Feedback. Constant Feedback.

 Feedback. Constant Feedback.

As human existence progresses, are we reaching the point where we no longer have the ability to function without feedback?

I can remember a time in my life when I was told that if I had self-esteem, it really didn’t matter what other people thought of me—or my performance. Apparently, those days are gone.

Now, if I buy hemorrhoid cream at Walmart, I’m expected to provide feedback on the transaction.

Was I happy with my purchase?

Was I happy with the price?

Was I happy with the service?

I’m usually quite happy with the service at Walmart, by the way. After all, I find the merchandise, select it, scan it, bag it, and sometimes even have to hunt down an employee when the machine decides I’m trying to steal something.

I give myself five stars.

So why do I keep getting emails and text messages reminding me that I need to provide feedback on my experience?

Then there are the doctor visits.

As a not-so-healthy senior citizen, I visit various doctors fairly often. Sometimes I actually get a one-on-one with the doctor. Other times I just run into the office for a quick blood draw—in and out in about fifteen minutes.

I do the latter quite often, and still, before I’ve even gotten home, the texts and emails begin.

Tell us about your visit.

I have a hard time resisting sarcasm when I provide feedback on those particular visits. I’m tempted to leave comments that read something like this:

Got to the clinic. Signed in. Waited until called. Went back to the lab and had blood sucked from my arm. Went home.

End of story.

It’s not just Walmart or the doctor’s office. It seems to be almost every place where we shop or receive some sort of service.

Got new tires at Pep Boys?

Provide feedback.

Did the technician smile?

Does that really matter?

Did they put four round tires on my truck?

Yes. It appears so.

Was I happy with the price?

No. Not really.

Then I order a shirt from Amazon and watch the delivery driver drop-kick the package onto my top step, leaving it in clear view of any passing porch pirate.

Five minutes later, the text arrives.

Your package has been delivered. Provide feedback.

Did your package arrive on time?

I guess so.

How was your service?

Uh…okay, I guess.

I’m just glad there wasn’t any glassware in the package.

And then there is Facebook and Instagram.

This is where things get a little uncomfortable because suddenly I’m like a young boy seeking the approval of his father.

I try to be clever. I write a short essay. I dig through old photographs until I find just the right one to accompany it. Heck, I might even use AI to fabricate the most fascinating image imaginable.

Then I post it.

And wait.

Check the post.

Wait.

Check the post again.

Surely by now somebody has commented on just how intelligent, witty, insightful, or downright amazing I am.

Crickets.

Maybe my friends are busy.

I’ll wait a little longer.

Some posts get comments. Some don’t. And that’s really okay.

Although I do occasionally wonder why all my friends have forsaken me.

That’s a joke.

Honestly.

Still, it makes me wonder: When did the need to both give and receive feedback on every little mundane thing we do become so important?

Do human beings really require feedback just to make it through the day?

Will Walmart suffer if I neglect my civic duty to rate a transaction where I did most of the work myself?

Will my doctor stop seeing me if I fail to rate the performance of the nice young woman who stuck a needle in my arm?

And if nobody clicks the little thumbs-up button on something I wrote, does that mean nobody liked it?

Or does it simply mean they read it, smiled, and went on with their day?

There was a time when that was enough.

At least, I think that was the point I was trying to make when I started writing this.

But let’s face it. I’m old. The mind wanders. One minute I’m complaining about Walmart wanting me to review a tube of hemorrhoid cream, and the next thing I know I’m contemplating the emotional needs of modern civilization.

I’ve already forgotten where I was going with this.

Perhaps some feedback would help.

Tips and feedback.

Two things I really think we could do with a lot less of.

If I’m lucky, maybe a grammarian will provide some feedback on this essay and remind me that I should never end a sentence with a preposition.

Which, of course, is exactly the sort of thing I could do without.

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.