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.

Marbles, Monkey Bars, and The Lunchbox Kid

 

Marbles, Monkey Bars, and the Lunchbox Kid

This may not be the best title for this chapter, but it's the one that stuck. I’ve considered others, but none quite seemed to fit. Kids today are just different—nothing like I was when I was young. They don’t play the same games or even have the same kinds of toys. I haven’t visited many elementary school playgrounds lately, but I’ve spent enough time around toddlers and adolescents to know: kids today don’t play like we used to.

Nowadays, you see little kids clutching tablets like precious relics, eyes glued to the screen as if they were enchanted. And if you want to punish one of today’s toddlers, just threaten to take their device away—they’ll scream louder than if you’d spanked them. But I digress. This isn’t an essay on modern parenting. It’s about playing. And by playing, I mean getting outside, soaking up the sun, breathing fresh air, and doing the kind of things a child should do—at least, in my opinion.

I was a typical kid of the 1960s when I started elementary school. I was shy and naïve and didn’t make friends easily. One of the first kids I connected with was Bart Mitchell. He lived just past the big pasture that we played in when we weren’t in school. Bart and I stayed best friends throughout our lives. We went to school together, worked together, even shared an apartment for a while. Eventually, he became my brother-in-law. But back to the story.

I started first grade in a little white wooden building that housed the first and second grades. My teacher was Mrs. Florence Hurst. That’s where I began learning my ABCs and stumbled my way through Dick and Jane books. I remember being genuinely worried that I might forget everything I’d learned as soon as I got home. Kids think the oddest things sometimes.

We spent a lot of time on the playground, or so it seemed to me. There was a baseball field, big metal slides, swing sets, and monkey bars. And I don’t mean the low, padded ones you see today—I mean the real deal. You could climb up ten or twelve feet, and if you fell, you got hurt. Simple as that. The cherry on top of that playground was the nearby creek—the Little Cahaba River ran just outside the playground’s edge. My friend Jenny and I used to sneak off and explore it when nobody was looking. Then we’d slip back in, no one the wiser.

First and second grades were mostly uneventful. I managed to learn my ABCs, how to add and subtract, and I even discovered a love for reading. One of the first books my mom got me was titled You Will Go to the Moon!. It was a children’s book about space travel, rockets, and the future of moon exploration. I loved the idea of visiting the moon. Sadly, I never made it.

In third grade, I moved to the two-story red brick school building and landed in Miss Kirkendall’s class. That building has long since been torn down. Today, there’s a stone monument, a flagpole, and an electronic bulletin board where it once stood. It was during those years that school started to become more fun—especially before class and at recess.

That’s when the marble games began.

Each day, a group of boys would gather to play marbles—for keeps. First, we’d draw a circle in the dirt and each player would toss in a marble. That was the pot. Then, from a larger outer circle—the “lag line”—we’d take turns shooting our best marble, aiming to knock the others out of the circle. If you hit one out, you got to keep it. Simple and high-stakes.

I was good at marbles. I quickly built up a serious collection—Steelies, Oilies, Pearlies, Chinkies, Cat’s Eyes—you name it. I loved them all.

One kid I remember vividly from those days was named Jonathan. He was younger than the rest of us and had a nasty habit of running through our marble games, kicking marbles out of the circle with his feet. He was quick, too—usually managed to escape before we could catch him. If you got close, he’d swing his metal lunchbox like a weapon. And if he ever connected with that thing, it hurt.

We started calling him “The Lunchbox Kid.”

Funny thing is, he actually turned out to be a pretty nice guy later on.

Playground life was mostly innocent and simple. I don’t remember much about the classroom side of elementary school—except for one unforgettable day: November 22, 1963.

I was sitting in Miss Kirkendall’s classroom when another teacher walked in, barely holding back tears, and announced that President Kennedy had been assassinated. Miss Kirkendall explained what that meant, and I remember feeling a strange mix of confusion and sadness. When I got home from school, the news was on all three channels—and it stayed there for days.

Yes, I said three channels. Back then, we had channels 6, 9, and 13. Channel 42 didn’t come along until a few years later.

When I moved on to Leeds High School in 1968, everything changed for me. But that’s a story—or two—for another day.

Fearless Kids

 

Fearless Kids

My sister Janet and I were fearless as kids. Our mother never hovered over us the way modern parents do. Honestly, I don’t understand how kids today are supposed to grow into fully functional adults. Kids need to explore their world—to fall into creeks, slip in the mud, and occasionally get hurt. That’s how we learn our limits, what’s safe and what’s not.

The year I entered first grade, we lived in a garage apartment on Farley Avenue, just two doors down from Jimmy Moore’s Grocery. Anyone familiar with Leeds knows that to get to the elementary school from our apartment, you had to walk two blocks south—crossing the railroad tracks—then head west for another four blocks. Unless my memory is playing tricks on me, I walked myself to school. Maybe there were older kids I walked with, but I don’t remember clearly. What I do remember is that Janet and I used to roam all over that neighborhood, including downtown Leeds.

One of our favorite spots was the railroad tracks near the Central Club. We’d find all sorts of treasures—tiny glass bottles and old wooden batteries (yes, wooden). The railroad workers would toss them out when they were done. We’d take a piece of wire and connect the battery terminals to watch them heat up and glow red-hot. You could even start a little fire with them.

One of our greatest thrills was climbing the wooden cooling tower behind Magdeline’s Beauty Shop. You don’t see these anymore, but they were large wooden structures, often as tall as the building itself, with slats to let air pass through. Inside was a network of pipes that sprayed a fine mist of water. As the water dripped down, it cooled, and that chilled water was pumped back into the building’s AC system. Magdeline’s was next to McCraney Wholesale—now L.A. Salon—and Janet and I would climb that tower all the way to the roof. From there, we’d sneak across the rooftops, peeking down at traffic and trying hard not to get caught.

There was another cooling tower behind Moore’s Food Center, and we climbed that one too. We loved being above the town, exploring the rooftops, feeling like we had the whole place to ourselves.

As I got a little older, my friend Phil Ingram and I used to play over near Courson Seating. They had scrapped a bunch of old parts from their wood dust collection system, and one piece looked like a small water tank lying on its side with a hatch on one end. We’d crawl inside that big metal cylinder and pretend it was our spaceship.

I’ll never forget the day Phil and I were inside, talking and laughing, when a kid named Lloyd walked by. He heard us and knocked on the side, saying, “Greetings, travelers. Welcome to Planet Earth.” We let him climb in and gave him the grand tour of our ship. A perfect ending to another perfect day.

---

When we were kids, our dad would take us to Panama City Beach most summers. We usually stayed a few blocks off the beach in little cottages or motels. One summer, as soon as we pulled up to our cabin, Janet and I started begging to go to the beach. We hadn’t even unpacked the car yet. After some pleading, my mom gave in. We changed into our swimsuits, grabbed our floats, and headed off.

We paddled out as far as we could, then started drifting down the shoreline, just enjoying the day. Time didn’t feel like it was passing. But eventually, we noticed a commotion on the beach—a crowd of people running back and forth, shouting.

Janet squinted and said, “It sounds like they’re yelling our names.”

That’s when we realized—we were the commotion.

We paddled back as fast as we could. When we hit the shore, Mom ran to us crying and scooped us into her arms. Dad came charging from the other direction, red-faced and furious.

“This vacation is over!” he shouted and stormed off to the cabin.

By the time we got there, he had already packed most of our stuff back into the car. We had to beg and plead for him to change his mind. Thankfully, he did. But that was the last time we were ever allowed to go to the beach alone.

---

After our younger sister Lisa came along and got old enough—maybe nine or ten—the three of us spent a lot of time down at the Little Cahaba River. Though it’s officially called a river, we always just called it “the creek.”

We swam in that creek, fished in it, and caught crawfish. But the biggest thrills came in the spring when it flooded. The muddy water would rise and rush swiftly toward Lake Purdy. Back then, the Leeds wastewater treatment plant sat right on the bank, though it’s since been moved across a smaller creek. Soccer fields are there now, but back then, it was our playground.

Just before the sewage plant, the creek took a sharp turn. That’s where we played one of our wildest games. One kid would be “the catcher,” standing on the bank with a long stick. The others—one by one—would jump into the flood-swollen creek upstream and let the current carry them down.

The catcher’s job? Stick out the pole in time for the swimmer to grab on before getting swept past the bend and into the dangerous part of the water near the plant.

No boats. No life jackets. Just bare hands and nerves of steel.

Amazingly, we never lost a single kid to that game.

As we got older, our adventures got riskier. We jumped off cliffs into flooded strip mines, took canoe trips from Moody all the way to Hoover, explored the caves around Lake Purdy, and once spent an entire week detonating a box of old blasting caps we’d gotten our hands on (a story for another day).

And then there were Janet’s train-hopping days.

She and some friends used to hop onto freight trains right in Leeds, ride them through the tunnels, and jump off in Dunnavant, where another friend would pick them up and drive them back.

Of course, if I ever bring this up in front of my nephews, Janet denies it with a straight face.

Superman, Magnolia Trees, and Concussions

 ...I’ll get back to the bullies a little later, but for now, I need to touch on something I mentioned earlier—concussions. Seems like I was born to test the limits of how much damage a small boy could do to himself without actually dying. Looking back, it’s a wonder I made it out of childhood at all.

The first big scare came when we were still living in Midland City. We had this big ol’ magnolia tree in the yard, with low-hanging branches perfect for a five-year-old with no sense of self-preservation. This was during the golden age of Superman on TV, and I was absolutely obsessed. I wanted to fly so bad I could taste it. One day while Mama was in the kitchen cooking, I tied a beach towel around my neck like a cape and ran around the yard pretending to be the Man of Steel. But just running wasn’t cutting it—I needed to take flight.

So, up the magnolia tree I went, all full of courage and bad ideas. I don’t remember exactly what I thought would happen next, but the next thing I do remember is waking up in my bed, my mom and dad staring down at me like I’d just come back from the dead. Turns out I’d slipped and fallen from the tree. That towel I’d tied around my neck got snagged on a branch, and I was literally hanging there by my neck, limp and silent. By some miracle, Mama happened to glance out the kitchen window and saw me dangling there like a rag doll. She sprinted out, got me down, and somehow I lived to tell the tale.

But that wasn’t even the first time I got knocked out in that tree. Nope. That magnolia and I had a complicated relationship. I loved to climb, and I wasn’t afraid of heights—not then, anyway. One day I was way up in the branches again, probably higher than I had any business being, when the limb I was standing on just gave out. I came crashing down, limb to limb, like a pinball in a wooden machine. My head caught more than its fair share of branches on the way down, and I finally landed in the dirt, out cold.

Again, Mama was at the kitchen sink—our house must’ve been built so that she could keep one eye on dinner and the other on the backyard mayhem. She saw me fall and ran screaming out of the house, thinking I was dead for sure. Same scene: I woke up in bed with no memory of what happened, a goose egg on my head, and the worst case of nausea I’d ever had. Daddy had come home from work early and rushed me to the little hospital in town, where I spent most of the day in la-la land. That was my first real concussion.

The second one came years later when we were back in Leeds, living in the Rew Development. Our street was more like a shortcut for big rigs and delivery trucks than a quiet neighborhood road. We saw everything from poultry haulers to soft drink trucks rumbling past the house on a daily basis. It wasn’t unusual to find crates of live chickens spilled out on the roadside after a sharp turn or sudden stop. One time, my sister Lisa actually caught one and kept it as a pet for a while. That chicken lived in our yard like it belonged there.

Anyway, one summer afternoon, me and my sisters Janet and Lisa were out front when a Coca-Cola delivery truck rolled by and somehow dropped a large metal canister—one of those big compressed CO₂ tanks they use to carbonate soda. It just rolled off the truck and landed in the ditch like it was nothing. Well, it didn’t take long for us to drag it into our yard. The thing looked kind of like a scuba tank, with a heavy metal lid on top held in place by a big threaded collar.

Now, you’d think there’d be some kind of warning label on it, but if there was, I sure didn’t see it—or didn’t care. I stood it up, started turning that collar, and gas began to hiss out. No big deal, I figured. I kept unscrewing, and then—BAM—the lid blew off like a cannonball and smacked me right between the eyes. I flew backward and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

I wasn’t out for too long that time, but long enough to wake up to the sound of my sisters screaming and crying and talking about how much trouble we were all gonna be in. And they weren’t wrong. Daddy didn’t yell, but he gave me a long talk that stung worse than a spanking. Told me I “should’ve known better,” asked, “what were you thinking?” and reminded me just how easily I could’ve been killed—or worse, hurt one of my sisters.

Of course, that wasn’t the last time I did something stupid that ended with a hospital visit or a lecture about using my head. But those stories are for another day.

 The Rigors and Rewards of Leading the Historic 1950s Walking Tour of Leeds, Alabama

Serving as the captain of the historic 1950s Walking Tour of Leeds, Alabama, scheduled for April 2025, is both an honor and an immense challenge. This role is not simply about leading a tour—it’s about breathing life into the history of our town, recruiting passionate individuals to portray our past, and ensuring that every detail of the experience is authentic, engaging, and enlightening.

The Challenge of Finding the Right Team

One of the most daunting tasks is assembling a dedicated team of captains and team members. Finding individuals who are not only willing but also enthusiastic about committing to months of preparation is no easy feat. Volunteers must be recruited, trained, and inspired to see beyond their modern lives and step into the shoes of Leeds' past citizens. Each re-enactor needs to embody their character with knowledge and authenticity, which requires extensive research and rehearsal.

The Depths of Historical Research

The tour is only as good as the stories we tell, and ensuring historical accuracy demands deep and thorough research. Sifting through old newspapers, historical archives, and personal accounts from long-time residents is an ongoing task. We must determine which stories, legends, and even rumors are worth sharing. Fact-checking, cross-referencing, and seeking out local historians for insight ensure that the history we present is both accurate and compelling.

Structuring Effective Meetings

Planning and organization are the backbone of this endeavor. Every meeting must be carefully structured to maximize productivity. Agendas include updates on research, re-enactor training, logistics, and marketing strategies. It is essential to keep the team engaged while balancing historical accuracy with theatrical entertainment to maintain audience interest. This is perhaps the area where I fail the most. I have to say that my passion lies in creating digital media, everything from restoring old photographs, creating videos for social media, and creating new "old" pictures using artificial intelligence.  Productive meetings are truly made possible due to the dedication of my co-captains and team members.

Choosing Businesses to Highlight

The selection of businesses to showcase is another crucial aspect of the tour. Some establishments have been pillars of Leeds since the 1950s, while others stand on the ground once occupied by long-lost landmarks. By incorporating local businesses into the tour, we not only enrich the historical experience but also strengthen community ties and promote economic engagement. Convincing business owners to participate often requires demonstrating the tour’s value—how it can bring foot traffic, introduce their stories to a wider audience, and celebrate their place in Leeds’ history.

Gaining Community Participation

Perhaps the most challenging yet rewarding aspect of this endeavor is securing participation from the citizens of Leeds. Some locals are eager to share their family histories, while others require encouragement to see the significance of their stories. Convincing residents to join as volunteers or storytellers takes persistence, passion, and diplomacy.

The Joy of Rediscovering Leeds

Despite the hard work, the journey is deeply rewarding. Researching Leeds’ past reveals forgotten narratives and colorful characters that deserve to be remembered. Every connection made—whether with a long-time resident sharing an untold story or a new volunteer eager to participate—adds richness to the experience.

Through my work with the Leeds Historical Society and Leeds Trails and Tours, I have had the pleasure of strengthening my connection to my hometown. This role has introduced me to new friends, reconnected me with old ones, and deepened my appreciation for the town’s legacy.

Making History Accessible

One of the most exciting aspects of this project is finding new ways to make Leeds’ history accessible. Beyond the tour itself, we explore avenues like digital archives, storytelling workshops, and multimedia presentations to engage audiences of all ages. By making history interactive and immersive, we ensure that the stories of Leeds continue to inspire future generations.

As the captain of the 1950s Walking Tour, I face a multitude of challenges, but the rewards far outweigh the difficulties. Each discovery, every participant’s enthusiasm, and every audience member’s newfound appreciation for our town’s past make the effort worthwhile. Leeds, Alabama, is a place rich with history, and I am proud to help share its story.

Leeds 1950's Walking Tour takes place on Saturday April 2025 from 10:00am to 1:30pm. Rain date is April 26 if necessary.

Leeds Trails and Tours

Leeds Historical Society

 WINDSHIELD SHOT

Here's another picture that I posted on the Photo Friday website for the Friday September 30 subject #Windhield_Shot. This was a rainy day and I was scouting out locations to film a short video with the drone following Highway 78 into Leeds, passing underneath the train trestle before continuing through town. 

https://www.photofriday.com/tagged/windshield_shot

NOT ALL DOGS WHO WANDER ARE LOST!

Foreword

I posted the title of this blog page on Facebook as a humorous response to someone’s concern over stray and/or lost dogs. Of course, things didn’t go well for me after that and I ended up deleting the entire message thread. It did have one good result; my oldest sister saw the post and we started to reminisce about childhood days gone by and one of our goofy dogs.

The Story

This is where I must clarify…. We say one of OUR dogs but, truth be known, we never bought or owned a single dog ever. Oh, don’t misunderstand. We had plenty of dogs. I’d just never say that we owned one.

Our dogs just seemed to wander up into the yard. One of my sisters would give them a snack or two and the stray would tend to hang around a bit; sometimes for years! They were always to come and go as they pleased. 

One of my favorite dogs during my junior high school years was Buster. He just wandered up one day. He was a friendly dog and we all enjoyed playing with him. My mom supplied table scraps for Buster which meant that he was always well fed. Buster followed us every where we went. We’d hike down to the creek and Buster was always right there with us. If we went for swim in the creek Buster went for a swim too! Buster even had a few odd talents (for a dog). He would bring things home. And I mean good things like hand tools, clothing, and cakes. Yes cakes. He once came home with a Dolly Madison Pound Cake, fresh in the un-broken wrapper. We eventually found out that he had discovered that one of our neighbors’ storage room doors didn’t latch properly and Buster would help himself (and us) to whatever he could get away with.

One fateful day when we were all playing in the front yard Buster walked out into the road in front of our house. He put his head down like a charging bull and did just that; charged a car and butted it head on. It knocked him through the air about 10 yards and he spent the next hour or so running around in crazy circles. He’d vanish for days at a time after that but always seemed to make it back to our house for one more snack. I have to say that I really don’t remember what eventually happened to Buster. I know that my sister Janet will tell me. She could make this story so much more interesting that I am able.

Anyway, the whole point of this story is this. When I see a stray dog, I don’t jump to the foregone conclusion that it is lost. I don’t think that it has escaped from its yard. I just assume that it’s a free spirit exploring its world. I know that there are people who feel distressed over this and feel that they must “rescue” the poor lost animal. I don’t, and I make no apologies for being this way.