Slidell, The Big Easy, The Monkees, and Blue Crabs

 Slidell, The Big Easy, The Monkees, and Blue Crabs

One of my favorite childhood memories is a summer vacation trip we took to Slidell, Louisiana.

My dad was born late in my grandmother’s life and, becaus of that, he had several nephews who were actually pretty close to him in age. One of his favorites was John Rooker, the son of my Aunt Audey. At the time, John was working on an oil rig somewhere out in the Gulf. As I remember it, he worked a week on and then had a week off.

John lived in Slidell, Louisiana, and sometime during the summer of either 1966 or 1967, he invited Dad to load up the family and come down for a visit.

Me and my sisters, Janet and Lisa, were absolutely beside ourselves. We were taking a road trip—a real road trip. Before then, the farthest we had traveled from Leeds, Alabama, was to Panama City Beach or St. Augustine, Florida. Louisiana seemed like it was halfway across the country.

Dana hadn’t been born yet, so it was just Dad, Mom, Janet, Lisa, and me.

On the morning our trip began, we all piled into Dad’s 1964 Impala SuperSport and hit the road. I don’t remember much about the drive itself. Dad pretty much drove straight through, stopping only once or twice for bathroom breaks. There were no video games, cell phones, tablets, or movies to keep three kids entertained in the back seat. We had the scenery, each other, and probably more than a few arguments over who was taking up too much room.

Somehow, we survived.

When we finally pulled up at John’s house in Slidell, we practically exploded out of the car. After all those hours riding, we were ready to move.

Our cousins Donna, Tammy, and Jonathan were waiting for us. Donna was about the same age as my sister Janet, Tammy was a few years younger, and Jonathan was probably four or five at the time.

While our parents unloaded the car, us kids headed straight for the backyard, where John had built some sort of cabin for the kids to play in.

Or was it a treehouse?

After almost sixty years, some of those little details get fuzzy.

What I do remember is that the thing was awesome.

When it was finally time to go inside, all of us kids kept yakking away about the important things in life—our hobbies, school, and, most importantly, The Monkees.

Donna had the new Monkees album, and I’m pretty sure we played “Last Train to Clarksville” at least a hundred times during that visit. If the adults got tired of hearing it, they never let on. Or maybe they did and we just weren’t listening.

After dinner, everybody finally began to wind down, and eventually we shuffled off to wherever we had been assigned to sleep.

The next morning brought one of the biggest surprises of the whole trip.

Dad and John left early and headed somewhere down toward the Gulf. A few hours later, they came back carrying a burlap bag filled with live blue crabs and shrimp.

Now, for a kid from Leeds, Alabama, this was something to see.

John had a huge cast-iron kettle set up over an open fire in the backyard. He filled it about halfway with water and spices, then added the blue crabs, shrimp, potatoes, and corn on the cob.

While everything cooked, he covered the picnic table with several layers of newspaper.

Once it was ready, there were no fancy serving dishes and no carefully arranged plates. They simply dumped the whole steaming mess right there in the middle of the newspaper-covered picnic table.

I thought it was wonderful.

There was something about being a kid and being told it was perfectly acceptable to reach into that pile with your bare hands, grab whatever looked good, and eat until you couldn’t hold another bite.

Crabs. Shrimp. Potatoes. Corn.

We ate until we were thoroughly stuffed.

I remember sitting there thinking that we ought to eat like this all the time.

That crab and shrimp boil became one of those childhood meals that has stayed tucked away in my memory all these years. I have eaten plenty of good seafood since then, but none of it has ever tasted quite like that.

Maybe it wasn’t really the food.

Maybe it was being a kid.

The next few days were pretty normal. The adults sat around relaxing and talking about whatever it is adults talk about while they think the kids aren’t listening.

As for us, we spent our days hanging around Donna’s room listening to The Monkees, playing outside in that cabin—or treehouse—and enjoying the simple pleasure of being with cousins we didn’t get to see very often.

Eventually, though, it was time to start thinking about home.

Since Slidell sits just across Lake Pontchartrain from New Orleans, there was no way Dad was going to take us all the way to Louisiana without visiting The Big Easy.

So we said goodbye to the Rookers, piled back into the Impala, and headed toward New Orleans.

We drove onto the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway, and to three kids from Alabama it seemed like we were driving straight across the ocean. Janet, Lisa, and I stayed glued to the windows, looking out at water in every direction.

Twenty-four miles of bridge seemed impossible to me.

Now here is the strange part.

I really don’t remember much about New Orleans.

You would think a place like New Orleans would have burned itself permanently into the memory of a kid, but apparently it didn’t. I remember walking the length of Bourbon Street, but at that age there really wasn’t much there that interested me.

What I remember much better is what happened afterward.

We got back into the Impala and headed toward Pascagoula, Mississippi, where Dad had more cousins.

They lived on a large farm, and fortunately for us, watermelons were in season.

Not just watermelons.

Huge watermelons.

Dad’s cousin told us kids to go out into the field and find a couple of the biggest ones we could find.

Well, you didn’t have to tell Janet and me twice.

We headed into that field like we had just been given the most important assignment of our young lives. Before long, we found two monsters that we were convinced had to be the biggest watermelons in Mississippi.

There was only one problem.

We couldn’t carry them.

Dad and his cousin eventually came out and hauled them back to the car for us.

The trunk of the Impala was already packed with luggage, so those two giant watermelons had to ride home in the floorboard—one behind Mom and the other behind Dad.

I imagine those watermelons probably had more legroom than us kids did.

Once we left Pascagoula, Dad high-tailed it toward Leeds.

The minute we got home, Janet and I started hounding him to cut one of those watermelons.

And I have to tell you, those were the best watermelons I have ever eaten.

Ever.

Were they really the best watermelons ever grown?

Probably not.

But in my memory they were.

Just like that crab and shrimp boil.

Just like Donna’s Monkees album playing “Last Train to Clarksville” over and over.

Just like that cabin—or treehouse—in John’s backyard.

And just like three kids staring out the windows of a 1964 Impala SuperSport as their dad drove them across Lake Pontchartrain toward a place they had only heard about.

Funny how memories work.

Almost sixty years later, I don’t remember much about Bourbon Street. I don’t remember where we stopped for gas, what motel we may have stayed in, or most of the miles we traveled.

But I remember the blue crabs.

I remember The Monkees.

I remember those watermelons.

And most of all, I remember being with family.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll probably say it again.

The best trips aren’t necessarily the ones that take you the farthest or cost the most money.

Sometimes the best trips are the ones where you pile into an old Chevrolet, go visit some cousins, eat something with your hands, play the same record a hundred times, and come home with two giant watermelons taking up all the room in the floorboard.

Those are the trips you remember.

 family and friends are the best.

When the silence gets loud

If you've ever tried to create something and share it with the world, you've probably discovered that the hardest part isn't writing it. It isn't editing it. It isn't even finding the courage to publish it.

The hardest part is the silence that follows.

I've reached that point more than once over the past few years. After spending countless hours researching local history, developing characters, and writing stories that are deeply rooted in the places I love, I naturally hope someone will read them. Every author does.

I don't expect overnight success. I don't expect bestseller lists or movie deals. I never started writing for that. I simply wanted to tell stories that might entertain someone while preserving a little of the history and spirit of the communities that shaped me.

Still, I'd be lying if I said the silence doesn't sometimes get to me.

There are moments when I wonder if anyone is listening at all.

Not long ago, I gave a copy of one of my books, along with a personal letter, to someone I thought might appreciate the story and the way it honored our local community. More than a month has passed, and as far as I know, neither the book nor letter has ever been opened.

I don't mention that as a complaint or to single anyone out. Life is busy. People have responsibilities that are far more important than reading a novel written by a retired guy from Leeds. I understand that completely.

What it reminded me of, though, is something every writer eventually learns: once a book leaves your hands, you no longer control where it goes—or whether it goes anywhere at all.

Writing can be a lonely pursuit.

Sometimes I look at sales reports that barely move. Sometimes I share a post online that I hope will spark a conversation, only to watch it quietly drift past in the endless current of social media. It's hard not to wonder whether anyone is really seeing any of it.

You begin to question yourself.

Was the story good enough?

Did I miss the mark?

Should I even write another one?

Then I remember why I started.

I didn't begin writing because I expected fame or fortune. I wrote because I love stories. I love Leeds. I love Alabama history. I love imagining that extraordinary things might be hiding beneath ordinary places. I enjoy creating characters who quietly make the world a little better without expecting recognition.

Maybe that's the lesson I need to learn myself.

Not every worthwhile thing is immediately noticed.

The teacher who changes a student's life may never hear "thank you." The neighbor who quietly helps others may never receive recognition. The handyman who fixes something before anyone notices it was broken doesn't expect applause.

Perhaps writers are much the same.

Our job isn't to make people read.

Our job is simply to write the best stories we can, release them into the world, and hope that, sooner or later, they find the people who need them.

If one reader discovers something meaningful in my books... if someone becomes curious about the history of our little corner of Alabama... if a family spends an evening talking about places they thought they already knew... then every hour spent at the keyboard has been worthwhile.

Would I like to sell more books?

Absolutely.

Would I enjoy hearing from more readers?

Without question.

But until then, I'll keep writing.

Stories have a way of finding their audience, even if they travel more slowly than we'd like.

And as long as I still have stories to tell, I'll keep planting those seeds and trusting that someday, somewhere, one of them will take root.

It's Summertime and the world is changing

 Update: The Apprentices

Summertime has arrived in Alabama, and if there is one thing I have learned about summer, it is that things have a way of changing when you aren't paying attention.

School lets out. Plans get made. Young people who seemed perfectly content with where they were only a few months ago suddenly find themselves standing at a crossroads, wondering which road they ought to take.

And that is exactly where we find The Apprentices.

For a while now, Makaley, JD, Sean, and Dezi have been serving as Watchers—learning that there are things happening around us that most folks never notice. They have followed the signs, listened when others didn't, and stepped into situations when common sense probably told them to turn around and go home.

But this summer, things are different.

For the moment, at least, The Apprentices are stepping back from their duties as Watchers.

Life, it seems, has come calling.

JD

JD Sawyer has just completed basic training at Kelly Air Force Base.

After weeks of discipline, early mornings, orders, and learning what it means to become part of something much larger than himself, JD has finally returned home for a little while.

And there was somebody particularly happy to see him.

Makaley.

The two are enjoying some much-needed R & R together before JD receives his first deployment. Neither of them knows exactly what that deployment will mean—or how long they might once again be apart.

For now, they aren't worrying too much about it.

Sometimes you just have to enjoy the days you've been given.

Dezi

Dezi Whitlock has begun an adventure of her own.

She has officially kicked off her career in the United States Army and is currently going through basic training at Fort Jackson, South Carolina.

I can't help but smile imagining Dezi there.

Anyone who knows her probably understands why.

Somewhere at Fort Jackson there is undoubtedly a drill sergeant who hasn't quite figured her out yet.

Give it time.

Dezi has always been smart, independent, and more comfortable figuring out how something works than accepting somebody else's explanation of how it is supposed to work.

The Army may change Dezi.

Then again, Dezi might change the Army a little bit.

Sean

Sean “Twitch” McCready is still in school and is expected to graduate in 2027.

And apparently, school isn't the only thing occupying his attention these days.

There is a new love interest in Sean's life.

I'll leave it at that for now.

A fellow ought to be allowed a few secrets.

There is also a rumor floating around that Sean intends to enlist in the United States Marine Corps after graduation.

Knowing Sean, I wouldn't bet against it.

He has always had that restless streak in him—that need to find out what is waiting beyond the next hill.

The Marines might just suit him.

Makaley

And then there is Makaley Broward.

Makaley is learning something that every young person eventually discovers:

Life after school doesn't come with a syllabus.

There are no teachers telling you where to be next period. No bells ringing to remind you that it is time to move along. Suddenly, the choices belong to you.

All of them.

She and JD have finally reunited after his time away at basic training, and for the moment they are simply enjoying being together again.

But Makaley has some decisions of her own to make.

She recently turned down an opportunity to join a crew in NASCAR—something that would have seemed almost tailor-made for a girl who has always loved fast cars and isn't particularly afraid of taking chances.

Why did she turn it down?

Maybe even Makaley isn't completely sure yet.

She is weighing her options and trying to decide what comes next.

And perhaps that is exactly what she needs to be doing.

And What About the Watchers?

So, for now, the Apprentices are scattered.

JD is preparing for his first deployment.

Dezi is marching her way through basic training.

Sean is finishing school, discovering romance, and apparently thinking about becoming a Marine.

And Makaley is standing at one of those wonderful and terrifying crossroads where almost anything is possible.

Their duties as Watchers have taken a back seat.

But I wouldn't count them out just yet.

Because one thing we have learned from The Handyman's Guild, The Quarry Keeper, The Watchers, The Apprentices, and now Fault Lines is that the strange things happening beneath our little corner of Alabama don't particularly care about our plans.

The old mines are still there.

The tunnels are still there.

The rivers still run beneath the ground.

And somewhere, tucked away where most people would never think to look, there is probably a ledger waiting for another name.

For the first time in quite a while, Makaley, JD, Sean, and Dezi are trying to live ordinary lives.

I hope they enjoy it.

Something tells me it won't last.

—Ron Howard

Ronald Howard Fiction

 Ronald Howard Fiction

Discover the Hidden World of Leeds, Alabama A Heartfelt Southern Series of Quiet Magic, Legacy, and Unseen Heroes

In the small towns of Alabama, an ancient brotherhood works in the shadows—fixing what breaks, protecting what others cannot see, and passing down a legacy of quiet courage. Welcome to the world of the Handyman’s Guild.

The Complete Collection – Now Available

Born in 1955, Randall Broward grows from a curious boy into a man shaped by near-misses and unseen guidance. When he inherits the Guild’s mysterious lantern and ledger, he learns he was being prepared all along. Spanning six decades, this reflective Southern tale follows Randall through childhood adventures, heartbreak, renewal, and the quiet work of learning to “fix what people don’t see breaking.” As his own season fades, he must guide the next generation. Heartfelt, mysterious, and deeply human—a story about legacy and small acts of courage.

Before Randall ever carried the lantern, old Herbert Nash watched over the hidden dangers beneath the quarries of Leeds. When a violent summer storm awakens a deadly fault, young Randall—gifted with rare hearing—joins the old Keeper for a night that will change the valley forever. A haunting, heartfelt origin story of Randall’s calling and the Guild’s long presence in the land.

Set along the rivers, rail lines, quarries, and back streets of Leeds, this is the story of Randall’s youth, his fearless sister Janey, and the quiet figures who watched over them. Part coming-of-age tale, part regional myth, The Watchers explores what it means to care for a place, intervene without credit, and accept that some work is meant to remain unseen.

Four teens. One mysterious crate. A lantern that glows with a life of its own. Makaley Broward and her friends—JD, Sean, and Dezi—discover impossible tools marked HG and awaken the dormant Handyman’s Guild. Drawn from different Alabama towns, they must learn to trust each other and the strange call that chose them. Something dangerous is stirring beneath their communities… and only they can fix what’s coming undone. Warm, thrilling, and full of friendship and quiet heroism.

Six months after holding the river line, Makaley and the apprentices are drawn east to Ashville—where an ancient stagecoach route hums with Guild energy, the courthouse hides something older than the town, and pressure beneath the ridge begins to rise. Past and present collide as they decide whether they are simply fixing what’s broken—or inheriting a legacy that was always waiting.

Beneath Margaret, Acmar, and Leeds lies a hidden history of coal mines, family ties, and forces that refuse to stay buried. As past and present shift, ordinary people are drawn into something far larger than themselves. Blending local history with subtle mystery, Fault Lines explores fractures in the earth—and in our lives—that wait… and when they move, everything above them changes.

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Available Now in Paperback and Kindle eBook Search “Ronald Howard” on Amazon or visit the author page directly.

Perfect for readers who love Southern fiction, gentle mystery, folklore, coming-of-age stories, and tales of quiet heroism and community.

Start your journey with The Handyman’s Guild — then explore the full world of the Handyman’s Guild.

Thank you for reading. Ronald Howard Fiction Small towns. Big hearts. Invisible hands at work.

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.