In Her Own Words

 In Her Own Words… 

The words you’re about to read came from a small journal my mother began near the end of her life. She wanted—no, she needed—to leave something behind so her children could better understand who she was and where she came from.

I’ve kept her words just as she wrote them.

Where I’ve added anything, I’ve done so quietly, using brackets and parentheses, just to help the story along without getting in her way.

Because this… this is her story.

 My Journey In Life,  Lynette Stone Howard

My journey in life began on November 13, 1933, when my mother was taken to Bessemer General Hospital, not knowing that was two of us. Birth certificate was supposed to have Ola Lynette Stone but only had Lenett Stone. Twin sister should have been Oliver Jeanette but had Jenett Stone, my dad’s doing. Jeanette died at six months. Dad was a coal miner, worked at night. A very bad tornado happened. At night Mama said the only thing she knew to do was put the children on the bed and stretch out her arms over them. We were not harmed and our house was still standing. A lot of people were killed.

We moved away when I was four to Acmar. Dad liked to take us back to Helena where he knew a lot of people and drove us around the city, telling us a story about each place. We were in our Model T Ford, which we had to push a lot. The sidewalks were wood. We stopped in a store to visit a Mr. Naish. A family named Kirkland moved from there to Markeeta, They had two sons, Roland and Denver, and two daughters, Thelma and Louise (say what?!). A third daughter was killed in the tornado.

My sister, nephew, and I went back to Helena (probably 2005) and walked up a hill to where our house was. I fell down, my nephew fell down, and my sister, who is seven years older than me, went right on up that hill (and laughed, of course). The house was right on the side of a railroad track and trestle where Mama said that hobos got off the train. She gave them food because she was a kind person who liked to help people if she could. Her first job was a telephone operator at 18 years old. I think that building has been renovated and is still there, although I’m not sure (story heard from my mom).

The next phase of my life was my new home in Acmar, another mining community. You may think that a four year old couldn’t possibly remember. I can (remember) a lot better than some grownups. It (Acmar) was a wonderful place. There was a school, where I attended kindergarten, a community center, a post office, a dance hall, and a huge store with a park and creek to fish in. (There was also) picnic places beside the store, a boy scout building (small), and a filling station built out of coal. There was a doctor’s home, he was named Stewart. His wife was a doctor also and kept her maiden name Black. Doctor Stewart was still here in the 1960’s. He was Ronald’s doctor, along with Dr, Caldwell, at “Caldwell and Stewart Pediatrics”. They used Children’s Hospital. They had an office on southside Birmingham,

Back to Acmar…

Acmar was made up of hills and valleys, as I recall it. We lived on a hill and our outhouse was across the road. You could go down behind it on a trail that lead us to the school, which was on a fork in the road. Right took you to Annie Lee Road, into White’s Chapel. Left road took you to Acton Road where (my brother) Hugh lived and Minnie Lee’s Store (was there). There was maybe five houses on the hill where we lived, but down the in the valley, I called it, I can only remember one house, the Bosworth’s. My friend there was Charles Huey. Our mother must have been great friends because we had a lot of pictures together. Strange, but I can’t remember us talking to each other. I bet he always thought to himself, “here comes that old girls again”. He has a tall, handsome brother, who my second sister had a crush on. He went into the Army. Our family was always hoping that they would become sweethearts and marry but my oldest sister had her eye on a tall guy named Jack Taul. She was seventeen and he was twenty-three. They did marry and there seemed to be some trouble from then on because of drinking. They had a son born within the house that we lived in (while living) in Markeeta. They divorced a few years later.

I was in a play at the community center. I remember standing in a dark place on some steps waiting my turn to go in with a paper dress on. I don’t (remember) what it was about except some moo cows at Christmas. There was a Christmas program for miners and their families. The Army band was there one time. Each family received a a basket with fruit, candy, nuts, a toy for small children babies.

My sister Mavis and Jack lived in an old store. We had to go up a trail, there was no road, to get there from the commissary. Jack worked in the mines. When he came in from work he would put his arms behind his back and say “I got my girls something. Guess what it is”. Of course we would say candy. What else could be back there? Hershey Bars?  He didn’t like working in the mines because his dad was killed there when [the a young boy from the bridge by the community center was], the road leading to our house. The Smith’s lived on that road. You could see in their windows, so close to the road. I can only remember two siblings there. Elizabeth (Theo’s friend). Son Clifford, I think, a little guy. Many years later he became Mark Martin’s (Janet’s friend) stepfather.

There wasn’t much going on in Acmar. Charles Huey was my only friend. I was only four or five and stayed under the house most of the time. Mama dressed me in all white to have my picture taken, then she had to get me out from under the house and wash me off a few times because the man was late. (In the picture) I am sitting on an old chest with a finger in my shoe that was bothering me. I maybe have this mixed up with my daughter Lida. Her shoes were bother her too, on the steps of our house on President Street in Leeds.

I started kindergarten and had to walk to school with Nell and other kids. Then (we moved) on down the road to our new home in Markeeta. Still had no car but I guess it was a shorter walk work for dad……

 Where Her Words Grow Quiet

The journal trails off from there.

Not because she ran out of stories—but because time simply caught up with her.

She was in and out of the hospital, spending more days in recovery than at home, and it became too difficult for her to keep writing. That part still sits heavy with me. Not because she didn’t finish—but because I know how much more she had to say.

You see, my mom didn’t just tell stories… she performed them.

When she talked about Acmar or Markeeta, you could almost see it—the hills, the dusty roads, the little houses tucked into places most folks would drive right past today. She’d laugh mid-sentence, add sound effects, wave her hands like she was directing a play only she could see.

And me?

I didn’t always have the good sense to hit the record button when she started.

So what I have now are pieces… fragments… the tail ends of stories that started long before I thought to preserve them. I still go back and listen to those recordings from time to time. Not for the facts—but for her. The way she laughed. The way she brought those memories to life like they were happening all over again.

One More Conversation

I find myself thinking about her more these days. Not in a sad way… well, maybe a little of that… but mostly in a grateful way. Grateful that she tried to leave us something. Grateful that I still have her voice, even if only in pieces. And grateful for the stories—both the ones she wrote down… and the many she carried with her. I look forward to the day—somewhere beyond all this—when I can sit with her again. No rush. No interruptions. Just me, listening… while she smiles, laughs, and picks right back up where she left off.

The High Dive Incident

When I was a kid, I spent a whole lot of time at the Leeds city pool. Every summer my mom bought season passes for me and my sisters, and we used every bit of them.

Our routine was simple. Get up, eat breakfast, and head straight to the pool. We’d stay there until the lifeguards practically ran us off at closing time… then show up the next morning and do it all over again.

Now somewhere along the way I decided I was pretty hot stuff on the diving board. I could do forward flips, back flips, and even a gainer now and then. At least in my mind I was putting on quite a show.

The pool was where all the neighborhood kids gathered, and we had more fun than ought to be legal.

One afternoon my friend Debbie decided she wanted to jump off the high dive. The only problem was… she had never done it before.

Now jumping off that high dive was a rite of passage, and Debbie asked me to help her. Since I already thought of myself as the neighborhood diving expert, I gladly accepted the job.

Up we went.

Debbie walked out onto that high board and looked down. Then she slowly turned around and started inching back toward the ladder.

“No, Debbie,” I said. “You’ve got to try it. It’s fun. The lifeguard’s watching. I’m right here. You’ll be fine.”

So she turned around and edged her way back out again… step by careful step… until she was standing at the very end of that board.

She looked down.

She looked back at me.

She looked down again.

Then she looked over at Bobby Talley, the lifeguard, who gave her a reassuring thumbs-up.

My sisters were down in the water yelling, “Go ahead Debbie! Jump!”

But Debbie wasn’t convinced.

So… being the helpful friend that I was…

I gave her a little shove.

Lord have mercy.

She hit that water with the loudest belly flop I have ever heard in my life. And let me tell you something—little people hitting water flat like that get hurt just like big people do.

She came up out of that pool screaming, gave me the most blistering look I’ve ever received, climbed out, grabbed her towel… and walked straight home.

Didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

Didn’t talk to me for quite a while either.

Years later Debbie turned that story into part of her stand-up comedy routine. The funny thing is, when she tells it she somehow forgets to mention that I pushed her.

So I figured it was about time the truth came out.

And Debbie, if we ever climb that high dive again… I promise I’ll try to show a little more patience.

Maybe.

Looking back now, those long summer days at the Leeds pool were about more than swimming and showing off on the diving board. They were about growing up with friends, laughing at our mistakes, and collecting the kinds of stories that somehow follow us through life. Funny how the things that seemed so ordinary back then—sunburned shoulders, wet towels, and a crowded pool deck—turn out to be some of the sweetest memories a fellow can carry with him.

A Saturday in 1966

It’s Saturday, May 14, 1966.

I wake up around seven in the morning to the wonderful smell of bacon frying in the kitchen. That aroma alone is enough to get a boy out of bed. I jump up, throw on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and step into my canvas slip-ons. Just like that, I’m ready to hit the street.

But first, breakfast.

I slide into my seat at the dining room table where Mom already has a plate waiting—sunny-side-up eggs, two pieces of toast fresh from the oven, and a couple of strips of bacon. I wash it all down with a big glass of Nestlé’s Quick.

Life was good.

After breakfast, it’s time for cartoons. By now my sisters are up, and we gather around the television to watch Popeye, Woody Woodpecker, and Bugs Bunny.

After a few cartoons I tell Mom I’m meeting up with my friends. She slips a dollar into my hand, reminds me to be careful, and tells me to be home before the streetlights come on. That dollar joins the change I earned from returning soft drink bottles to the grocery store, and I head out the door.

I jump on my bike and pedal as fast as I can down Montevallo Road, turn at the Catholic church, and head toward downtown Leeds and Spruiell’s Drug Store.

Just inside the door on the left is a rack full of comic books. My friends Bart, Leo, and Mark are already there reading the latest issues.

Bart always goes for Superman.
Leo grabs Spiderman.
Mark settles in with his favorite, Sgt. Rock.

I wanted the latest Superman too, but Bart had ridden downtown with his mom and beat me there, so I ended up with The Fantastic Four instead.

We’d sit right there in the store window reading our comics—for free—and when we finished, we’d just slide them back into the rack like nothing ever happened. Sometimes we’d even scrape together enough change for a malt or a milkshake from the soda fountain.

Eventually Leo waves goodbye and heads home, leaving the rest of us to make our next stop—V. J. Elmore’s Five and Dime.

If you walked into that store and went down the right side almost all the way to the back, you’d find the model section. That was our destination.

They had model cars, airplanes, and even monster figures.

Bart bought a ’64 Galaxie 500XL.
I picked up a Ford “Black Widow” T-bucket.
And Mark, being Mark, went for a creature model—The Hunchback of Notre Dame.

Later that afternoon, when I got home, I hurriedly put my model together. I splashed on the paint and stuck the decals wherever they seemed to fit. I planned to enter it in V. J. Elmore’s monthly model car contest, and in my mind I was already imagining that blue ribbon.

Spoiler alert: I didn’t win.

Bart, on the other hand, treated model building like a science experiment. He carefully removed every piece from the card. He applied glue with a toothpick so there wouldn’t be any runs. Then he’d stretch rubber bands around the model to hold everything in place while it dried. After that he’d mask off sections before painting so his lines would come out perfectly straight.

If memory serves me right, Bart took first place in just about every contest I ever entered.

I did manage to win second place once.

When we weren’t building models, we spent most of our time outside.

We swam in the creek.
Built treehouses and rope swings.
And went on long hikes through the woods.

Being teenagers—or almost teenagers—didn’t stop us from exploring every creek, hill, and stretch of woods around Leeds. Sometimes we’d walk all the way over to the Coosa Mountain train tunnel, or sneak around the backside of the cement quarry. Other days we’d hike over to Elliott Lane to explore a cave that was there—if you knew where to look.

Growing up in the 1960s, life was good.

The world didn’t seem as dangerous back then, and parents didn’t hover over their kids. We were allowed to roam, to explore, and to figure things out for ourselves.

Kids were allowed to be kids.

I could go on and on about spending nearly every summer day at the city pool. Or sneaking down into the cement quarry on weekends when the workers were gone.

Nowadays when I see kids walking around with their heads down and their eyes glued to a phone, it makes me a little sad.

Sad because they may never know the thrill of jumping into a creek after a big rain, swinging out on a rope over a cliff, or wandering through the woods with no particular destination in mind.

I suppose I’ll stop there.

But you know what?

I may be getting older, but I think I might just go take a walk in the woods… or maybe go wading in the creek.

 

🔦 Coming Spring 2026 — The Apprentices: Fault Lines

FAULT LINES

Something is shifting beneath central Alabama.

From the old mining towns of Margaret and Acmar to the rail lines of Leeds and the lights of Grand River, Makaley Broward and her friends are learning that the work of the Guild is more complicated than they imagined.

Heavy rains begin to awaken a forgotten underground corridor — abandoned coal mines stretching for miles beneath the land.

And the apprentices are about to discover that the past never stays buried forever.

Fault Lines continues the world of The Handyman’s Guild, The Quarry Keeper, and The Watchers, bringing the next generation of apprentices into their most dangerous challenge yet.

Because sometimes the greatest disasters are the ones nobody notices.

Until it’s almost too late.

Be sure to check out all of my books, available in paperback or Kindle eBook

📖 Coming Spring 2026

Scuba Tanks, Water Towers, and the Foolishness of Youth

Okay, I’ve done some incredibly stupid things in my life.

Crawling through storm drains. Jumping into the Little Cahaba at the height of a flood. Climbing the light poles at the Leeds football stadium. I even climbed the flagpole in front of the high school once. I could probably name a few others if I gave it enough thought.

But two particular incidents come to mind that prove a point I have come to understand much better now that I’m seventy years old.

The first happened the year I graduated from high school.

My best friend Bart Mitchell’s dad was getting rid of his old scuba tank and regulator, and I jumped at the chance to get them. I was absolutely fascinated with scuba diving. Between Lloyd Bridges on Sea Hunt and Jacques Cousteau exploring the oceans, I figured I was just one wetsuit away from underwater greatness.

To make the deal even sweeter, Mr. Mitchell threw in his old wetsuit and fins.

There was just one small detail.

The tank wasn’t exactly what you’d call a certified scuba tank.

It was actually made from an old CO₂ cylinder that had once been used to carbonate soft drinks. Now, Mr. Mitchell was a machinist and a bit of a free spirit. He improvised things all the time and even built his own underwater camera system. So at the time it didn’t seem that strange to me.

Still, when I carried that tank into Southern Skin Divers Supply to get it filled, they took one look at it and practically threw me out of the store. They informed me that I should have more sense than to even attempt such a thing.

Naturally, I went straight back to the Mitchell house and asked Mr. Mitchell what I should do.

He calmly told me there was a place over in Trussville that would fill the tank for me—no questions asked and no certifications required.

Problem solved.

So I headed over to Trussville, got the tank filled, and then made my way out to one of the flooded strip mines on Sicard Hollow Road to try my hand at scuba diving.

Now for my younger readers, I should mention that there are no flooded strip mines on Sicard Hollow Road anymore, at least not that I know of. Those old pits have long since been filled in, planted over, and turned into residential developments.

But back then they were perfect places for young fellows with questionable judgment to experiment with scuba gear.

A friend of mine, Mike Skinner, and my cousin Mike Rowan came along to witness the historic event.

Knowing absolutely nothing about scuba diving didn’t deter me in the least. I put on the wetsuit, slipped on the fins, lowered my mask, and waded into the water like a professional.

There was only one small problem.

I had always wondered why scuba divers in the movies wore belts with lead weights.

Well, it turns out those weights serve a purpose.

The moment I slid into the water, I discovered that a neoprene wetsuit is remarkably buoyant. No matter how hard I tried, I could not get myself to sink.

I thrashed around for quite a while—twisting, turning, trying every trick I could think of to force myself underwater.

Meanwhile, Mike Skinner and Mike Rowan were having the time of their lives standing on the bank laughing and offering helpful commentary.

Eventually I gave up, climbed out of the water, and went home.

Except for a couple of other half-hearted attempts later on, my brief career as a scuba diver came to an end right there in that strip mine.

But that was only the beginning.

Not long after the scuba adventure, I moved into an apartment on Parkway Drive with my friend Mark Lawley. Mark and I decided to try our hand at being roommates, and somewhere along the way he convinced me to join the Leeds Volunteer Fire Department.

Mark had a lot of interests, and one of them was rescue training. Somewhere during that time he learned how to rappel.

Naturally, I had to learn too.

I bought some rope and carabiners, and Mark gave me a quick lesson in the basics. Before long we were out at one of the chert pits near Leeds practicing rappelling down the rock walls.

To my surprise, I actually did pretty well.

Mark was a good teacher, and rappelling turned out to be a lot of fun.

The real trouble started the following Monday at work.

I began telling a few coworkers—Dan Davis and Butch Crump among them—about my weekend adventures sliding down rock walls like some kind of mountain climber.

They were impressed.

In fact, they were so impressed that they asked if I could demonstrate this remarkable skill.

Now here’s where things took a turn.

Behind Builders Manufacturing Company, where we worked, stood an old water storage tank about thirty or forty feet high. Dan quickly spread the word around the shop that I would be performing a rappelling demonstration after work and that everyone should come out and watch.

At three-thirty I went out to my car, grabbed my rope and gear, and headed for the tank.

When I reached the top, I looked down to see eight or ten coworkers gathered below, waiting to watch the show.

No pressure.

I clipped in, swung my legs over the edge, braced my feet against the tank, and kicked off just like Mark had taught me.

For a moment everything went perfectly.

Then my rope knotted up.

The next thing I knew the rope wrapped around my waist, flipped me over, and there I was—hanging upside down about twenty feet off the side of the tank.

I flailed around trying to right myself while the crowd below enjoyed the finest entertainment they’d had all week.

Eventually a couple of the guys climbed up the tank and got me untangled.

By the time I made it back to the ground everyone was having a grand time laughing about the “great mountain climber.”

Now that I’m seventy years old, I no longer feel quite the same urge to prove my bravery by dangling from ropes, climbing water towers, or experimenting with homemade scuba gear.

Age has a way of smoothing out some of the foolishness of youth.

Still, when I look back on those days, I can’t help but feel a little thankful for them. Those were the years when we believed we could try anything, when common sense sometimes took a back seat to curiosity and adventure.

And if I’m being honest, those misadventures have provided a lifetime supply of stories.

Stories like the day I tried to become a scuba diver in a flooded strip mine.

Or the afternoon when I attempted to impress my coworkers by rappelling down a water tower and ended up hanging upside down halfway to the ground.

Of course, some people never let you forget such things.

To this day, Dan Davis still enjoys telling the story of the afternoon young Ron Howard tried to rappel down the tank behind Builders Manufacturing.

And truth be told…

He usually tells it better than I do.

Teaser from my newest book...

 from The Watchers

Chapter Six — The Lantern Passes

Herbert Nash did not announce that he was dying. Men like him rarely did.

The valley had learned long ago that some endings arrived without ceremony—quiet as frost settling on a field before dawn.

His body simply began to slow in ways the ground recognized before he did: breath shallower, steps shorter, listening taking more effort than it once had.

The lantern noticed first.

 It warmed earlier in the evenings.

Dimmed more slowly at dawn.

It lingered in its glow, as if reluctant to be set aside.

Herbert felt it in his hands, the familiar weight now accompanied by something else—a gentle insistence.

“All right,” he said one night, setting it on the table between them. “I hear you.”

Outside, winter settled over Leeds without argument.

No heavy snow, no violent storms—just cold nights and pale mornings where frost traced the edges of things and then retreated.

The rails hummed clean and low. Atlas Quarry slept. The Little Cahaba slid quietly through its bends.

 It was a good time to leave. Herbert spent his last weeks doing very little that anyone would call work.

He sat longer on his porch.

Walked shorter distances.

Let James Lowrey handle more at the depot.

When he did walk, he took paths that looped instead of cutting straight through.

 He was letting the valley get used to his absence.

One crisp afternoon, Herbert made his way to the Leeds Depot. Older than the city itself, the old wooden structure had stood since 1884, when the Georgia Pacific Railway first stitched iron through the heart of the valley. The depot's boards creaked underfoot, echoing the complaints of a hundred years of freight and passengers.

James Lowrey looked up from his ledger, his pencil pausing mid-mark. “You're early today,” James said, though there was no schedule to it.

Herbert nodded, easing into the worn chair by the window. “Ground's quiet. Figured I'd sit with it a spell.”

James set the ledger aside. The two men had shared this space for decades, ever since the post-war boom when the railroads hauled limestone from the quarries and coal from deeper seams.

The city of Leeds had grown, from a small community called Cedar Grove that was settled by the sweat of War of 1812 veterans and freedmen. Renamed Oak Ridge in 1869, and later Leeds, after the industrial city in England, the city was officially incorporated in 1887. The Standard Portland Cement Company had opened in 1905, pulling stone from Atlas like it was endless, but Herbert knew better—quarries remembered every cut.

“We've kept it steady,” James murmured, glancing at the gauges on the wall.

They twitched faintly, reading the valley's pulse. “No big shifts lately.”

Herbert smiled faintly. “That's the point, ain't it? No headlines.”

They sat in companionable silence, the distant whistle of a freight train threading through the air like a familiar tune.

 Herbert's hand rested on the lantern at his side, its warmth a quiet companion.

He thought of the old Native American trails that once crossed here, paths worn by Choctaw and Creek feet before the rails claimed them. Folklore whispered of lights in the valley—ghostly orbs along the Cahaba, said to guide or warn, remnants of a time when the land spoke louder. The lantern felt like that now, a glow not of fire but of knowing.

Later that week, Herbert stopped by the schoolhouse, a simple brick building perched on the edge of town where the ground sloped gently toward the river.

Manley Edwards, the custodian, was sweeping the steps, his broom whisking away the last of the fallen leaves. A long time Watcher, he kept a quiet vigil over the children of Leeds.

 “Mr. Nash,” Edwards greeted, leaning on the handle. “What brings you out?”

 “Just checkin' on things,” Herbert replied.

The school had been built in the 1920s, during Leeds' cement heyday, when families flooded in for steady jobs at the quarries.

Now, it housed the children of those same lines—kids who played near the rails without knowing the stories etched into the ties.

Edwards nodded toward the playground, where a few stragglers kicked a ball.

“We've had a quiet term. No troubles.”

Herbert's eyes scanned the fence line, noting a loose post that might give under too much weight. He didn't mention it—Edwards would notice soon enough and he or one of the other Watchers would shore it up quietly.

“Good,” Herbert said. “Quiet's what we aim for.”

As he turned to leave, a young girl—Janey Broward—watched from the swings, her gaze steady and knowing. Herbert tipped his hat to her, feeling the valley's approval in the way the wind eased.

Herbert's walks grew shorter, but one evening he ventured to the ridge above Atlas Quarry, where the stone walls dropped sharp into shadowed water.

The quarry had been a beast in its prime, blasting limestone for the cement that built Birmingham's skyline. Now, it lay dormant, replaced by a much larger quarry closer to the center of Leeds. 

Its veins remembered the dynamite and the men who'd fed it. Herbert pressed a hand to the rock, feeling the faint warmth beneath the chill—a seam of heat from old fires, much like the smoldering coals in the Red Diamond mines west of Scott City. “You holdin'?” he whispered. The ground hummed back, steady but fading, as if acknowledging his question without needing to answer.

He found Randall there, on the ridge, staring out as the sun dipped low. The boy—now teetering on the edge of manhood—stood with feet planted wide, head tilted in that listening way.

“You hear it?” Herbert asked. Randall nodded. “It’s… different today.”

Herbert smiled. “Different how?” “Quieter,” Randall said. “But not asleep.”

“That’s how you want it,” Herbert replied. “Quiet that’s awake can tell you when somethin’s wrong.”

He withdrew the lantern and set it on the ground between them.

Randall’s breath caught. “You don’t usually bring that.”

“Well,” Herbert said softly, “I won’t always be walkin’ this far.”

The lantern warmed immediately, its glow deepening—not flaring, not demanding, just recognizing.

Herbert felt it loosen in his hands, like something easing into place.

“Well,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That answers that.”

Randall looked panicked. “I don’t know how to—”

“You don’t need to,” Herbert said gently. “Lantern ain’t askin’ you to work. It’s askin’ you to listen.” He stepped back. The valley did not follow him.

That night, Herbert did not light the lantern before bed.

For the first time in decades, it rested dark on the table.

Herbert slept anyway.

He did not wake again.

They found him the next morning, peaceful in his chair, the window cracked to the cold air. The lantern sat nearby, unlit but warm.

 No one knew what to do with it.

So they left it where it was.

Randall didn’t take the lantern that day.

He didn’t take it the next either.

The Guild never rushed these things.

Janey watched him from the doorway. “You don’t have to hurry,” she said.

Randall nodded. “I know.”

That night, Randall lay awake listening to the ground beneath his home.

He felt the rails hum in the distance.

Felt the quarry hold.

Felt the river move without rising.

Everything was balanced.

Everything was waiting.

And for the first time, Randall understood something Herbert had never said out loud: Listening wasn’t about hearing more.

It was about knowing when the lantern would be ready— and when you were.

The Watchers

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I’m excited to share that THE WATCHERS, a new chronicle in The Handyman’s Guild world, is now complete. This one sits a little quieter on the shelf, but it carries weight. It’s about the people who notice what others pass by, who keep an eye on things that don’t quite sit right, and who step in gently—often without credit—before small problems become lasting damage.

Like the other Guild stories, The Watchers is rooted in familiar places and ordinary lives, the kind where front porches matter, tools are handed down, and wisdom often comes without a spotlight. It fits alongside The Handyman’s Guild, The Quarry Keeper, and The Apprentices, but it also stands on its own as a reminder that much of what keeps us safe and steady is done quietly, by folks you may never notice at all.

As always, these stories grow out of reflection—about where we live, who we depend on, and the unseen work that holds things together. Thank you for continuing to read along here at Simple Contemplations. Sometimes the most meaningful work doesn’t announce itself—it just gets done.

Get THE WATCHERS on Amazon