me and my sisters Janet and Lisa. Dana had not yet been born and she missed out on a lot of our childhood exploits. But me, Janet, and Lisa, we were weird kids. Adventurous, fearless, and always on the hunt for n ways to have fun. If there was a sinkhole near the sewage plant or a treehouse in the woods across from Valley View Baptist, you could bet we knew about it. And we’d probably already explored it.

The Rew was laced with a stormwater drainage system—pipes big enough for a scrawny kid to crawl through on hands and knees. The hardest part was getting into the storm drain in the first place. Most of the openings were only about eight inches high, so if you weren’t small, you weren’t getting in.

Me, Janet, Lisa, and another neighborhood kid, Terry Penny, used to shimmy into the storm drain at the corner of President Street and Montevallo Road. From there, we’d crawl all the way down to Cleveland Street, then take a turn and head another block to Robert E. Lee Street.

At the intersection of Cleveland and Robert E. Lee—right in front of the Sisson house—there was a chamber where pipes came in from three different directions. There was even a manhole overhead in case you needed to get out. That spot was just big enough for four small kids to sit comfortably in a circle—and that’s exactly what we did. Most of the time, we never went farther. Only once did I go past that, up to the cul-de-sac where the Uptain family lived. The pipe seemed narrower up there, and I didn’t want to risk getting stuck with no room to turn around. Crawling backward for a whole block didn’t sound like a good time.

One afternoon after school, the four of us made our usual crawl into the chamber in front of the Sisson house. James Sisson, Ronald Uptain, Gary Holder, and Paul Thomas were all out in the yard playing around. We sat in our little hideout listening to them for a while. Eventually, we got bored—and that’s when the bright idea hit us: we’d shout up at them.

We pushed up on the manhole cover, peeked out, and started hollering silly stuff before slamming the lid shut again. At first, the boys couldn’t figure out where the voices were coming from. But it didn’t take long before they narrowed it down. They ran over and tried to pull the cover off, but it was harder to lift from above than to push from below.

We didn’t stick around to see if they could manage it—we turned and started crawling back toward Montevallo Road, planning to head home via President Street. But it didn’t take long before those guys figured out where we were going, and they followed us along the road, probably just a few feet above our heads the whole way.

When we finally reached our exit, we tried to shimmy out—only to find all four of them waiting. We were afraid to come out, so we just crouched there in the dark, hoping they’d get bored and leave. They eventually did, but our troubles weren’t over yet.

The commotion had attracted the attention of a couple of local bullies. Every time one of us tried to squeeze out of the drain, they’d hurl rocks at us. Not huge ones—just big enough to sting. This went on for ten or fifteen minutes, until even the bullies got tired of the game.

We finally crawled out, dirty and sore, and made it home just in time for dinner. That was the last time we ever climbed into that storm drain. We took it off our list of cool places to explore.

Years later, I walked down to take a look at that drain. It looked impossibly small—like something only a squirrel could fit into. I could hardly believe we’d ever managed to crawl through it, let alone sit down there for hours laughing and yelling and plotting our next move.

Still, it’s one of my favorite memories from childhood.

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.