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.

Where Have All The June Bugs Gone?

 

Where Have All the June Bugs Gone?

Originally Inspired by a Blog Post from March 4, 2006
Reflected on Again—August 7, 2025

When I was a kid growing up in Alabama, catching June bugs was just about the most thrilling part of a summer day. They came buzzing through the humid mid-day heat like tiny, aimless helicopters, their wings humming, their flight paths unpredictable. We’d chase them through the backyard barefooted, laughing, dirt on our knees and twine in our pockets. And if we caught one—and we often did—we’d gently tie a piece of sewing thread around one of its legs and let it fly on a leash.

It was never cruel in our minds. It was joyful. The June bug danced in the air, tethered like a tiny kite, and we boys laughed and ran behind it as if we were somehow flying too. You could only keep one for a day, maybe less—before you had to let it go or watch it die. And yes, when one passed, we found a way to turn that into a prank, stiffened bug and all. We’d toss the dried body into some unsuspecting girl’s hair and laugh like fools as she shrieked and bolted for the porch, swatting wildly and calling for her mama. Mischievous? Sure. Harmless? Mostly. Memorable? Absolutely.

But this past weekend, Susan and I were working in the garden, pulling weeds and mowing the yard, and it struck me: I haven’t seen a June bug in years. Not a single one. No lazy buzz in the twilight, no telltale thump as one hits the porch light. Nothing. It’s as if they vanished when I wasn’t looking.

And so, I find myself asking: Where have all the June bugs gone?

Once they were everywhere, as much a part of summer as sweet tea and mosquito bites. I can’t say if they’ve moved on, if pesticides drove them out, or if time and climate have quietly erased them from the seasons. Maybe they’re still out there, just fewer in number. Maybe I’ve just stopped noticing.

What I do notice now, though, is how much I miss them—and the time they represented. Swimming in the creek, building forts in the woods, walking barefoot down a dirt road, catching lightning bugs in a mason jar. Life was slower then, simpler maybe, or at least it seemed that way through the eyes of a boy who had more curiosity than caution.

Today, I sometimes watch kids glued to their phones, indoors even on the finest summer day, and I wonder what their June bug will be. What memories will they chase in their later years? What harmless mischief will make them smile fifty years from now?

I suppose every generation mourns the fading sights and sounds of its own childhood. But I can’t help thinking we’ve lost something special when we lose the bugs, the creeks, the woods—and the freedom to roam.

So yes, I say it now with all the sincerity of a man who’s aged into nostalgia:
Save the June bugs.
Or at least remember them.

The Summer of ’68 and the Great Treehouse

A Story of Friendship, Bullies, and One Lost Tooth

It was the summer of 1968, and I had just turned thirteen. I was still a wimpy kid in most folks’ eyes—especially after the year I’d had. A year and half earlier, I’d spent time in the hospital with Huntington’s Chorea, what the old folks called St. Vitus Dance. It had left me shaky, jerky, and worst of all, unable to do the simplest thing most kids take for granted—tie my own shoes. That stayed with me until I was about fifteen. It was a humbling thing.

That summer, though, was supposed to be the start of something better.

School was going to change soon. Back then in Leeds, we didn’t have middle school. You went from seventh grade at Leeds Elementary straight over to the high school across town for eighth grade. It was a big leap. Everyone whispered stories about the upperclassmen and how they’d torment us—wedgies, ear thumps, ripping the locker loops off your shirts. I only ever got a few good ear thumps, but still, I wasn’t exactly eager about the change.

But before high school, there was still summer—and we planned to make the most of it.

Bart Mitchell, Dennis McGee, and Jeff White were still my best buddies, but they didn’t live in my neighborhood. I had to deal with the neighborhood bullies on my own. It seemed like every time we built a fort or a treehouse, they’d find it and either tear it down or take it over. So that year, we decided to stretch our boundaries.

My sisters and I had passes to the Leeds city pool, but you can only swim so many hours in a day. When we weren’t at the pool, we explored the woods. Back then, where Pinecrest Apartments stand now, it was all wild land—stretching from Highway 78 to Valley View Baptist, from President Street to Carolyn Street in Cahaba Hills. A kid could get lost in there all day.

That’s where we planned our next great treehouse—hidden away from the road and far enough from Rew Development to keep the bullies at bay.

I had started hanging out with Jack and Gary Meacham, and together with my sisters, we set out to build the ultimate treehouse. Valley View Baptist was building a new education wing, and it provided a steady supply of scrap lumber—no piece too small. We’d haul off what we could and spent weeks working on that thing. It was our clubhouse, our hideaway, our castle in the trees.

Jack and Gary didn’t come out much once the building was done, but one of my sisters’ friends, Terry Penny, visited now and again. For a while, the treehouse felt like the safest, most comfortable place in the world. Maybe too safe. I got careless and told a few too many people about it. Worse, I invited a couple to help finish it up. I won’t name names, but that turned out to be a mistake.

School started back in the fall, but after school, we’d still hang out there, adding little touches and just enjoying the space. Then one day, Jack and I decided to check on the treehouse—and found it ruined.

It was completely destroyed. Lumber was scattered everywhere, and some of it had ugly words scrawled on it—leaving little doubt who was responsible. Turns out, one of the people I’d trusted had gone to his buddies in Cahaba Hills and told them about it. They brought in a couple of the regular bullies, and together, they tore the whole thing apart.

I went home that day feeling sick and betrayed. I figured that was the end of it.

But Jack had other plans.

The next day at school, he was fired up. He was determined to call out the guys who’d done it and make them pay. Now, when I say “pay,” I mean a good old-fashioned fistfight. You see, we all rode the same school bus, and except for one, we all got off at the same stop—Rowan Springs.

Word spread fast. By the time the final bell rang, it seemed like half the bus knew about the fight and got off to watch.

Now here’s the thing: the treehouse was mostly mine. I was the one wronged. But I was also the wimpy kid. I’d only been in one fight before, and I got the “dog crap beat out of me,” as the saying goes. Knocked down over and over until a bystander took pity and broke it up.

So there I was that day—just an onlooker again. But Jack stepped up.

Funny thing is, Jack hadn’t even cared all that much about the treehouse. But he saw the injustice, and that was enough for him. He called out one of the guys—not even the ringleader, just one of the crew who helped tear it down.

The fight started—and what a fight it was.

They went at it for what seemed like an hour, both landing punches that would’ve made a prizefighter proud. The crowd was roaring. Then, near the end, Jack took a hard punch right to the face. He stood firm, but the other guy howled and said he’d broken his hand. That ended the fight.

Later, we figured out why—he’d actually broken one of Jack’s front teeth. Jack never fixed it. He wore that chipped tooth like a badge of honor from that day on.

Jack and I stayed good friends all through high school. After that, life scattered us. I spent most of the next forty years living in other states. Jack built a business not too far from Leeds. Whenever he visited his folks, he’d stop by my parents’ place and ask about me.

It was always a rare treat when I happened to be home at the same time. We’d sit and talk for hours about the old days.

Then one day, visiting my dad’s grave at Lawley’s Chapel Cemetery, I noticed another familiar name—Jack Meacham. He’d passed in 2019 at just 64.

A good friend, gone too soon.

If your car ever got hit by a snowball on President Street during one of our rare Alabama snowfalls—that was probably me and Jack. Mischief-makers and treehouse builders, just trying to make a summer last forever.

Photo Friday - Summer

A couple of pictures from the archives for the Photo Friday subject #SUMMER

Coolidge Park on the North Shore in Chattanooga, Tennesee

Chickamauga Lake in Chattanooga, Tennessee

Photo Friday: Blissful

Blissful

Warm day, cool fountain, playing with friends. It just doesn't get any better than this.

Coolidge Park, North Shore, Chattanooga, Tennessee

Simple Pleasures

I have always wanted have a nice spot to plant a nice garden but we didn't get quite so lucky when we bought our house. The back yard is steep and unlevel and there are so many trees around that plants can't get very much sunlight. I always try to grow a tomatoe or two and this year I thought that I would try to do a bit more with the limited space that I have available. This is actually turning out quite well. Everything that I planted has produced a little bit this year. In my tiny space I have three varieties of heirloom tomatoes, two kinds of cherry / grape tomatoes, carrots, chives, oregeno, thyme, squash, jalepenos, cayenne peppers, one plant each of red, green, and yellow bell peppers, some pole beans, and one okra plant. I'm inspired now and want to to see how much more that I can get out of this space next year!

My Favorite Time Of Year

Winter is finally over, the trees and flowers are in full bloom, and the kids are playing in the fountain at Coolidge Park again. Today was absolutely clear and 71 degrees. It just doesn't get any better than this.