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.