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.

Scuba Tanks, Water Towers, and the Foolishness of Youth

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

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

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

The first happened the year I graduated from high school.

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

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

There was just one small detail.

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

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

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

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

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

Problem solved.

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

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

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

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

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

There was only one small problem.

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

Well, it turns out those weights serve a purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

But that was only the beginning.

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

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

Naturally, I had to learn too.

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

To my surprise, I actually did pretty well.

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

The real trouble started the following Monday at work.

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

They were impressed.

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

Now here’s where things took a turn.

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

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

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

No pressure.

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

For a moment everything went perfectly.

Then my rope knotted up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And truth be told…

He usually tells it better than I do.

Camping, Trampolines, and Runaway Trailers

 

The fog is starting to settle in, creating an ever-thickening haze over childhood memories and fond recollections. As hard as I try, some memories just don’t come back. Why didn’t I inherit the same sharp, indexed memory as my sister Janet? When the four of us—Janet, Lisa, Dana, and me—sit together and trade old family stories, I often feel like the one who came unprepared. Janet will tell a story in detail, then end with, “You remember that, right?” I’ll shrug and admit I don’t. She gives me a little glare and a harrumph!—as if I’ve betrayed our shared history. Lord knows I try to remember. I want to join in, to laugh along, to add my own threads to the tapestry. But sometimes those memories are gone. 

Still, I’ve held on to the ones that matter most—the voices of people I loved. I can still hear Melissa’s warm “Hey, honey” across the telephone line when I called her during my mid-morning work break. I can hear Mom’s cheerful “Hey Ronald, it’s your mom” on an answering machine message that I still replay to myself when I need to hear her voice.  And I can hear Dad’s corniest jokes, delivered with such timing that even today, when I repeat them, I hear his voice, not mine. It’s funny—some memories make dents, some leave holes, and some of the tiniest little moments end up shaping who we are. 

 One of those shaping moments came from something as simple as a summer vacation. My mom, Ola Lynette Stone Howard, was the youngest daughter of a coal miner and a switchboard operator. My dad, LeRoy—the man with no middle name—was the son of a farmer and a housewife. They both grew up in small communities near Leeds: Dad in Eden and Mom in Markeeta. Neither of them had much, but together they gave us everything we needed. Vacations were never fancy. We didn’t fly on airplanes or stay in hotels. But what we had were weeks at Wind Creek State Park, Panama City Beach, Destin, St. Augustine, and New Orleans. To this day, I’d take those memories over any resort. Our very first weeklong vacation was to Wind Creek. Dad had worked for weeks gathering everything we would need for camping: a big family tent, a Coleman stove and lantern, folding cots, sleeping bags, and even an outboard motor to use with a rented boat. We were set for adventure—except for one problem. We were a single-car family, and Dad’s pride and joy was his 1964 Chevy Impala Super Sport. With bucket seats in the front and the four of us packed into the back, there was no way to fit all the camping gear in the trunk. Dad did the only thing he could—he rented a U-Haul trailer. The hitch clamped onto the bumper, and after hours of fiddling, Dad had it attached, loaded, and chained. He tossed in the gear, the food, and the gas cans, and we headed south. Somewhere between Chelsea and Harpersville, we hit a bump. The trailer jumped off the hitch and, still tied by its safety chains, began bucking like a rodeo bull behind the car. Dad eased off the gas, gripping the wheel, trying not to let it slam into the rear of the Impala. When he finally got us stopped, the trailer lurched forward and slid up close to the bumper like a scolded child. When Dad opened the trailer doors, chaos spilled out—everything was jumbled, dented, tossed about like a giant had given it a good shake. Worse yet, the hitch was bent. Dad managed to prop it back onto the bumper and tightened the chains, limping us slowly into Harpersville. There, a kind mechanic heated the metal with a torch, hammered it back into shape, and refused a dime for the work. He just smiled and said, “Get your family to Wind Creek.” 

 We did make it to Wind Creek and it was worth every moment of trouble. We swam in the lake, bounced on the in-ground trampolines, roasted marshmallows by the fire, and made friends with a neighboring family who camped beside us for years afterward. Mom and Dad made friends easily, but nobody could outdo Dad—he never met a stranger, only friends he hadn’t spoken to yet. As for me, I spent part of that week trailing along behind Dad as he chased his ever-elusive trophy bass. I don’t recall whether he ever caught it. What I do remember is that he kept on trying, and that I was right there with him. Looking back now, I realize life was simpler then. Our parents couldn’t give us the world, but they gave us the time, the care, and the memories that have lasted a lifetime. Those runaway trailers and trampoline jumps live inside me alongside the voices of those I miss. 

Life was simple back then, Life was good, and I sure do miss those days. 

Cousins Make the Best Friends

 

Cousins Make the Best Friends

When you're a kid, cousins are more than just extended family—they’re your first best friends, your co-conspirators, your partners in crime. For me, time spent with the Barber cousins was golden, filled with scraped knees, laughter, and long summer days that seemed to stretch on forever.

I was still in elementary school when Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan moved their big family from Gate City out to Markeeta, Alabama. They settled into a house on the winding Markeeta Road between Moody and the far end of Lane Drive. Back then, that area was wide open for exploring—woods, fields, and the old strip mines that carved their way through the land like scars from another era. It was a boy's paradise.

Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan had six kids—seven, once Cindy arrived. Layne was the oldest, and I thought he was the coolest guy on earth. He played trumpet in the high school band and spent hours listening to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, working tirelessly to master “The Lonely Bull.” Next came Danny—quiet, thoughtful, and strong. He was into weightlifting and had a strange habit of inviting us to punch him in the stomach just to prove how tough his abs were. After watching a documentary about Houdini, I remember thinking that might not be the smartest challenge to offer.

Then there was Tony, the artist. He had a real gift and went on to become art director for a television station in Dothan before eventually answering a higher calling and becoming a pastor. Curtis was closest to me in age and probably the smartest of the bunch. He could identify every military aircraft by silhouette, sound, or shadow. No surprise, he ended up a teacher and later a school principal. Then came Stephen, the jokester and tagalong. He was always up for an adventure and usually the first to start laughing and the last to stop. Cindy, the first girl in the lineup, had to be a little tough growing up in that house full of boys, but she held her own with charm and a sharp wit. And finally, there was William—funny, energetic, and endlessly entertaining. He had this ridiculous trick where he’d tuck his ears into his ear canals, run up to you, and pop them out at just the right moment. It never failed to make us laugh.

Weekends and summer days were filled with adventures. We'd hike the strip mines behind their house, wade in creeks, and roam as far as the Cahaba River. Sometimes we’d end up at a place called Blue Hole, a swimming spot near the Trussville Golf Club, or clamber over the massive concrete ruins of the old Washer Camp from the coal mining days—remnants long since buried under layers of dirt and time. After a day out in the Alabama sun, we’d come back to Aunt Nell’s kitchen for a steaming bowl of her goulash with a slab of cornbread on the side. Looking back, I think I would’ve moved in with Aunt Nell and Uncle Dan if I’d had the chance.

Eventually, Uncle Dan answered the call to pastor at Markeeta Baptist Church, and later the family moved again, this time to Harpersville. They lived in a big two-story house we called “the Hill House,” perched behind a cotton field off Highway 280. It had a cellar—always a mysterious place to a curious boy. My sisters and I would visit, running wild through the cotton fields, walking the railroad tracks, and exploring every nook and cranny of that old house and town.

By the time they moved to their next house, Layne and Danny were both grown and married. Curtis had taken to showing off the model airplanes he built with painstaking care. One summer, Curtis took me fishing at a little stream that ran through a nearby pasture. I scoffed at the idea of catching anything in such a shallow trickle—until he pulled out a big bream with his first cast. After that, I was hooked—pun intended. We fished together many times after that, upstream at the spring-fed pond that fed the creek, often tying our rods to our bikes and pedaling off at first light.

It’s funny how vivid those memories are—fishing in the summer sun, climbing through woods and ruins, chasing each other around the mines, ending the day with a meal and a good laugh. Life was simpler, sweeter somehow. And even as time passed and we all grew up and scattered, those moments stayed tucked away in my heart like prized possessions.

Today, I’m on the downhill side of life, and I find myself thinking more and more about those days. We only seem to come together now for funerals, standing in quiet circles of grief, catching up in hushed voices. But I want to change that. We’re all retired now, or near enough to it. Wouldn’t a cousins reunion be something? We could sit around swapping stories—about the time Layne let us ride around the mines in his VW Beetle, or when someone stuck a dart in William’s head (we all remember it; no one knows how it happened), or that wild first car ride with our cousin Kenny.

There’s still time for laughter. Still time for stories. And if I close my eyes, I can still hear the cicadas buzzing over the pasture, smell the goulash in Aunt Nell’s kitchen, and see William running at me, ears tucked in tight, ready to pop.

Cousins really do make the best friends.

1984: Heartbreak and a Year of Living Dangerously

 

1984: Heartbreak and a Year of Living Dangerously

Back in 1980, I packed up my whole life and moved to South Florida with Melissa, my wife. I’d landed a job as Chief Engineer for Firedoor Corporation of America in Miami. That title sounded mighty important at the time—had a nice ring to it on a business card—but truth be told, it didn’t change much. I was still doing the same kind of work, just with a shinier label. Still, the pay was better and I thought I was climbing the ladder.

Melissa and I settled into Hollywood, Florida—just a stone’s throw north of Miami—and except for a guy named Tom Stone, an old co-worker of mine, we didn’t know a soul down there. That kind of lonely gets into your bones after a while, but I was chasing something I couldn’t quite name. More money, more status, maybe just trying to prove something to myself.

My folks back in Leeds, Alabama, used to say they wished I’d find what I was looking for and settle down. What they meant was, “Come on back home, son.” But I’d gotten a taste of city life—restaurants, nightlife, even had a membership to the Miami Playboy Club where I’d take clients for lunch. Yeah, it was that kind of life.

Then everything changed.

Around 1983, Melissa started showing signs that something wasn’t right. She was off balance, got weak and confused at times. Eventually the doctors told us she had multiple sclerosis and sarcoidosis affecting her brain and lungs. It was like getting the wind knocked out of us, and the first doctor gave us hope that never really showed up.

After a few months of hospital visits and no improvement, we brought her back home to Birmingham and checked her into Brookwood Medical Center. That’s when we heard the hard truth. She wasn’t going to get better. We decided she’d stay with my folks in Leeds so I could keep working. They took such good care of her—waited on her hand and foot like she was royalty.

I brought her back to Florida for a while, but it was just too much. She couldn’t be alone, and I couldn’t be there all day. She started imagining things—wild stories she’d tell me when I got home, stuff that clearly hadn’t happened. That’s when I knew she was slipping away. Another doctor gave us the final blow: there was no recovery in sight. I sent her to spend some time with her family in North Carolina. We talked all the time, but my work started to suffer.

She came back to Florida one more time, but things got worse. She fell into a coma not long after being admitted to the hospital again. Her folks and younger brother came down to be with us.

On Valentine’s Day 1984, the doctors told me she wouldn’t make it through the night. That same day, my sister Lisa was in labor with my niece, Cory. I leaned down and whispered in Melissa’s ear, “Please don’t go today. Lisa’s in labor.” I like to think she heard me because she hung on a couple more days. She passed peacefully on the evening of February 16.

Her body was flown home to Birmingham, and two coworkers drove me back to Leeds. I was numb. I remember almost nothing from those days, just flashes. What I do remember is this: the love people had for Melissa. The funeral procession stretched for miles. My dad said, “If you want to know how much she was loved, just look behind us.”

I went back to Miami, but I was just going through the motions. I didn’t pray. I didn’t lean on my church. I was mad at God—angry in a way that only a broken man can be. I started drinking, then spiraling. The nights got longer, the mornings got harder. I’d wake up with hangovers in strange places—sometimes in Liberty City, sometimes in Little Havana. Bars, backseats, bad decisions.

I started mixing in drugs—weed, cocaine. I saw some dark things in that world. Beatings. A shooting. Honestly, I think I was trying to die without doing it myself. I just didn’t want to be here anymore. But, somehow, God didn’t let me go.

Then one day, Larry Masters called. We’d worked together back in Leeds. He said the company we worked for had moved to Dothan, Alabama, and they needed an Engineering Manager. I said, “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.” It was the first good decision I’d made in a while.

I flew to Dothan, took the job, rented a house, and started digging myself out of debt and despair. I still cried most nights, but work kept my hands busy. The new company was learning how to deal with custom architectural jobs, and I was the guy explaining the ins and outs of it all. That challenge helped steady me.

Then one day, Vic Shultz walked into my office.

Vic was all swagger—red-haired, straight outta Wisconsin, and full of confidence. He threw a little get-together at his apartment clubhouse and made it his mission to pull me out of my funk. We'd talk, sit around listening to music, and slowly I came back to life. Vic had just gotten out of a bad marriage—I never asked questions—and he was always chasing women. One day he was dating a convenience store manager named Margaret, and she had a roommate named Susan.

One night, Vic tells Margaret, “There’s this guy I work with, widowed, sad, good heart—you need to set him up with Susan.” Margaret brings it up to Susan who replies, “Fine, but the guy better not be expecting any hanky-panky.” (Her words, not mine.)

We went to dinner and then out dancing at a place called The Red Barn. I danced one dance—I’m awful—and then we mostly just talked. Susan could talk up a storm. She loved her kids, Tiffiny and Michael, and told me all about them. I liked her right away, but we didn’t see each other again for a while.

A few months later, I ran into her at the convenience store where she worked. We started talking again, and eventually we went out a second time. That night she told me more about her life, her friend Pat who was like a mother to her, and her family in Leesburg, Florida. When she talked about her kids, her whole face lit up.

She invited me over to meet them. Tiffiny put on a whole show, acting like a movie star. Michael came bursting in from outside yelling, “Mom, he’s got a limo!”—because of my tinted windows. I laughed harder than I had in months. When I left that night, all three of them hugged me. It felt like coming home.

The more time I spent with them, the more I felt like I belonged somewhere again.

One night, I told Susan I wanted to marry her—but I asked the kids first. Tiffiny ran to get Michael, and when I said I wanted to marry their mama, they both lit up. Michael hugged me and said, “I’m gonna have a Daddy!” I cried like a baby. We got married the very next day. Vic was my best man.

Not everyone tells this story the same. There are things about 1984 that are just between me and God. There are parts of Dothan I’ve left out on purpose, and Vic, bless him, has kept those chapters closed too.

I don’t see Vic much anymore—haven’t laid eyes on him since 1995—but he’s still in my life, in that quiet way only old friends can be. He shows up in my Facebook feed, and I know he’s still watching out for me.

So Vic, if you’re reading this—mark your calendar for the end of August. I’m coming to see you. We’ll drink to old times and new ones, to the wives we love and the kids that saved us. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll smoke a stogey and remember what it felt like to be invincible.