More Good Ole Days

 

Our time in Midland City didn’t last long, but before we packed up and left, there was one story that’s just too good not to tell.

Out on Highway 231, there was this old curb market—one of those roadside stops with fresh fruits, vegetables, boiled peanuts, and the kind of Southern charm that pulled folks in like flies to molasses. It was always busy, especially in the spring and summer, with travelers heading down to Panama City Beach. And to catch their eye, the market had one peculiar mascot: a big ol’ stuffed kangaroo parked right there at the edge of the road. Now, this kangaroo had seen better days—patched up with duct tape around the snout like some sad, silent rodeo clown. I’ll come back to that in a second.

You’d think that us kids would be thrilled about stopping at a place like that. Fruit, peanuts, and a big weird kangaroo? What’s not to like? But that market had a dark side too—something way more terrifying than a worn-out marsupial. They had a turkey. Not just any turkey either, but a big, mean, battle-hardened turkey that roamed the lot like it owned the joint. No pen, no leash—just free to roam and ruin a kid’s day.

From the first time we stopped there to the last, that turkey had it out for me. I’d step out of the car and that sucker would lock eyes and charge like a feathered freight train. If I didn’t make it to shelter in time, it’d jump on my back and start flogging me, wings beating like war drums, pecking the back of my head like it was digging for gold. After that first encounter, I stayed put in the car, thank you very much. Let Mama deal with the produce—I had no interest in another turkey brawl.

Now about that kangaroo... it was kind of a mystery. No sign, no story, no explanation. Just this out-of-place, duct-taped oddity standing sentinel by the roadside. The first time we saw it, we stared at it like it was some kind of roadside god. My sister Janet, with all the confidence of a four-year-old expert, said, “It’s alive. They’ve got its mouth taped shut so it can’t scream for help.” Honestly, that didn’t seem too far-fetched to us back then. We could come up with some wild stuff.

In 1960, we moved back to Leeds again and lived in a little garage apartment just a block from my grandmother’s shotgun house—the kind that rattled every time a train went by. Her place was right next to the tracks, and you could feel the floor tremble when the locomotives rolled past. There was a huge Great Dane that roamed the neighborhood—nobody knew who it belonged to, but it was gentle enough and so big we used to ride it around the yard like a horse. So, naturally, we called it “Horse.” Not very creative, but it fit.

One odd memory from that time: there was a family that lived around the block, and one of their kids had Down syndrome. Whenever he saw Janet, he’d point and laugh and shout, “Ha-ha! Old girl! Ha-ha!” We never knew his real name, but from then on, we just called him “Ha-Ha.” Even now, when we talk about that time in our lives, Janet and I always say, “Remember Ha-Ha?”

Next door to our little garage apartment was a small grocery store with a soda machine out front. Janet and I would go over there and shake the thing until it coughed up a Coke or two. Sometimes we’d jiggle the coin return and score a dime or maybe even two—jackpot. Back then, a dime bought you a cold bottle of pop, so when two dimes came out, we each got our own. Felt like hitting the lottery.

After a few months in that little apartment, my folks bought a house in a new area called the Rew Development. I had just started first grade, and that move kicked off a whole new chapter of life. Janet and I started exploring more on our own, going off in different directions. That’s a story for another time, but I will tell you about one moment from early on that’s seared into my memory.

The new house had a narrow brick ledge running around the front. Just wide enough for one foot, if you were brave—or stupid—enough. One day, with all the wisdom of a six-year-old, I climbed up there, pressed my back against the wall, and started shuffling along like I was Superman scaling a skyscraper. When I got to the corner, I stood up a little too proud and slammed my head right into a wasp nest. Those angry little suckers came at me like I'd declared war. I flailed, panicked, swatted, and in the process, fell off the ledge.

I didn’t break anything, but I did get a concussion—one of many I racked up during my childhood. That incident marked the true beginning of my life in the Rew Development. It was a wild, wonderful, and sometimes rough place to grow up. I had plenty of adventures there, did a whole lot of dumb stuff, and somehow managed to become a favorite target for the local bullies.

The Good Ole Days

"You don’t remember a damn thing!" That’s what my oldest sister Janet is always telling me. She’s got one of those minds like a steel trap—nothing gets past her, and nothing ever seems to rust. I don’t know how she keeps it all straight. Me? Not so much. My memories come and go like stray cats—sometimes they show up, sometimes they don’t. She acts like I oughta be able to remember every little thing like she does, but my brain just doesn’t work that way. Maybe the result of one too many concussions when I was a kid

My first real memory is burned into me, plain as day. I was three years and nine months old. Not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy kind either. We were at my grandparents’ house—me, Mom, and one of my cousins. There was a knock at the door, and when my grandmother opened it, I stood behind her, peeking around to see who it was. Two police officers were standing there. They came to tell us that my grandfather—Pappy—was dead.

Pappy had been a coal miner, but when the mines dried up, he started selling life insurance, going door to door in the evenings. That night, he’d just left a client’s house and was sitting in his car when he had a heart attack. Gone, just like that. You’d think I’d remember crying or feeling something big, but I don’t. What I do remember is the way Mom and my Grandmother and my cousin grieved. That’s what stuck. That whole night is locked in tight. Funny thing is, I don’t remember anything before that night. Is that normal? I don’t know. Janet seems to remember everything from the womb on.

The next couple years are kind of a blur. If I had to tell you the order of where we lived and when, I’d probably mix it all up. But I do remember moving to St. Augustine, Florida, when I was about five. Daddy had been laid off from Hayes Aircraft in Birmingham and took a job down there to keep the bills paid. His buddy, Jimmy Roy Johnson, moved his family down too, and we ended up living next door to each other. That’s where I first recall knowing Jenny Johnson—been friends ever since.

We were just regular kids, playing in the sand, chasing seagulls, flying little balsa wood airplanes. It was the 1950s—simple times. We didn’t have tablets or TikTok. We had dirt and sunlight and imaginations.

We didn’t stay in Florida long before we were back in Leeds. I couldn’t tell you for how long, but the next big move was to Midland City, Alabama. Now that, I do remember. Midland City was a kid’s paradise back then. The world was a different place—moms weren’t hovering like helicopters, and dads weren’t tracking us on their phones. As long as you didn’t get hurt, end up in jail, or miss supper, you were pretty much free to roam.

And roam we did. Me and Janet—me five, her four—had little bikes and a whole town to explore. We’d start out in the backyard and before you knew it, we were climbing into the hayloft at the feed store or sneaking into the Baptist church to splash around in the baptismal. We’d ride what felt like miles. Mom never quite believed us when we told her all the places we’d been. I think she thought we just had wild imaginations. Truth is, we were just living the kind of childhood that barely exists anymore.

GOOD FRIDAY

Wishing you a peaceful Good Friday

Good Friday is a solemn day when Christians around the world remember Jesus Christ’s crucifixion and death. Finding the right words to mark such a weighty observance can be difficult—“Happy Good Friday” never feels quite right, and even “Blessed Good Friday” seems to miss the gravity of the moment. As I grow older and realize that my days on earth are numbered, I’m ever more aware of how undeserved God’s grace has been in my life—and how deeply I need it.

I’d like to share an experience that brought this home for me. On November 5, 2024, I was touring Rome as a casual visitor, snapping photos and ticking off famous landmarks. Yet something drew me again and again into its churches and basilicas. When I entered San Marcello al Corso and stood before the Crucifix of San Marcello—widely regarded as the most realistic depiction of Christ’s suffering—I felt a sudden, crushing weight of guilt.
I studied every detail: the nails driven through his hands, the crown of thorns pressing into his brow, his gaunt body stretched on the cross. And in that moment, I imagined myself as the one who had executed those blows. I was overwhelmed by shame—surely I had driven those nails, surely I had thrust that spear. Tears came, uncontrollable and unabashed, for my part in what felt like an ancient atrocity.

No one approached me; I suspect I was just one among many quietly moved in that sanctuary. But then my tears shifted—they became tears of gratitude. Because even as I stood there overwhelmed by my own unworthiness, I remembered that Christ’s sacrifice was given freely. He took every lash and nail for all of us, offering himself as the perfect Lamb of God so that our sins might be forgiven.

I’m no preacher, and I’ve often found it hard to speak about my faith. But that chilly November morning in Rome changed me: it brought me closer to God and gave me a new peace in sharing what I believe.

On this Good Friday, may you, too, feel the gentle power of Christ’s love. May you reflect on His sacrifice, take comfort in His forgiveness, and find your soul renewed by the promise of resurrection.