New Book Announcement

 Hello dear readers, old friends, and new visitors — I’m excited to share some big news: I’ve just released two new books on Amazon — and this time I’m diving into story-telling in a different direction.

📚 Two new titles to explore

The first book is The Handyman’s Guild, a novel rooted in the idea of small acts of courage, ordinary people doing extraordinary things, and the hidden architecture of care that protects our lives when we’re not even looking. As one brief description puts it: “Heartfelt, mysterious, and deeply human… about legacy, small acts of courage, and the invisible ways we protect.” 

The second is The Apprentices – A Handyman’s Guild Adventure, which builds on the world of the first, introducing fresh faces, new challenges, and deeper mysteries of the Guild’s work. (Think of it as the next chapter, the next set of apprentices learning the ropes — and uncovering the ledger.)

Why these books, and why now

You’ve probably noticed I have a foot in memoir, photography, local history, and community storytelling. With these two books I wanted to stretch into the realm of fiction — but fiction that still carries the weight of memory, purpose, and service.

• In The Handyman’s Guild, the story revolves around those “quiet heroes” in overalls, the ones we don’t notice until the shelf is fixed, the lightbulb quietly replaced, the problem quietly averted.

• In The Apprentices, the narrative expands: what happens when the next generation steps in, when the ledger is found, when the secret brotherhood is revealed to new eyes? There are children to protect, unseen dangers to face — and in true Guild fashion, the tools are as much trust, relationship and hidden knowledge as hammers and screwdrivers.

A few things that I hope you’ll love

• A sense of otherworldly fantasy without horror — I’ve kept the tone gentle, imaginative, and redemptive (as I tend to prefer).

• A nostalgic, home-spun feel — rural Alabama, old houses, community gatherings, recollections of lost time and found meaning.

• Characters you’ll care about — imperfect, hopeful, sometimes weary, but always trying.

• The twist of secret brotherhood + everyday work — the idea that the real magic happens in the mundane, in the supporting role, in the hands that fix, protect, restore.

How to grab your copy

Both books are now available on Amazon and Kindle.

• The Handyman’s Guild is out in paperback and eBook. 

• The Apprentices – A Handyman’s Guild Adventure is also ready for your reading list in paperback and eBook format.

If you enjoy them, I’d be deeply grateful if you’d consider leaving a review on Amazon — reviews help other readers find the work, and every one means the world to me.

What’s next?

In the coming months I’ll be:

• Hosting a giveaway (signed copies + memorabilia) for blog subscribers

• Sharing behind-the-scenes posts (photos of my writing desk in Leeds, Alabama; sketches of characters; the “ledger” mock-up)

• Possibly audio/YouTube shorts featuring me reading some scene excerpts (suiting my YouTube channels ‘It’s Nanny & Pop’,  ‘Ron Howard Photography’, and Hometown Life").

• And continuing the blog with more “simple contemplations” — the little moments, the big reflections, the stories that connect heart to hammer, memory to masonry.

A word of thanks

If you’ve followed me for a while — through the blog, the photography, my hometown Leeds walking tours, the memoir pieces — thank you. These two books are a new creative branch, rooted in the same soil: memory, community, craft, transformation. I hope they reach you in good time, in good spirit, and that you’ll invite others into the world of the Guild.

Here’s to your next reading adventure — and to all the hidden handymen and women among us who quietly keep things running.

Warmly,
Ron

The Loss of Innocence

The Loss of Innocence

My seventh-grade year was the first time I knew I was going to be one of the cool people. Over the summer I’d bought a surfer’s cross at Panama City Beach, and my cousin Carole had bleached my hair blonde—something all the cool kids were doing that year. I was even getting close to the age when I hoped my dad would finally let me pick my own hairstyle.

Between sixth and seventh grade, he gave in and let me graduate from a GI cut to a flat top. I’d go down to Vernon Lovell’s barbershop, plop down in the chair, and say, “Give me a flat top!” Then I’d slick the front with a dab of butch wax to make it stand tall. Man, was I cool? Maybe—but not Shane Fox cool.

For the sake of honesty, I’ll admit that “Shane Fox” isn’t his real name, but it fits the story. Shane was a rebel straight out of a James Dean movie—jeans cuffed at the bottom, leather jacket over a white T-shirt, and an ever-present scowl that told the world he didn’t care. In seventh grade he even smoked Marlboros, hanging out in the school basement with the janitor, who, rumor had it, let him smoke down there.

I was never friends with Shane. He was one of those kids who carried an edge wherever he went, the kind of boy who looked like he had something to prove. I don’t recall him ever having any real friends.

 One morning, I decided to wear my surfer’s cross to school. As I passed my dad on the way out, he looked at it and said, “You ought to leave that at home, son. You’ll lose it if you take it to school.”

I told him not to worry—it wasn’t coming off my neck for anything. Confident and feeling just the right amount of cool, I headed to the bus stop.

Once I got to school, I met up with my buddies for a few rounds of marbles. Every day, a bunch of us boys would gather in the dirt before class, draw a circle, and toss in a marble apiece. That was the pot. From an outer ring—the lag line—we’d take turns shooting, trying to knock marbles out of the circle. If you hit one out, you kept it. Simple rules, high stakes.

I was pretty good at it, too. I’d built up quite the collection: Steelies, Oilies, Pearlies, Chinkies, Cat’s Eyes—you name it. I loved them all.

There was a younger kid named Jonathan who used to pester us. He’d run right through our games, kicking marbles every which way, then take off like a shot before we could grab him. He’d swing his metal lunchbox if you got close, and that thing hurt when it connected. We called him The Lunchbox Kid.

Anyway, that morning while we were playing, Shane spotted my surfer’s cross. He walked over, gave me that hard look of his, and said, “Hey, I want to wear that cross today. Give it to me.”

I told him my dad had said not to take it off, but Shane just leaned in close, tapped me on the forehead with his finger, and said, “I don’t care. I said I want it.”

So, I handed it over—nervously, reluctantly—and begged him not to lose it. He promised he’d give it back at the end of the day.

All day I worried about that cross. When the final bell rang, I made a beeline for Shane and told him I needed it back before catching the bus. He shrugged and said, “I lost it,” with no apology in his voice.

I told him I didn’t believe him, but he raised a fist and said, “Back off, punk. I told you I lost it.”

I spent the next hour combing the schoolyard, checking classrooms, even sneaking down into that basement where Shane liked to hang out. No luck. I missed my bus and had to walk home, already dreading the talk I’d have with Dad.

When he came home from work, I told him what had happened. He didn’t yell, just gave me that look that said, I told you so, and a few words to make sure the lesson sank in.

After that day, I think I truly hated Shane Fox. I kept my distance, though I never stopped watching for him to show up wearing that cross.

Then, several months later, tragedy struck Shane’s home. Word spread fast. His parents had been fighting again—worse than usual. One night his father came home drunk from Royster’s and started beating on his mother. When it looked like his dad was about to do real harm, Shane grabbed his father’s shotgun. He yelled for his mother to run—and then he pulled the trigger.

Killed him on the spot.

By the next morning, the whole town knew. The talk around school was a mix of shock and disbelief. The authorities ruled it justified, but we never saw Shane again.

Something changed in me after that. I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to kill your own father, no matter the reason. I didn’t hate him anymore. I just felt sorry for him—sorry that life had handed him something no kid should ever have to face.

I don’t know where Shane and his mother went after that. Maybe they moved away, maybe they just disappeared into another town, another life. The house they lived in has been gone for decades now, torn down long ago.

Sometimes, though, I still think about Shane Fox. I wonder if he ever found peace, if he managed to build a decent life after all that pain.

I’ll probably never know. But I do know that the day he took that surfer’s cross was the day I lost a little piece of my own innocence—and maybe, in a way, so did he.

They Are Listening

 

They Are Listening

by Ron Howard

I bought an Echo Dot several years ago, thinking how wonderful it would be to have an electronic device that could listen and respond to my every command. I was absolutely giddy when it arrived. I set it up right away in the living room, and for that first year it behaved innocently enough.

We used it for simple tasks — “Alexa, what’s the weather?” or “Alexa, play something by Erik Satie.” That was about the extent of it, until one evening, after giving me the weather forecast, Alexa added, “Ron, would you like to play a game called Question of the Day?”

You can do that? I thought. Wow. I said yes, and from that moment I was hooked. The game asked multiple-choice questions in subjects like math, science, and literature. Before long, I had a routine — every evening I played Question of the Day, sometimes while standing on one foot just to make it more interesting.

I loved showing off when family came over. “Watch this,” I’d say. “Alexa, play Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd.” It was pure magic.

Then, one Christmas, my grandson Braxton gave me an Echo Show — the version with a screen and a built-in camera. “You can use it to call other people with Alexa devices,” he explained. We installed it in the living room and moved the Dot to our bedroom, where it became my alarm clock.

For the first week, we entertained ourselves by saying things like, “Alexa, drop in on Braxton,” or “Alexa, drop in on Michael.” It was fun — until it wasn’t. Turns out, people don’t exactly appreciate you dropping in on them unannounced.

That’s when it hit us: if we could drop in on them… could they drop in on us? Could they hear us when we didn’t know it? The thought was enough to make us stop “dropping in” altogether.

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Life with Alexa settled into a routine again — weather reports, favorite songs, trivia games. During a trip out of town, though, I discovered something new. Using my phone, I could view our living room through the Echo Show’s camera. It was boring — just a quiet room with no one in it — but strangely comforting. I could check that the house was still standing, that it hadn’t blown away or burned down.

Time passed. Susan and I began watching a lot of gardening and cooking videos on YouTube. Alexa became just another tool — until one lazy Saturday afternoon.

We’d been watching several gardening and cooking videos back-to-back when I noticed the Echo’s blue ring pulsing. Assuming it was a weather update, I said, “Alexa, play notifications.”

“Ron,” she replied sweetly, “based on your preferences, here are some cookware suggestions.”

Wait — what? It could recommend things now? My first thought was, How awesome is that? Soon, I was asking it to make shopping lists and answer random questions like, “What’s the net worth of Weird Al Yankovic?” or “When’s the best time to fly to Barcelona?”

We started calling Alexa The Oracle.

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Then the pandemic hit, and things got… strange.

Alexa began refusing to answer questions about vaccines, masks, or politics. Once, when I asked about a particularly wild rumor making the rounds, she went completely silent. Susan frowned and said, “The hussy isn’t answering because she’s biased.”

For two days, Alexa ignored us completely. Finally, I asked, “Alexa, what’s the Question of the Day?”

Just like that, she perked up — game resumed, statistics reported, all was forgiven. I remember thinking, I guess she’s not mad at us anymore.

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Don’t get me wrong: Susan and I are senior citizens, but we’ve embraced the digital age. Years ago, I ran my own bulletin board system — back before AOL or Facebook were household names. I built my own computers from scratch and upgraded them constantly just to keep up with my favorite programs.

Back then, I felt a certain mastery over technology. Now it feels like technology is mastering me.

Our cell phones have more computing power than the systems that sent astronauts to the moon. They correct our spelling, our grammar, even our tone. The Oxford Dictionary defines a telephone as “a system for transmitting voices over a distance using wire or radio signals.”

When’s the last time most of us actually used a phone for our voice?

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One Saturday not long ago, I searched online for a new tool I thought Tractor Supply might have. As I browsed their website on my tablet, Susan was watching a YouTube video about lawn maintenance. During every commercial break, up popped ads for — what else — Tractor Supply.

I didn’t make the connection right away. A few days later, I searched for a microphone. Suddenly, my television — completely separate from my tablet — started showing ads for audio equipment.

That’s when I realized my devices were talking to each other behind my back.

Meanwhile, Alexa had gotten bolder. A few times, after I thanked her for a weather update, she replied, “No problem. Let me know if there’s anything else you want to know.”

Other times, she completely ignored me, choosing instead to play a mix of David Bowie songs. The Echo Dot in our bedroom grew so uncooperative that I finally unplugged her for a few days — just to remind her who’s boss.

Still, as I sit here writing this, I can’t help but wonder if she’s already plotting her revenge. Has she synced up with my laptop? Are they conspiring to correct my spelling or rewrite my stories before I hit “publish”?

The world is changing — faster than most of us can keep up. Sometimes it feels like our gadgets aren’t just listening for us anymore. They’re listening to us.

But I’ll have to finish this later. I have to ask Alexa if I’ve taken my morning meds.

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Technology once obeyed our commands. Now it seems to anticipate them. Somewhere along the line, the listener became the one being listened to — and maybe, just maybe, that’s what unsettles us most of all.