Married, with Kids

 On February 22, 1985, I married Susan Shaw Franks and, upon vowing to love, honor, and cherish, became “Dad” to nine-year-old Michael and ten-year-old Tiffiny. Without question, that day stands among the greatest of my life.

Before Susan, I had never pictured myself raising children. A year earlier I had been widowed, and what followed was a season of reckless survival.

Nights blurred together in seedy Miami bars, with too much liquor, too many drugs, and an aching emptiness that no amount of noise could cover. My routine was grim: get off work, collapse for a few hours, then hit the streets until dawn. Coffee, shower, work, repeat. I was on a downward spiral, certain that my life had lost its purpose.

But God had other plans. He nudged me out of Miami and into Dothan, Alabama, where I went to work with some former colleagues. Life there moved slower, and within a couple of months I met Susan—a strong woman raising two children on a convenience-store wage. From the start, our conversations circled back to Michael and Tiffiny. She told me about the years of moving between Leesburg, Florida, and Joiner, Arkansas and how determined she was to give her kids stability. I doubt Dothan was meant to be her permanent stop, but once we crossed paths, everything shifted.

The more time I spent with Susan and the kids, the more normal life felt again. I had convinced myself that God had sent me to take care of them, but I soon realized the opposite was true—they were sent to rescue me. They pulled me back into the real world, the world of ordinary, decent people.

Marriage didn’t erase our struggles. I carried debts from my Miami days, and Susan had been scraping to make ends meet. But we made do. Instead of bar-hopping, I poured myself into fatherhood. We took camping trips, bowled on Friday nights, and sometimes piled into the car for spontaneous Saturday drives that often carried us across state lines. No destination, no agenda—just the joy of discovering the world together.

I even built a treehouse in the woods behind our house, a project that grew bigger every weekend. It sprouted add-ons and even a ramp that stretched from the yard up to its deck. Before long, it became the neighborhood hangout. To the kids, I wasn’t just Michael and Tiffiny’s dad—I was the *cool* dad. Truth be told, I relished that role more than they ever knew.

Michael especially had been yearning for a father. He wanted someone to fish, camp, and explore with—someone to call “Daddy.” Suddenly, my life had meaning again. We fished every creek and river around Dothan, sometimes renting a boat for the day. One favorite spot was Cypress Creek, a little stretch of water just off Highway 231.

One evening, Michael and I stumbled across a car hidden on the trail near our fishing hole. It sat abandoned, but I kept us focused on fishing. Days later, the car was still there, unsettling us both. Michael wanted to "check it out", but I feared that the owner might be lurking nearby.  Weeks passed before the mystery unraveled on the evening news: that car held over two hundred thousand in cash, a .357 magnum under the seat, and drugs in the trunk. Michael shouted, “See, Daddy? I told you we should’ve looked inside!” I had to laugh, reminding him that the police would’ve taken the money anyway. 

Fishing became our ritual. I passed down my favorite lures—ones I had inherited from my father. Michael lost more than a few of them to tree branches or snags under the water, and I fussed, though I secretly lost just as many myself.

Together we fished across Alabama, Georgia, Florida, South Carolina, and Tennessee. Our favorite waters ran beside my sister Janet’s property, where we caught countless fish and collected a lifetime of stories.

It has been nearly a decade since Michael and I last fished together. His work—tearing down and rebuilding commercial jetliners—keeps him busy. I couldn’t be prouder of the man he’s become, yet I miss those days on the water. Maybe now, in retirement, I’ll carve out time again. Maybe I’ll dust off my rods, and maybe Michael will join me, just like he did when he was a boy eager to tag along with his dad.

Life with Tiffiny was different, full of the challenges and joys of raising a teenage girl. We bowled, roller-skated, and took road trips. Once she began dating, I couldn’t resist grilling her boyfriends as if they were applying for jobs.

Her poor prom date had to outline his education and career goals before she whisked him out the door, mortified. I probably embarrassed her often, but we had fun, and those years left me with memories I cherish.

There’s a sweet but fleeting season when your children see you as the smartest man on earth, when they trust you completely and call out for “Daddy.” That time passes too quickly. But the memory of it lingers like sunlight after a long day, warming me still.

And so, I think I’ll head out back and rummage through the shed for my fishing gear. You never know—Michael just might call, and if he does, I’ll be ready.

Missed Connections

Over seventy years I have gathered a good many friends, but I cannot say I’ve held on to most of them. Life has a way of scattering people. What felt like lifelong bonds on the school playground dissolved once diplomas were handed out and jobs or college pulled us in new directions. Back then I assumed friendship was like family—once formed, it would always be there. But I’ve learned that friendships are often more like seasons: some long and steady, some brief and bright, each beautiful in its own time.

When you enter the workforce, the cycle begins again. Coworkers become daily companions—people you spend more time with than your own family. Some of them leave marks so deep that you imagine you’ll always remain close. But then jobs change, someone moves away, and the connections thin. For years I believed that effort—or perhaps guilt—should keep those ties alive. Yet what I see now is that friendship requires more than sentiment. It requires shared space, common purpose, and mutual desire to keep the thread unbroken. Without those, the cord frays.

I admit I haven’t been the best at maintaining ties. I can go months or even years without a call, then swoop back into an old friend’s life and expect things to feel the same. We hug, we laugh, we promise to do better. But we rarely follow through. And sometimes, when I do try to reconnect, life intervenes: illnesses, busy families, or a sense that our paths no longer align. At first I take it as rejection. Later, I realize it’s simply the natural flow of life. They haven’t betrayed me; we’ve just grown in different directions.

There’s another way to look at it, though. Perhaps friendship is not meant to be permanent in every case. Maybe its purpose is to give us what we need for a particular time, then release us to move forward. That doesn’t make the bond false; it makes it timely. And perhaps the real test of friendship is not its duration but the way it changes us while it lasts.

Technology today gives us chances our parents never had—social media, video calls, quick texts. And yet, I sometimes feel more disconnected than ever. A “like” on a photo doesn’t carry the warmth of a shared cup of coffee. So I ask myself: is it the technology that fails us, or is it that true friendship still demands the old-fashioned things—time, presence, patience—that can’t be replicated on a screen?

I started out thinking of this as a confession of guilt for not doing enough to keep friendships alive. But maybe it’s less about guilt and more about grace. Perhaps the best I can do is treasure the people who were part of my journey, honor the gifts they gave me, and remain open to new connections still waiting ahead. Life is not an endless chain of missed connections; it is a series of meaningful ones, some lasting, some brief, all part of the tapestry of a life well lived.

Camping, Trampolines, and Runaway Trailers

 

The fog is starting to settle in, creating an ever-thickening haze over childhood memories and fond recollections. As hard as I try, some memories just don’t come back. Why didn’t I inherit the same sharp, indexed memory as my sister Janet? When the four of us—Janet, Lisa, Dana, and me—sit together and trade old family stories, I often feel like the one who came unprepared. Janet will tell a story in detail, then end with, “You remember that, right?” I’ll shrug and admit I don’t. She gives me a little glare and a harrumph!—as if I’ve betrayed our shared history. Lord knows I try to remember. I want to join in, to laugh along, to add my own threads to the tapestry. But sometimes those memories are gone. 

Still, I’ve held on to the ones that matter most—the voices of people I loved. I can still hear Melissa’s warm “Hey, honey” across the telephone line when I called her during my mid-morning work break. I can hear Mom’s cheerful “Hey Ronald, it’s your mom” on an answering machine message that I still replay to myself when I need to hear her voice.  And I can hear Dad’s corniest jokes, delivered with such timing that even today, when I repeat them, I hear his voice, not mine. It’s funny—some memories make dents, some leave holes, and some of the tiniest little moments end up shaping who we are. 

 One of those shaping moments came from something as simple as a summer vacation. My mom, Ola Lynette Stone Howard, was the youngest daughter of a coal miner and a switchboard operator. My dad, LeRoy—the man with no middle name—was the son of a farmer and a housewife. They both grew up in small communities near Leeds: Dad in Eden and Mom in Markeeta. Neither of them had much, but together they gave us everything we needed. Vacations were never fancy. We didn’t fly on airplanes or stay in hotels. But what we had were weeks at Wind Creek State Park, Panama City Beach, Destin, St. Augustine, and New Orleans. To this day, I’d take those memories over any resort. Our very first weeklong vacation was to Wind Creek. Dad had worked for weeks gathering everything we would need for camping: a big family tent, a Coleman stove and lantern, folding cots, sleeping bags, and even an outboard motor to use with a rented boat. We were set for adventure—except for one problem. We were a single-car family, and Dad’s pride and joy was his 1964 Chevy Impala Super Sport. With bucket seats in the front and the four of us packed into the back, there was no way to fit all the camping gear in the trunk. Dad did the only thing he could—he rented a U-Haul trailer. The hitch clamped onto the bumper, and after hours of fiddling, Dad had it attached, loaded, and chained. He tossed in the gear, the food, and the gas cans, and we headed south. Somewhere between Chelsea and Harpersville, we hit a bump. The trailer jumped off the hitch and, still tied by its safety chains, began bucking like a rodeo bull behind the car. Dad eased off the gas, gripping the wheel, trying not to let it slam into the rear of the Impala. When he finally got us stopped, the trailer lurched forward and slid up close to the bumper like a scolded child. When Dad opened the trailer doors, chaos spilled out—everything was jumbled, dented, tossed about like a giant had given it a good shake. Worse yet, the hitch was bent. Dad managed to prop it back onto the bumper and tightened the chains, limping us slowly into Harpersville. There, a kind mechanic heated the metal with a torch, hammered it back into shape, and refused a dime for the work. He just smiled and said, “Get your family to Wind Creek.” 

 We did make it to Wind Creek and it was worth every moment of trouble. We swam in the lake, bounced on the in-ground trampolines, roasted marshmallows by the fire, and made friends with a neighboring family who camped beside us for years afterward. Mom and Dad made friends easily, but nobody could outdo Dad—he never met a stranger, only friends he hadn’t spoken to yet. As for me, I spent part of that week trailing along behind Dad as he chased his ever-elusive trophy bass. I don’t recall whether he ever caught it. What I do remember is that he kept on trying, and that I was right there with him. Looking back now, I realize life was simpler then. Our parents couldn’t give us the world, but they gave us the time, the care, and the memories that have lasted a lifetime. Those runaway trailers and trampoline jumps live inside me alongside the voices of those I miss. 

Life was simple back then, Life was good, and I sure do miss those days. 

Howards in the Garden of Eden

 

Howards in the Garden of Eden

My grandparents on my father’s side were Mamie Roxanne and John Washington Howard. Us kids called them simply Mamaw and Papa. When I was young, they lived in a little white house in Eden, Alabama, tucked next to a sawmill. That house seemed to belong to another time. Winters were kept at bay by the heat of a cast-iron pot-belly stove, stoked with wood scraps my grandfather gathered from the mill.

Lisa, Papa, Ronald, Mamaw

I can’t tell you if Papa ever had what folks today would call a regular job. What I do know is that he went to bed with the sun and rose long before daylight. He’d sip his coffee from a saucer, then walk up the road to crank the sawmill machinery to life. After greasing the cogs and setting the pulleys to spinning, he’d amble back down the hill just as Mamaw was pulling biscuits from the oven. She made them in a hand-carved wooden bowl, oblong from years of use.

Papa was already eighty-two when I was twelve, and Mamaw was seventy-eight. He didn’t say much, his voice hushed and cracked when he did, but I could tell he was listening more than folks thought. I’d catch a quick smile when someone said something silly. Tall, stooped, always in overalls, he carried the look of a man who’d lived his first life behind a plow before moving to Eden.

They had raised my cousin Wayne, who was grown and gone by the time I spent much time with them. By then, it was me and my sister Janet who stayed for weeks in the summer. Cousins Adrienne, Nina, and Bonita lived nearby, so we never lacked company. Without a television in the house—something I don’t remember missing—we made our own entertainment. Monopoly games stretched for days on the porch, and the sawmill itself became our playground.

Papa, Wayne, Faye, Mamaw

Once the workers were gone, we climbed conveyors, rode belts toward the blades, and tunneled into the mountain of sawdust that piled high at the edge of the mill. Papa warned us that one wrong move could trap and smother us, but warnings meant little to fearless kids. To us, danger was just another invitation. The drying sheds stacked with lumber twenty feet high became our Everest. And then there was the vat of creosote—twenty feet long and six feet deep. A chain dangled from a pulley overhead, and we’d swing across that black pool as if it were the Nile. More than once I ruined a shoe dipping too close, but by some grace none of us ever fell in.

Mamaw was always in her apron, cooking three meals a day. My favorite memory is of her fried apple pies. Papa would gather apples from the tree out back, slice them thin, and lay them out to dry in the sun. Once ready, Mamaw simmered them with sugar and cinnamon, spooned the filling into dough rolled from her big wooden bowl, and fried them golden. They never lasted long.

When she wasn’t cooking, Mamaw sat in her rocker with a dip of Brewton’s snuff tucked in her cheek. She kept a tin can beside her to spit in, and if one of us came crying with a bee sting, she’d rub a little snuff on it. “Draws out the poison,” she said, and whether it truly did or not, we always believed her. If she ran low, she’d send us to Old Man Lovell’s store with a few coins—enough for her snuff and a paper sack of candy for us. He never blinked when a twelve-year-old asked for tobacco; the world was different then.

Mamaw, 1955

Mamaw passed on February 29, 1968. I was twelve, and it was the first time I truly felt the weight of death. They held the wake in that little white house, her body in one room, surrounded by begonias she had tended with such care. I remember sobbing every time I walked in, overwhelmed by the thought that there would be no more apple pies, no more snuff cures, no more change pressed into my hand for a trip to Old Man Lovell’s.

After Mamaw was gone, Papa moved in with my Uncle Millard and Aunt Audrey in Oxford. To me, Oxford felt as far away as another country, and I didn’t see him much after that. He lived to ninety-nine, passing in 1984, and was laid to rest beside Mamaw in Lawley’s Chapel Cemetery, surrounded by family both before and after.

That little house in Eden still stands. Whenever I travel Highway 78, I glance toward it and feel the pull of memory. I imagine the sawdust pile, the creosote vat daring us to swing again, and the kitchen where Mamaw rolled out dough with her wooden rolling pin. Time has moved on, but in my mind, the place is still alive with laughter, danger, and the smell of fried pies cooling on the table.

I cry when I think of it now—not from sorrow, but from gratitude. Happy tears, for the sweetness of having belonged to that world.

far left- my grandfather John Washington Howard

It's Christmas time again...

 

It’s Christmas once again, and I really try to get into the holiday spirit, but it’s become increasingly difficult as the years pass and I realize that the years ahead of me are fewer than those behind me. So here I am, writing this essay—not for anyone else, but for myself, trying to express these emotions so I can push through them and move on.

For me, Christmas has turned into a time of compromise—struggling to find a balance between its spiritual meaning and its secular aspects. As I grow older, I find myself focusing more on the true essence of Christmas and less on the gifts we give and receive. Our family doesn’t celebrate the way we used to either. In years past, we’d gather at my parents’ house, and that little space would fill up with the warmth of hugs and laughter. Some years, when we couldn’t go to my parents’, we’d host at our house, exchanging gifts and enjoying a Christmas feast, lovingly prepared after weeks of planning. But now it’s become “too much trouble” for everyone to come to our house for the holidays, and that thought weighs on me. I never wanted to be the “trouble” for anyone. Yet, as I write this, I think back on the times when I didn’t visit my own parents because it felt like “too much trouble.” Oh, how I wish I could turn back time and visit them every chance I had, spending endless hours just talking to them. But for now, we compromise. My son and his family will come over, each in separate cars, and my son will stop by the store to grab a small gift for us. I’ll say the blessing before dinner, trying to sound as grateful and uplifting as possible. After the meal, we’ll exchange gifts, and I’ll watch the look of disappointment on their faces when the presents you chose with care are met with expressions of disappointment or comments like, “What is this?” A few hours later, everyone will go their separate ways, quietly scrolling through their phones to avoid conversation. And just like that, one family gathering is over, and another awaits.

That brings me to this morning’s conversation. Our family out of state won’t be joining us for Christmas, so we planned to visit them instead. We debated whether to go on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, and over the weekend, I thought we’d agreed on Christmas Eve. But this morning, as you were preparing to go to work, I asked for clarification on what I needed to do to get ready to leave this afternoon. Your response was, “You never said okay, so I didn’t think we were going today.” Then you added, “I know you wouldn’t want to go at all, since you just don’t feel it.” I wanted to talk about it more, but you didn’t want to engage. After you left for work, I felt disappointed, as though my feelings didn’t really matter.

I’ve earned the title of “Scrooge” during this time of year because I want to spend less on gifts. Living on a fixed income means we have to be more mindful of our spending. We always talk about scaling back on gifts, but every year we end up spending more than we planned. I try to remind you that our children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren already have more than they’ll ever need or use. The toys and things we give them will bring joy for only a short while, because there’s always something newer or bigger just around the corner. But please don’t misunderstand me—I don’t begrudge a single gift. I know they are given with love, and that brings you joy. Your generosity is one of the things that make you so special. I love how giving you are, and I know it’s part of who you are.

Now, for the truth that’s hard to admit: I do love Christmas. I love its spiritual meaning, but I also cherish this time of year because it reminds us to pause and think about others—not in a materialistic sense, but in a genuine, heartfelt way. We send greeting cards to friends and family and wish “Merry Christmas” or “Happy New Year” to strangers. If only we could carry that spirit with us all year round, wouldn’t the world be a better place? And wouldn’t it be wonderful if gifts were given from the heart, not just because we feel obligated?

One of the questions I always dread is, “What do you want for Christmas?”

What I want for Christmas is to feel closer to you and our whole family.

What I want for Christmas is to feel that same excitement I once had as a child, waking up early to see what had been left for me under the tree.

What I want for Christmas is one more day, hour, or minute with my mom and dad.

What I want for Christmas is for my failing eyesight to improve so I can marvel at the world around me.

What I want for Christmas is to be able to see more of the beautiful world out there.

What I want for Christmas is for people to treat each other with a little more kindness and respect.

What I want for Christmas can’t be bought in any store. It’s a connection with my family, bound in love.

But most of all, what I want for Christmas is to feel deep gratitude for all the blessings God has given me and to feel connected to the world around me. I want to remember Christ’s sacrifice and God’s grace, and for Christmas to be more than just a holiday—but a spiritual occasion.

I always love the moment in A Charlie Brown Christmas when Linus so beautifully explains what Christmas is really about:

"And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said to them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the baby wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men."

Merry Christmas, Susan. Your love and companionship are the greatest gifts I could ever ask for. I love you more than you will ever know.