Weekend with the Barbers

It’s a Friday night in the summer of 1967, and my dad has just gotten home from work. Mom has supper on the table, and we all gather around for the evening meal like families did back then. No one is staring at a phone. No one is rushing off to separate rooms. We sit together and talk about the day.

But me and my sisters are in a hurry to finish eating because Dad has announced that we’re going to visit Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan over in Markeeta.

That was all we needed to hear.

The grownups would spend the evening drinking coffee, playing cards, and discussing whatever it was adults talked about in 1967. Meanwhile, the house would fill with the wonderful chaos of cousins finding their favorite cousins.

Layne would be in the den practicing his trumpet, trying his best to master The Lonely Bull by Herb Alpert. Danny would be in his room lifting weights and working on his abs long before most folks even knew what abs were. Tony, the artist of the family, would be quietly painting an oil landscape somewhere in the house.

Curtis and I usually disappeared into his room where he’d proudly show off his latest model airplane while giving me a complete military history lesson on every aircraft sitting on his shelf. I remember thinking that I wished I were even half as smart as he was.

Janet would gravitate toward Stephen while Lisa spent most of the evening with Cindy and William.

To modern teenagers, it probably sounds unbearably boring.

To me, it sounds like home.

Nobody turned on the television. We didn’t need it. We talked, laughed, played games, and entertained ourselves just fine. Curtis and I played several heated games of Battleship while secretly discussing our real plan for the weekend.

What our parents didn’t know was that Janet and I had already hidden a change of clothes in the car.

We intended to spend the entire weekend in Markeeta.

Our parents simply hadn’t been informed yet.

When it was finally time for Mom and Dad to leave, we casually asked if we could stay. It wasn’t much of a battle. Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan never seemed to mind a couple of extra kids underfoot.

We changed into our pajamas and went to bed, already excited about Saturday.

Saturday mornings in those days had their own rhythm. We’d get up early and watch a little Popeye the Sailor and Woody Woodpecker while Aunt Nell cooked breakfast. We had grits with cream and sugar and washed them down with cold milk.

After breakfast, nobody paid another bit of attention to the television. There was a whole world outside waiting for us.

The older kids headed out toward the abandoned strip mines that had closed years earlier. Lisa, Cindy, and William wanted badly to go with us, but we waited until Aunt Nell distracted them before slipping quietly out the back door and heading up the ridge.

About a hundred and fifty yards behind the house sat one of the old strip pits. We’d stand carefully at the edge and peer down before taking the trail south toward another pit closer to Interstate 20. That particular spot was good for finding fossils, and before long we had all collected little fern impressions trapped in stone from some forgotten age.

From there we wandered farther west toward the old Red Diamond Mines and crossed the remains of an old railroad trestle. By then the rails were gone and most of the bridge dismantled, leaving behind only the massive stone pillars standing like ancient ruins in the woods.

By lunchtime we were starved.

Back at the house, Aunt Nell had a giant pot of goulash waiting on the stove. We each grabbed a bowl and another tall glass of milk before heading back outside almost immediately.

The day was far from over.

That afternoon we walked down the Markeeta Road toward the old commissary building, abandoned even then after the mines had shut down. Years later someone would restore it into a home, but at the time it stood empty and weathered, like a leftover piece of another world.

We turned left at the commissary and headed toward the old Number Eight Mine. As we got closer, large cracks appeared in the ground with foul-smelling smoke drifting slowly upward. Somewhere beneath us, coal was still burning deep underground. I later learned there was no safe way to extinguish those fires, so they were simply left to burn themselves out over time.

Even as kids, we knew better than to go exploring inside the mine itself.

Bravery only goes so far.

Instead, we followed a worn trail down to the Blue Hole along the Cahaba River. We spent hours exploring the riverbanks before finally taking the long trail back home, eventually coming out near Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan’s backyard once again.

At the time it felt like we had walked a hundred miles that day.

Truthfully, it probably wasn’t all that far.

But time has a funny way of sanding the edges of memory smooth. Distances seemed longer back then. Days lasted forever. Summers felt endless.

And the memories somehow grow sweeter with every passing year.

I’d love to walk those old trails again someday, but time has changed the route. Fences now block many of the paths we once wandered freely. Houses and shopping centers sit atop places where mines once ran deep underground. And while my seventy-year-old mind still wants to explore every inch of those hills again, my seventy-year-old knees occasionally suggest otherwise.

Still, every now and then, on a quiet evening, I can close my eyes and hear Layne practicing his trumpet, smell Aunt Nell’s goulash cooking on the stove, and see a gang of cousins disappearing up the ridge toward another summer adventure.

And for a little while, Markeeta lives again.

The Apprentices: FAULT LINES

Beneath the towns of central Alabama, the ground remembers.

Old coal seams stretch from Lovick through Leeds, Markeeta, Acmar, and Margaret—carrying more than water and stone. They carry the weight of everything that’s been taken, built, and forgotten.

When subtle shifts begin to ripple along that hidden line, Makaley Broward and her friends find themselves drawn into work they barely understand. What starts as quiet observation quickly becomes something more: decisions that must be made without certainty, risks that can’t be undone, and a growing realization that not every problem can be fixed—only guided.

With the help of a steady but watchful police chief and the quiet wisdom of those who came before, the apprentices learn that the land doesn’t need saving.

It needs listening.

As curiosity leads others into places long left alone—and danger begins to follow—Makaley must step into a role she never asked for, carrying a responsibility that offers no recognition and no clear answers.

Only consequences.

Set against the rivers, rail lines, and forgotten works of the South, The Apprentices: Fault Lines is a coming-of-age story shaped by place, memory, and the unseen balance between what lies above and what runs below.

Because some lines aren’t meant to be crossed.

They’re meant to be understood.

Available now in paperback and for Kindle

Letting Go

Today I finally decided to clean out my office.

Now, I’ve never thought of myself as a hoarder, but judging by what I found, I may need to reconsider that position. There were remnants of forty years in the commercial door and hardware business tucked into every corner—business cards, lanyards, convention name tags, trade magazines. Even little things like lapel pins, coasters, and coffee mugs. The pile seemed to grow the longer I stood there looking at it.

And truth be told, what you see in the picture doesn’t even scratch the surface.

Which led me to a simple question…
Why?

Why do I hang on to these things? Why is it so hard to let go of a life once lived—a life where I kept my nose to the grindstone, working to support my family and build a career?

A lot of the people who handed me those business cards are no longer here. Others have moved on to different paths. And some, well… life just carried us in different directions.

But as I stood there, I realized something. This isn’t about regret.

I am retired now, and I am living a good life. Susan and I wake up without alarm clocks and without deadlines. We work on our old house, tend to the garden, and enjoy the simple rhythm of the seasons. Sometimes we travel. Sometimes we just sit and enjoy the quiet.

And there is a peace in that… a deep, steady kind of peace.

Still, I suppose I held on to all that old work “stuff” because it felt like a connection—to who I was, to what I did, and maybe even to the idea that I might need it again someday.

But let’s be honest… at seventy years old, I’m not looking to go back to work. I don’t miss the responsibility. I do miss a few of the people, but not the daily grind.

So, there it is.

It’s time to let go.

The office will look a lot better without all that clutter. There will be room now for things that matter today, instead of things that belonged to yesterday.

And maybe—just maybe—Susan won’t have to ask me, “Why do you keep all that old stuff?” ever again.

Although… knowing me, I might hang on to just a little of it.

After all, a life well lived tends to leave a few keepsakes behind.

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