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.

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.