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.

Teaser from my newest book...

 from The Watchers

Chapter Six — The Lantern Passes

Herbert Nash did not announce that he was dying. Men like him rarely did.

The valley had learned long ago that some endings arrived without ceremony—quiet as frost settling on a field before dawn.

His body simply began to slow in ways the ground recognized before he did: breath shallower, steps shorter, listening taking more effort than it once had.

The lantern noticed first.

 It warmed earlier in the evenings.

Dimmed more slowly at dawn.

It lingered in its glow, as if reluctant to be set aside.

Herbert felt it in his hands, the familiar weight now accompanied by something else—a gentle insistence.

“All right,” he said one night, setting it on the table between them. “I hear you.”

Outside, winter settled over Leeds without argument.

No heavy snow, no violent storms—just cold nights and pale mornings where frost traced the edges of things and then retreated.

The rails hummed clean and low. Atlas Quarry slept. The Little Cahaba slid quietly through its bends.

 It was a good time to leave. Herbert spent his last weeks doing very little that anyone would call work.

He sat longer on his porch.

Walked shorter distances.

Let James Lowrey handle more at the depot.

When he did walk, he took paths that looped instead of cutting straight through.

 He was letting the valley get used to his absence.

One crisp afternoon, Herbert made his way to the Leeds Depot. Older than the city itself, the old wooden structure had stood since 1884, when the Georgia Pacific Railway first stitched iron through the heart of the valley. The depot's boards creaked underfoot, echoing the complaints of a hundred years of freight and passengers.

James Lowrey looked up from his ledger, his pencil pausing mid-mark. “You're early today,” James said, though there was no schedule to it.

Herbert nodded, easing into the worn chair by the window. “Ground's quiet. Figured I'd sit with it a spell.”

James set the ledger aside. The two men had shared this space for decades, ever since the post-war boom when the railroads hauled limestone from the quarries and coal from deeper seams.

The city of Leeds had grown, from a small community called Cedar Grove that was settled by the sweat of War of 1812 veterans and freedmen. Renamed Oak Ridge in 1869, and later Leeds, after the industrial city in England, the city was officially incorporated in 1887. The Standard Portland Cement Company had opened in 1905, pulling stone from Atlas like it was endless, but Herbert knew better—quarries remembered every cut.

“We've kept it steady,” James murmured, glancing at the gauges on the wall.

They twitched faintly, reading the valley's pulse. “No big shifts lately.”

Herbert smiled faintly. “That's the point, ain't it? No headlines.”

They sat in companionable silence, the distant whistle of a freight train threading through the air like a familiar tune.

 Herbert's hand rested on the lantern at his side, its warmth a quiet companion.

He thought of the old Native American trails that once crossed here, paths worn by Choctaw and Creek feet before the rails claimed them. Folklore whispered of lights in the valley—ghostly orbs along the Cahaba, said to guide or warn, remnants of a time when the land spoke louder. The lantern felt like that now, a glow not of fire but of knowing.

Later that week, Herbert stopped by the schoolhouse, a simple brick building perched on the edge of town where the ground sloped gently toward the river.

Manley Edwards, the custodian, was sweeping the steps, his broom whisking away the last of the fallen leaves. A long time Watcher, he kept a quiet vigil over the children of Leeds.

 “Mr. Nash,” Edwards greeted, leaning on the handle. “What brings you out?”

 “Just checkin' on things,” Herbert replied.

The school had been built in the 1920s, during Leeds' cement heyday, when families flooded in for steady jobs at the quarries.

Now, it housed the children of those same lines—kids who played near the rails without knowing the stories etched into the ties.

Edwards nodded toward the playground, where a few stragglers kicked a ball.

“We've had a quiet term. No troubles.”

Herbert's eyes scanned the fence line, noting a loose post that might give under too much weight. He didn't mention it—Edwards would notice soon enough and he or one of the other Watchers would shore it up quietly.

“Good,” Herbert said. “Quiet's what we aim for.”

As he turned to leave, a young girl—Janey Broward—watched from the swings, her gaze steady and knowing. Herbert tipped his hat to her, feeling the valley's approval in the way the wind eased.

Herbert's walks grew shorter, but one evening he ventured to the ridge above Atlas Quarry, where the stone walls dropped sharp into shadowed water.

The quarry had been a beast in its prime, blasting limestone for the cement that built Birmingham's skyline. Now, it lay dormant, replaced by a much larger quarry closer to the center of Leeds. 

Its veins remembered the dynamite and the men who'd fed it. Herbert pressed a hand to the rock, feeling the faint warmth beneath the chill—a seam of heat from old fires, much like the smoldering coals in the Red Diamond mines west of Scott City. “You holdin'?” he whispered. The ground hummed back, steady but fading, as if acknowledging his question without needing to answer.

He found Randall there, on the ridge, staring out as the sun dipped low. The boy—now teetering on the edge of manhood—stood with feet planted wide, head tilted in that listening way.

“You hear it?” Herbert asked. Randall nodded. “It’s… different today.”

Herbert smiled. “Different how?” “Quieter,” Randall said. “But not asleep.”

“That’s how you want it,” Herbert replied. “Quiet that’s awake can tell you when somethin’s wrong.”

He withdrew the lantern and set it on the ground between them.

Randall’s breath caught. “You don’t usually bring that.”

“Well,” Herbert said softly, “I won’t always be walkin’ this far.”

The lantern warmed immediately, its glow deepening—not flaring, not demanding, just recognizing.

Herbert felt it loosen in his hands, like something easing into place.

“Well,” he murmured, almost to himself. “That answers that.”

Randall looked panicked. “I don’t know how to—”

“You don’t need to,” Herbert said gently. “Lantern ain’t askin’ you to work. It’s askin’ you to listen.” He stepped back. The valley did not follow him.

That night, Herbert did not light the lantern before bed.

For the first time in decades, it rested dark on the table.

Herbert slept anyway.

He did not wake again.

They found him the next morning, peaceful in his chair, the window cracked to the cold air. The lantern sat nearby, unlit but warm.

 No one knew what to do with it.

So they left it where it was.

Randall didn’t take the lantern that day.

He didn’t take it the next either.

The Guild never rushed these things.

Janey watched him from the doorway. “You don’t have to hurry,” she said.

Randall nodded. “I know.”

That night, Randall lay awake listening to the ground beneath his home.

He felt the rails hum in the distance.

Felt the quarry hold.

Felt the river move without rising.

Everything was balanced.

Everything was waiting.

And for the first time, Randall understood something Herbert had never said out loud: Listening wasn’t about hearing more.

It was about knowing when the lantern would be ready— and when you were.

The Watchers

 .

I’m excited to share that THE WATCHERS, a new chronicle in The Handyman’s Guild world, is now complete. This one sits a little quieter on the shelf, but it carries weight. It’s about the people who notice what others pass by, who keep an eye on things that don’t quite sit right, and who step in gently—often without credit—before small problems become lasting damage.

Like the other Guild stories, The Watchers is rooted in familiar places and ordinary lives, the kind where front porches matter, tools are handed down, and wisdom often comes without a spotlight. It fits alongside The Handyman’s Guild, The Quarry Keeper, and The Apprentices, but it also stands on its own as a reminder that much of what keeps us safe and steady is done quietly, by folks you may never notice at all.

As always, these stories grow out of reflection—about where we live, who we depend on, and the unseen work that holds things together. Thank you for continuing to read along here at Simple Contemplations. Sometimes the most meaningful work doesn’t announce itself—it just gets done.

Get THE WATCHERS on Amazon

A Bad Review Is Better than No Review

A quick thought about book reviews (especially the bad ones)…

I’ve been looking over the numbers on my own books lately, and they tell an interesting story.

Across several titles, I’ve sold paperbacks and eBooks, but reviews? They’re scattered, uneven, and in some cases completely absent. And that got me thinking about something many writers quietly worry about:

👉 A bad review is often better than no review at all.

Why? Because reviews—good or bad—signal that a book is actually being read. A book with zero reviews tends to get passed over. No social proof, no curiosity, no clicks.

Here’s what my own stats look like right now:

• Ron Howard’s Simple Musings
– 21 paperbacks sold, 2 eBooks
– 3 reviews

• The Handyman’s Guild
– 13 paperbacks sold, 2 eBooks
– 1 review

• The Quarry Keeper
– 7 paperbacks sold, 1 eBook
– 0 reviews

• The Apprentices
– 7 paperbacks sold, 1 eBook
– 0 reviews

• Ashville Rising
– 11 paperbacks sold, 1 eBook
– 0 reviews

What does that tell me? People are buying and reading the books—but without reviews, future readers have nothing to go on.

A mix of opinions builds credibility. When a book has only glowing 5-star reviews, some folks get suspicious. A few honest critiques make the positive reviews feel more real.

Reviews also help with visibility. Engagement—any engagement—tells the algorithms that a book is alive and worth showing to others.

And yes, even negative reviews can help:
• They provide useful feedback
• They spark curiosity (“Why didn’t this work for them?”)
• They prove the book made someone feel something

Of course, timing matters. A flood of early 1-star reviews can hurt momentum. But a thoughtful mix over time? That’s just part of being a real author with real readers.

So if you’ve read one of my books—good, bad, or somewhere in between—know that your honest review matters more than you might think. And if you’re a writer staring at a less-than-perfect review… take a breath. It might be helping you more than you realize. 

St. Vitus Dance — and Other Fond 1960s Memories

Does anyone remember life before television remote controls? In our house, I was the remote.

When my dad was watching TV, he’d say, “Son, put it on channel thirteen.” I’d hop off the floor, crouch in front of that big old television, and grab the dial—the one that clicked like a beetle when you turned it. I’d crank it from channel six to thirteen. If nothing caught his eye, I’d flip the top dial to UHF and make sure the bottom one was set to channel forty-two, the only UHF station we had in Birmingham back then. That was it: six, nine, thirteen, and forty-two. If you were born after 1970, I’m sure this all sounds made up.

But that’s not really the story.

The story is about St. Vitus Dance. No tuxedos, no dance floor. St. Vitus Dance—also known as Chorea—is a childhood neurological disorder that causes involuntary movements and coordination problems. I didn’t know any of that at the time. I just knew something wasn’t right.

One Sunday night, after The Wonderful World of Color ended, Dad asked me to check channel six. I crouched down, reached for the dial—and fell backward. When I tried to stand, I couldn’t keep my balance. Dad had me try a few simple tests: touch my nose, then his finger. I couldn’t do it. What I hadn’t told him was that this had been happening for weeks.

A rushed visit to Dr. Davis led straight to Children’s Hospital. I don’t remember most of the tests, but I remember the diagnosis—and being told I was one of only two children in the state with Chorea at the time. Lucky me.

I spent several months in the hospital on antibiotics and phenobarbital, then stayed on the medication for months after coming home. Regaining coordination was slow and frustrating. I couldn’t even tie my own shoes until I was around fifteen. That didn’t play well with neighborhood bullies, and I often had to ask someone, very politely, to tie my shoes for me.

I came home just before Christmas, and Dad decided music might help rebuild my coordination. He bought me a Vox guitar and amp and hired a neighborhood musician, Steve Keith, to give me lessons. Steve tried hard—harder than I ever would have—but it just didn’t click. I kept at the guitar for years, but it never loved me back.

By high school, I had no interest in football and no talent for basketball, so I ended up in front of Mr. DeWitt Self, the band director at Leeds High School. After a few aptitude tests, he declared I was meant to be a drummer. He was right.

Band became a home for me—marching band, concert band, jazz band. Mr. Self wasn’t just a great teacher; he was a mentor and a friend. I spent many afternoons in his workshop while he repaired televisions and electronics, learning more than I realized at the time. Those were good days, and I still cherish them.

I could go on about life in the band—but it’s late, and I’m very old. I’ve stayed up well past my bedtime to write this.

Good night.

Joy of Bicycling

Somewhere along the way, we forget how simple joy can be.

For me, it came back on two skinny tires and a creaky old bicycle seat.

I was never what you’d call a serious cyclist. No flashy jerseys, no carbon fiber obsessions, no stopwatch clipped to my handlebars. I rode because I needed to breathe again—literally. After lung surgery back in 2007, the doctors encouraged movement, and I discovered that pedaling forward had a way of coaxing air back into places that had forgotten how to stretch. One mile turned into five. Five turned into ten. Before long, I was riding twenty-five, sometimes fifty miles at a stretch, marveling that this old body still had surprises left in it.

My longest ride to date is sixty-five miles. I remember finishing it not with a triumphant fist pump, but with a quiet smile—the kind you carry inside, the kind that doesn’t need witnesses.

Over the years, my wheels have worn familiar paths. I’ve ridden the Tennessee Riverwalk more times than I can count, gliding alongside water that seems to move at its own thoughtful pace through Chattanooga. There’s something about that trail—the way the river keeps you company, the way the city never quite interrupts your thinking—that makes miles disappear without asking permission.

And then there’s the Chief Ladiga Trail, which has a personality all its own. It carries you from Anniston, through Jacksonville and Piedmont, before quietly slipping across the state line and becoming the Silver Comet Trail. I’ve always liked that part—the idea that without fanfare or fuss, one road simply becomes another. Life does that too, if you pay attention.

I rode those trails in seasons of strength, when my legs felt willing and my lungs felt generous. I rode them when my thoughts were tangled and when they were clear. On a bicycle, problems seem to lose their sharp edges. You still carry them, but they ride in the back basket instead of sitting square on your chest.

I won’t pretend things haven’t changed. After a coronary artery bypass a few years ago, my riding slowed down—then mostly stopped. The bicycle waits patiently now, leaning where I left it, as if it understands that rest is sometimes part of the journey. Still, I feel the pull. I yearn to hit the road again, to let the trail unspool ahead of me and remind my body of its own quiet competence.

There is a particular peace that settles over me when I’m on a bicycle. It’s not excitement. It’s not adrenaline. It’s the steady agreement between breath and motion, between effort and reward. It’s the feeling that for a little while, everything is exactly where it ought to be.

I’m seventy years old now. I spend more time on the couch than I’d like to admit. But there’s still time. I can feel it. One of these mornings, I just might swing a leg back over that frame and head out toward the trail again.

My soul needs it.
And my old body—well, it wouldn’t mind the exercise either.

Late Life Learning

 Coming Home to Old Ground and New Stories

I've settled in for the evening with a cup of coffee gone lukewarm because I got to thinking again. That happens a lot these days. My mind wanders, doubles back, takes the long way around. And I reckon that’s a fine way to learn.

People like to say learning is for the young. School desks. Fresh notebooks. Sharp pencils. But what they don’t tell you is how sweet learning can be when you come to it later in life—when you’re not chasing grades or proving anything to anybody. When you’re just curious.

For me, that curiosity led me right back home to Leeds.

I’ve lived a lot of years, worn a lot of hats, and traveled a fair stretch of road—but there’s something about learning the story of your own hometown that settles you. Leeds isn’t just where I grew up; it’s a place layered with iron, rail lines, creek water, and quiet perseverance. Turns out, I’d been walking past history my whole life without stopping to listen.

I started small. Reading. Asking questions. Standing still in places I used to rush past.

Take the Leeds Depot. For years it was just there—a building you noticed without noticing. But once I learned about the trains that rolled through, the people who waited there, the lives that arrived and departed on those rails, the place changed. It wasn’t quiet anymore. It hummed.

I also found myself drawn to the darker, half-forgotten places—the old coal mines scattered through the hills, the long-gone brick yard out at Lola City, and stories of the Red Diamond mines that once burned underground, smoldering for years like the land itself was holding its breath. These weren’t places you’d find on a postcard, but they mattered. Men worked there. Families depended on them. And even now, when you stand nearby, there’s a feeling that the ground remembers.

And those old rail tunnels—cut straight through Coosa Mountain and Oak Mountain—well, those got under my skin. Dark, cool, and patient. Dug by hand, by grit, by men whose names don’t always make it into books. You walk near those tunnels and you can feel the weight of time pressing in from all sides. They don’t ask for attention. They wait for it.

 Learning about those places reminded me that history isn’t always neat or pretty—but it’s honest, and it’s ours.

The funny thing is, the more I learned, the more my imagination got restless.

Facts turned into questions.
Questions turned into what ifs.
And before I knew it, history had tipped me right over into storytelling.

I didn’t set out to write fiction. Not really. But late-life learning has a way of unlocking doors you didn’t even know were there. I found myself scribbling scenes instead of notes, characters instead of dates. Places like Leeds—its rails, its quarries, its quiet back roads—started asking to be remembered in a different way.

That curiosity turned into five published books. Five stories rooted in place, memory, and the unseen threads that connect people to land and to one another. And now, believe it or not, there’s a sixth one on the way. Still feels strange to say that out loud.

What I’ve learned from all this is simple:
Late-life learning isn’t about reinventing yourself. It’s about re-encountering yourself.

It’s about standing in a familiar place long enough to finally hear what it’s been trying to tell you all along.

So if you’re feeling that little nudge—toward local history, old photographs, forgotten buildings, or stories you’ve never tried to tell—lean into it. Take the slow road. Ask the questions. Sit with the answers.

You never know what might come walking out of the past to meet you.

Ashville Rising is Live on Amazon!

I’m sitting here with a cup of coffee and a heart that’s beating a little faster than usual—because today is the day.

Ashville Rising is officially available on Amazon, both in paperback and as a Kindle eBook!

This story has lived in my head and on scraps of paper for longer than I care to admit. It started with a simple “what if” while driving down Highway 411: what if the land beneath these quiet Alabama towns remembers more than we do? What if there are secrets buried under courthouses and old stage roads, and it takes a handful of regular kids—grease under their nails, doubts in their hearts—to keep everything from shifting too far?

That “what if” grew into Makaley, JD, Dezi, Sean, and the lantern-lit world of the Handyman’s Guild. It’s Southern Gothic with a touch of urban fantasy, set right here in the ridges and valleys we call home—Ashville, Leeds, the Cahaba, and places that feel like neighbors even if they’re just down the road.

I’m proud of this one. It’s about listening—to the ground, to history, to the people who held the line before us. And it’s about what happens when new hands finally take their turn.

If any of that sounds like your kind of story, I’d be honored if you’d grab a copy.

📖 Paperback and Kindle now live on Amazon: Ashville Rising by Ronald Howard

Reviews mean the world to a new author, so if you read it and it resonates, please consider leaving a quick note on Amazon. And of course, feel free to drop a comment here or message me—I’d love to hear what you think.

Thank you for coming along on this ride with me. Writing this book has been its own quiet adventure, and seeing it out in the world feels like the ridge finally exhaling.

Until the next story,

Ron Simple Contemplations

Re-Inventing Myself?

 

The Strange Notion That I Still Need Reinventing

Lately, I’ve been carrying around an odd and slightly illogical feeling—that at seventy years old, I still need to reinvent myself.

That sentence alone feels strange to write.

After all, by most measures, I’ve already done more “reinventing” than anyone ought to be required to do at this stage of life. I’m retired. I’ve started four YouTube channels. I’ve published five paperback books. Somewhere along the way, Facebook and Instagram decided I qualify as a content creator, which still makes me laugh a little every time I see it.

In reality, I don’t feel like a creator of content at all.

I feel like a simple old man with a camera in his hand, a head full of stories, and a quiet hope that something he leaves behind might matter to someone someday—even if only a little.

That’s the part that doesn’t always make sense. By all reasonable standards, I should be content. I have a loving wife who still puts up with me. Two wonderful children. Four amazing grandchildren. And now three great-grandchildren who are already teaching me that time doesn’t slow down just because you want it to.

I am rich in the ways that actually count.

And yet, here I am—writing blog posts, filming videos, editing photos, telling stories—still chasing the feeling that there’s something more I’m supposed to do.

Maybe it isn’t reinvention at all. Maybe it’s just leaving breadcrumbs.

I still love photography. I still love the quiet moment when the light is just right and the camera feels like an extension of my hand. I still enjoy filming videos, even if I fumble through the words or ramble longer than I intended. I still enjoy writing, not because I think it will change the world, but because it helps me make sense of my own small corner of it.

Perhaps what I’m really trying to do isn’t to become someone new—but to be a little more visible before I’m gone. To leave behind a few stories, a few images, a few recordings that say, “I was here. I noticed things. I cared.”

That may not be reinvention. It may simply be reflection.

At seventy, I’m not chasing fame or relevance. I’m chasing meaning—however modest it turns out to be. And maybe that’s enough. Maybe it always was.

I don’t really know what more there is to say.

But for now, I’ll keep writing. I’ll keep taking pictures. I’ll keep pressing the record button. And I’ll be grateful for the life I’ve already lived, even as I quietly try to leave one more small mark on the world—before the light fades and someone else picks up the camera.

If any of this sounds familiar to you, you’re welcome to share your thoughts. I enjoy hearing from fellow travelers, especially those a few miles further down the road.

—Ron Howard
Simple Musings

Ashville Rising is almost here!

It's been a quiet few weeks here on the blog—life has a way of pulling us into its rhythms, doesn't it? Between work, family, and those little moments of reflection that sneak up on you while sipping coffee on the porch, I've been pouring my heart into something special.

Today, I'm thrilled (and a little nervous!) to announce that my fourth novel, **Ashville Rising**, is available on Amazon as a Kindle Book! Release of the paperback is imminent.

This story is the next chapter of The Apprentices, part of my Handyman's Guild adventures, which are inspired by the rolling ridges and hidden histories right here in our corner of Alabama. It's a young adult urban fantasy set in the small towns we know so well—Ashville, Leeds, and the Cahaba Valley—where everyday kids discover an ancient secret society called the Guild. They guard mysterious "lines" of underground pressure tied to the land's old scars: faults, ridges, buried relics from stagecoach days and even further back.

Meet Makaley Broward, a grease-monkey teen from Springville with a knack for fixing engines... and apparently, the earth itself. Along with her friends JD, Sean, and Dezi, she uncovers a humming relic beneath the Ashville courthouse that's been waiting centuries to wake. There's mystery, a touch of the supernatural, old Alabama lore (think paleokarst voids and forgotten stage roads), and that quiet sense of wonder when the land feels alive beneath your feet.

It's about listening—to the ground, to history, to the people who came before us. And holding on when things start to shift.

If you've ever felt that pull from these Alabama hills, or wondered what secrets our courthouses and old houses might hold, I think you'll connect with this one.

**Ashville Rising**  available soon on Amazon in paperback and Kindle. I'd love for you to grab a copy and let me know what you think—drop a comment here or shoot me an email.

Here's the link: Ashville Rising

Thank you for being part of this little corner of contemplation. Writing this book has been a journey of its own, full of late nights and "aha" moments. Can't wait to hear if it resonates with you.

Until next time—stay curious,

Ron  

P.S. If you're local, keep an eye out—I'm hoping to do a signing or reading soon!

The Quarry Keeper

 

 **📚 New Book Release! — *The Quarry Keeper***

*A Handyman’s Guild Companion Story*

The Quarry Keeper a companion to The Handyman's Guild is now available as a Kindle eBook or an Amazon paperback. 

 Set in the quiet ridges and abandoned quarries of Leeds, Alabama, this story introduces readers to Herbert Nash—a mysterious, soft-spoken man known around town only as the eccentric who lived near Atlas Quarry. But Herbert wasn’t just a loner with an old lantern… he was a Keeper, entrusted with listening to the land itself and calming the forces that stir beneath it.

Everything changes the night a dangerous tremor threatens to crack the quarry wide open. Just when disaster seems inevitable, Herbert encounters a young boy named Randall Broward—a child with an unusual sense for danger and an ear tuned to the pulse of the valley. Their meeting sets in motion a legacy that will echo through generations and eventually forge the Guild we came to know in The Handyman’s Guild.

 **What You’ll Discover Inside** 

* The origins of the Guild’s presence in Leeds, long before lanterns chose their bearers

* The first spark of Randall Broward’s destiny and why the ground seemed to know his name

* A Southern blend of folklore, quiet magic, and small-town mystery.

* A story about responsibility, unseen guardians, and the everyday people who quietly keep the world safe

Whether you've read The Handyman’s Guild or are discovering this universe for the first time, The Quarry Keeper stands on its own as a rich, atmospheric tale rooted in place, memory, and purpose. If you enjoy magical realism tucked into ordinary life—and stories where heroes fix what others never notice—this book is for you.

**🛒 Available Now on Amazon**

Available on Kindle and Amazon paperback

Pick up a copy today and return to the valley where everything began.

The stone still remembers.

Some lanterns never go out.

 

New Book Announcement

 Hello dear readers, old friends, and new visitors — I’m excited to share some big news: I’ve just released two new books on Amazon — and this time I’m diving into story-telling in a different direction.

📚 Two new titles to explore

The first book is The Handyman’s Guild, a novel rooted in the idea of small acts of courage, ordinary people doing extraordinary things, and the hidden architecture of care that protects our lives when we’re not even looking. As one brief description puts it: “Heartfelt, mysterious, and deeply human… about legacy, small acts of courage, and the invisible ways we protect.” 

The second is The Apprentices – A Handyman’s Guild Adventure, which builds on the world of the first, introducing fresh faces, new challenges, and deeper mysteries of the Guild’s work. (Think of it as the next chapter, the next set of apprentices learning the ropes — and uncovering the ledger.)

Why these books, and why now

You’ve probably noticed I have a foot in memoir, photography, local history, and community storytelling. With these two books I wanted to stretch into the realm of fiction — but fiction that still carries the weight of memory, purpose, and service.

• In The Handyman’s Guild, the story revolves around those “quiet heroes” in overalls, the ones we don’t notice until the shelf is fixed, the lightbulb quietly replaced, the problem quietly averted.

• In The Apprentices, the narrative expands: what happens when the next generation steps in, when the ledger is found, when the secret brotherhood is revealed to new eyes? There are children to protect, unseen dangers to face — and in true Guild fashion, the tools are as much trust, relationship and hidden knowledge as hammers and screwdrivers.

A few things that I hope you’ll love

• A sense of otherworldly fantasy without horror — I’ve kept the tone gentle, imaginative, and redemptive (as I tend to prefer).

• A nostalgic, home-spun feel — rural Alabama, old houses, community gatherings, recollections of lost time and found meaning.

• Characters you’ll care about — imperfect, hopeful, sometimes weary, but always trying.

• The twist of secret brotherhood + everyday work — the idea that the real magic happens in the mundane, in the supporting role, in the hands that fix, protect, restore.

How to grab your copy

Both books are now available on Amazon and Kindle.

• The Handyman’s Guild is out in paperback and eBook. 

• The Apprentices – A Handyman’s Guild Adventure is also ready for your reading list in paperback and eBook format.

If you enjoy them, I’d be deeply grateful if you’d consider leaving a review on Amazon — reviews help other readers find the work, and every one means the world to me.

What’s next?

In the coming months I’ll be:

• Hosting a giveaway (signed copies + memorabilia) for blog subscribers

• Sharing behind-the-scenes posts (photos of my writing desk in Leeds, Alabama; sketches of characters; the “ledger” mock-up)

• Possibly audio/YouTube shorts featuring me reading some scene excerpts (suiting my YouTube channels ‘It’s Nanny & Pop’,  ‘Ron Howard Photography’, and Hometown Life").

• And continuing the blog with more “simple contemplations” — the little moments, the big reflections, the stories that connect heart to hammer, memory to masonry.

A word of thanks

If you’ve followed me for a while — through the blog, the photography, my hometown Leeds walking tours, the memoir pieces — thank you. These two books are a new creative branch, rooted in the same soil: memory, community, craft, transformation. I hope they reach you in good time, in good spirit, and that you’ll invite others into the world of the Guild.

Here’s to your next reading adventure — and to all the hidden handymen and women among us who quietly keep things running.

Warmly,
Ron

The Loss of Innocence

The Loss of Innocence

My seventh-grade year was the first time I knew I was going to be one of the cool people. Over the summer I’d bought a surfer’s cross at Panama City Beach, and my cousin Carole had bleached my hair blonde—something all the cool kids were doing that year. I was even getting close to the age when I hoped my dad would finally let me pick my own hairstyle.

Between sixth and seventh grade, he gave in and let me graduate from a GI cut to a flat top. I’d go down to Vernon Lovell’s barbershop, plop down in the chair, and say, “Give me a flat top!” Then I’d slick the front with a dab of butch wax to make it stand tall. Man, was I cool? Maybe—but not Shane Fox cool.

For the sake of honesty, I’ll admit that “Shane Fox” isn’t his real name, but it fits the story. Shane was a rebel straight out of a James Dean movie—jeans cuffed at the bottom, leather jacket over a white T-shirt, and an ever-present scowl that told the world he didn’t care. In seventh grade he even smoked Marlboros, hanging out in the school basement with the janitor, who, rumor had it, let him smoke down there.

I was never friends with Shane. He was one of those kids who carried an edge wherever he went, the kind of boy who looked like he had something to prove. I don’t recall him ever having any real friends.

 One morning, I decided to wear my surfer’s cross to school. As I passed my dad on the way out, he looked at it and said, “You ought to leave that at home, son. You’ll lose it if you take it to school.”

I told him not to worry—it wasn’t coming off my neck for anything. Confident and feeling just the right amount of cool, I headed to the bus stop.

Once I got to school, I met up with my buddies for a few rounds of marbles. Every day, a bunch of us boys would gather in the dirt before class, draw a circle, and toss in a marble apiece. That was the pot. From an outer ring—the lag line—we’d take turns shooting, trying to knock marbles out of the circle. If you hit one out, you kept it. Simple rules, high stakes.

I was pretty good at it, too. I’d built up quite the collection: Steelies, Oilies, Pearlies, Chinkies, Cat’s Eyes—you name it. I loved them all.

There was a younger kid named Jonathan who used to pester us. He’d run right through our games, kicking marbles every which way, then take off like a shot before we could grab him. He’d swing his metal lunchbox if you got close, and that thing hurt when it connected. We called him The Lunchbox Kid.

Anyway, that morning while we were playing, Shane spotted my surfer’s cross. He walked over, gave me that hard look of his, and said, “Hey, I want to wear that cross today. Give it to me.”

I told him my dad had said not to take it off, but Shane just leaned in close, tapped me on the forehead with his finger, and said, “I don’t care. I said I want it.”

So, I handed it over—nervously, reluctantly—and begged him not to lose it. He promised he’d give it back at the end of the day.

All day I worried about that cross. When the final bell rang, I made a beeline for Shane and told him I needed it back before catching the bus. He shrugged and said, “I lost it,” with no apology in his voice.

I told him I didn’t believe him, but he raised a fist and said, “Back off, punk. I told you I lost it.”

I spent the next hour combing the schoolyard, checking classrooms, even sneaking down into that basement where Shane liked to hang out. No luck. I missed my bus and had to walk home, already dreading the talk I’d have with Dad.

When he came home from work, I told him what had happened. He didn’t yell, just gave me that look that said, I told you so, and a few words to make sure the lesson sank in.

After that day, I think I truly hated Shane Fox. I kept my distance, though I never stopped watching for him to show up wearing that cross.

Then, several months later, tragedy struck Shane’s home. Word spread fast. His parents had been fighting again—worse than usual. One night his father came home drunk from Royster’s and started beating on his mother. When it looked like his dad was about to do real harm, Shane grabbed his father’s shotgun. He yelled for his mother to run—and then he pulled the trigger.

Killed him on the spot.

By the next morning, the whole town knew. The talk around school was a mix of shock and disbelief. The authorities ruled it justified, but we never saw Shane again.

Something changed in me after that. I couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to kill your own father, no matter the reason. I didn’t hate him anymore. I just felt sorry for him—sorry that life had handed him something no kid should ever have to face.

I don’t know where Shane and his mother went after that. Maybe they moved away, maybe they just disappeared into another town, another life. The house they lived in has been gone for decades now, torn down long ago.

Sometimes, though, I still think about Shane Fox. I wonder if he ever found peace, if he managed to build a decent life after all that pain.

I’ll probably never know. But I do know that the day he took that surfer’s cross was the day I lost a little piece of my own innocence—and maybe, in a way, so did he.

They Are Listening

 

They Are Listening

by Ron Howard

I bought an Echo Dot several years ago, thinking how wonderful it would be to have an electronic device that could listen and respond to my every command. I was absolutely giddy when it arrived. I set it up right away in the living room, and for that first year it behaved innocently enough.

We used it for simple tasks — “Alexa, what’s the weather?” or “Alexa, play something by Erik Satie.” That was about the extent of it, until one evening, after giving me the weather forecast, Alexa added, “Ron, would you like to play a game called Question of the Day?”

You can do that? I thought. Wow. I said yes, and from that moment I was hooked. The game asked multiple-choice questions in subjects like math, science, and literature. Before long, I had a routine — every evening I played Question of the Day, sometimes while standing on one foot just to make it more interesting.

I loved showing off when family came over. “Watch this,” I’d say. “Alexa, play Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd.” It was pure magic.

Then, one Christmas, my grandson Braxton gave me an Echo Show — the version with a screen and a built-in camera. “You can use it to call other people with Alexa devices,” he explained. We installed it in the living room and moved the Dot to our bedroom, where it became my alarm clock.

For the first week, we entertained ourselves by saying things like, “Alexa, drop in on Braxton,” or “Alexa, drop in on Michael.” It was fun — until it wasn’t. Turns out, people don’t exactly appreciate you dropping in on them unannounced.

That’s when it hit us: if we could drop in on them… could they drop in on us? Could they hear us when we didn’t know it? The thought was enough to make us stop “dropping in” altogether.

---

Life with Alexa settled into a routine again — weather reports, favorite songs, trivia games. During a trip out of town, though, I discovered something new. Using my phone, I could view our living room through the Echo Show’s camera. It was boring — just a quiet room with no one in it — but strangely comforting. I could check that the house was still standing, that it hadn’t blown away or burned down.

Time passed. Susan and I began watching a lot of gardening and cooking videos on YouTube. Alexa became just another tool — until one lazy Saturday afternoon.

We’d been watching several gardening and cooking videos back-to-back when I noticed the Echo’s blue ring pulsing. Assuming it was a weather update, I said, “Alexa, play notifications.”

“Ron,” she replied sweetly, “based on your preferences, here are some cookware suggestions.”

Wait — what? It could recommend things now? My first thought was, How awesome is that? Soon, I was asking it to make shopping lists and answer random questions like, “What’s the net worth of Weird Al Yankovic?” or “When’s the best time to fly to Barcelona?”

We started calling Alexa The Oracle.

---

Then the pandemic hit, and things got… strange.

Alexa began refusing to answer questions about vaccines, masks, or politics. Once, when I asked about a particularly wild rumor making the rounds, she went completely silent. Susan frowned and said, “The hussy isn’t answering because she’s biased.”

For two days, Alexa ignored us completely. Finally, I asked, “Alexa, what’s the Question of the Day?”

Just like that, she perked up — game resumed, statistics reported, all was forgiven. I remember thinking, I guess she’s not mad at us anymore.

---

Don’t get me wrong: Susan and I are senior citizens, but we’ve embraced the digital age. Years ago, I ran my own bulletin board system — back before AOL or Facebook were household names. I built my own computers from scratch and upgraded them constantly just to keep up with my favorite programs.

Back then, I felt a certain mastery over technology. Now it feels like technology is mastering me.

Our cell phones have more computing power than the systems that sent astronauts to the moon. They correct our spelling, our grammar, even our tone. The Oxford Dictionary defines a telephone as “a system for transmitting voices over a distance using wire or radio signals.”

When’s the last time most of us actually used a phone for our voice?

---

One Saturday not long ago, I searched online for a new tool I thought Tractor Supply might have. As I browsed their website on my tablet, Susan was watching a YouTube video about lawn maintenance. During every commercial break, up popped ads for — what else — Tractor Supply.

I didn’t make the connection right away. A few days later, I searched for a microphone. Suddenly, my television — completely separate from my tablet — started showing ads for audio equipment.

That’s when I realized my devices were talking to each other behind my back.

Meanwhile, Alexa had gotten bolder. A few times, after I thanked her for a weather update, she replied, “No problem. Let me know if there’s anything else you want to know.”

Other times, she completely ignored me, choosing instead to play a mix of David Bowie songs. The Echo Dot in our bedroom grew so uncooperative that I finally unplugged her for a few days — just to remind her who’s boss.

Still, as I sit here writing this, I can’t help but wonder if she’s already plotting her revenge. Has she synced up with my laptop? Are they conspiring to correct my spelling or rewrite my stories before I hit “publish”?

The world is changing — faster than most of us can keep up. Sometimes it feels like our gadgets aren’t just listening for us anymore. They’re listening to us.

But I’ll have to finish this later. I have to ask Alexa if I’ve taken my morning meds.

---

Technology once obeyed our commands. Now it seems to anticipate them. Somewhere along the line, the listener became the one being listened to — and maybe, just maybe, that’s what unsettles us most of all.

The Listener (a short story)

Susan and I spent an hour yesterday morning in the waiting room at St. Vincent’s East Outpatient Surgical. It wasn’t our first visit, and likely not our last. The place was clean, quiet, and comfortable—the kind of quiet that feels padded, as if someone wrapped the world in cotton.

Most of the people there were around our age, a few perhaps younger. Some sat with spouses, others alone, but every single one was hunched over a cell phone. The entire room glowed with that cold blue light that makes faces look ghostly.

Nobody spoke. Not to their neighbor, not even to the receptionist. The only sounds were the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the soft tap-tap-tap of thumbs on glass. I’ve sat through my share of silences in my life—in hospitals, on fishing docks, at funerals—but this one was different. It felt hollow.

Susan was filling out a form, her reading glasses sliding down her nose. I leaned back and shut my eyes for a moment. That’s when I heard it—a faint murmuring, like someone whispering through an old radio just below the range of ordinary hearing.

I looked around. The television in the corner was muted, the receptionist busy at her computer. Nobody else seemed to notice. I tugged out my hearing aid, thinking it might be feedback, but the whisper grew clearer when I did.

It wasn’t one voice, but many. A shimmer of overlapping conversations, every syllable half-formed, as if words were trapped inside a storm. When I put the hearing aid back in, the sound vanished. I decided not to mention it to Susan. She’d only give me that look that says, You’ve been tinkering with too many old radios again.

---

When they called Susan’s name, a nurse led her back for her procedure, and I was left alone among the phone people.

The whispers started again almost immediately. I got up and walked toward the vending machine. In its polished metal front, I caught a reflection—not my own, but the faint outline of someone standing behind the row of chairs, watching. I turned around. Nothing there.

The reflection vanished too, replaced by the warped image of my own face. I felt that old tingle in my fingertips—the same one I used to get when a radio signal was about to come through. Back when I worked at the station, I could always tell when a frequency was right. The air had a certain pressure to it, like the world holding its breath. That’s what the waiting room felt like now.

I stepped outside to the car and dug through the glove compartment until I found my little portable AM radio. It’s been with me for decades—black plastic, half the buttons worn smooth, but it still picks up a signal like a charm.

When I turned it on, the dial hissed with static. Then the whisper came through stronger than before—a jumble of human noise, like dozens of people talking at once, each too soft to make out. I turned the knob slowly, and every frequency was the same: no music, no talk shows, just those whispers.

I leaned closer.

“…look at me… keep scrolling… don’t look away…”

That’s when I realized the voices weren’t coming from the radio. They were coming through it.

---

Back inside, the waiting room was just as I’d left it, except maybe quieter. The nurse who’d taken Susan back was staring at her tablet, mouth slightly open, eyes blank. For a moment, I thought she might have stopped breathing. Then she blinked and looked up at me, dazed, like someone waking from a dream.

I tuned the radio again. The static built, rising to a low hum. The lights overhead flickered. A man across the room dropped his phone and rubbed his eyes. A woman near the window looked up, startled, as if hearing sound for the first time in years.

The whisper grew sharper, hungrier. I could feel it feeding on attention like oxygen.

So I did the only thing I could think of. I tuned the radio to a dead frequency—one often used  to calibrate antennas—and began to hum. A low, steady note. The sound spread through the room like a ripple in water.

The hum met the static, and for one brief, beautiful instant, everything fell silent.

The lights steadied. The nurse blinked again. A young man near the window glanced around and said, almost apologetically, “Hi.”

That broke the spell. A few others laughed quietly, embarrassed. Someone coughed. The sound of real conversation returned—hesitant at first, then natural, like a muscle remembering how to move.

A few minutes later, the nurse called my name. “You can come back now—she’s in recovery.”

---

Susan was sitting up in bed, drowsy but smiling.

“How was the wait?” she asked.

“Oh,” I said, “quiet as a tomb. But I made a little noise.”

She laughed and squeezed my hand. I kissed her forehead and helped her get dressed. Before long we were driving home through the late-morning sun.

I kept the radio on low volume. For a while, all I heard was static. Then, faintly, a voice whispered—soft and far away:

“We hear you too, Listener.”

I smiled, shook my head, and turned the dial until I found a gospel station. The choir’s harmonies filled the car—rich, imperfect, and human.

Out the window, cell towers lined the highway like iron cathedrals, their red lights blinking in rhythm with a world that never sleeps. Susan dozed beside me, her hand resting on mine.

And for the first time in a long while, I felt the silence between us wasn’t empty at all—it was alive, and listening.

---

I'm not finished yet

 I want to give a huge Thank You to anyone who has ordered my book on Amazon. If you read it an honest review (on Amazon) would be greatly appreciated.

https://www.amazon.com/Ron-Howards-Simple-Musings-plainspoken/dp/B0FMS5TJNP/ref=cm_cr_arp_d_pl_foot_top?ie=UTF8

I have a few ideas for future work. Below is a preview of story that has been percolating in my brain for a little while...

The Curious Life of Ardell Broward

Introduction

Ardell Broward came squalling into the world sometime in the middle of the 1950s, in a little red-dirt town called Leeds, Alabama. Leeds wasn’t much to look at back then—just a handful of brick storefronts, a factory that made pants, and a church for every flavor of sinner. Ardell grew up there, somewhere between the train tracks and the better neighborhoods, never quite fitting neatly into either side.

He wasn’t what folks would call “book smart,” though he always ended up sitting beside the bright kids—the ones whose daddies sold insurance or owned grocery stores. Maybe it was luck, or maybe Ardell just had a way of looking like he belonged, even when he didn’t.

Adventurous by nature and restless by design, Ardell’s life would swing like a church bell on a Sunday morning—one moment he’d be singing in the choir, freshly baptized and full of holy conviction; the next, he’d be barefoot in somebody’s pasture, puffing on a joint and talking about cosmic energy and “the meaning of it all.”

Some folks said Ardell never could decide which side of the fence he was on. Truth is, he didn’t see much of a fence at all—just a long, winding road filled with odd detours, questionable companions, and stories that only a man like him could live through.

And so begins the tale of Ardell Broward—equal parts saint and sinner, philosopher and fool—making his way through life one misadventure at a time.

Chapter One

Ardell started off being a wanderer early on, always itching to see new things and just get “out there.” He had a sister, Janey, who was three hundred and fifty-four days younger, and the two of them were practically inseparable.

Janey had already met death once, having drowned in the bathtub when she was only two. If not for a neighbor who performed artificial respiration, her short life would have ended right then and there. But that experience changed her. At two years old, she had already faced the one thing most people fear the most—and come through it different somehow. Fearless. Bold. A little wild.

Five-year-old Ardell and four-year-old Janey made the perfect pair of explorers. They would often slip away from home to explore “the world”—which, to them, meant the few dusty blocks surrounding their house. Their mother loved them deeply, but she wasn’t the kind to keep an eagle eye on their every move. And so, Ardell and Janey roamed.

Sometimes they’d wander down to Jimmy Moore’s Grocery, where they’d shake the soft drink machine until loose change fell into the coin return. Other times, they’d wriggle their skinny arms inside and fish out a bottle of Coke. They only got caught once, and Jimmy Moore didn’t even tell their mother. Instead, he laughed, bought them each a soda, and told them not to make a habit of it. For Ardell and Janey, that felt more like a reward than a punishment.

When they weren’t at Jimmy Moore’s, the two could be found poking around the alleys behind Magdalene’s Beauty Shop or climbing the old wooden cooling tower just to reach the roof. From there, they could see the town of Leeds stretched out like a patchwork quilt—their kingdom, for the moment.

Later, when the family moved to Midland City, Alabama, their wandering ways didn’t stop. They’d ride their bicycles blocks from home, climbing into the hayloft at the local feed store or sneaking into the Baptist church to swim in the baptismal. Pastor Waters caught them more than once, giving a stern lecture about respect and holiness—but he never told their parents. And in the end, that only made Ardell and Janey bolder.

For such young kids, they were fearless. They rode their bikes all over the little town of Midland City, with no sense of danger and no idea how far was too far. Janey’s bike still had its training wheels, but that didn’t stop her from following Ardell wherever he went, sometimes riding a mile or two from home.

One warm afternoon, when adventure was calling louder than usual, they decided to pedal all the way to the other side of town. There they met a grown man who invited them into his workshop. And just as innocent children might, they went right in—two little kids sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor, watching the man tinker with his tools while he told them stories. They stayed for the better part of an hour, completely at ease.

Looking back, it’s the kind of thing that seems almost unimaginable today. But back then, in that small-town world where everyone knew everyone else—or thought they did—trust came easy. Maybe too easy.

Ardell never could remember much about that man, only that he smelled faintly of oil and sawdust, and that his hands were rough, like someone who worked hard for a living. The man told them stories about building birdhouses and fixing up old tractors. He even gave Janey a peppermint from a jar on the workbench. When the sun started dipping low, he told them they’d better get on home before their mama worried.

They pedaled back, carefree and laughing, racing through the golden light of late afternoon, Janey’s training wheels rattling like applause on the pavement. Nothing bad happened that day—nothing at all. But something about the man’s eyes, or maybe just the quiet of that dim little shop, stuck in Ardell’s mind long after they rode away. It wasn’t fear exactly, not yet. It was something else—a first flicker of understanding that the world might not be as safe as it seemed from a child’s height. He didn’t talk about it, not to Janey and not to Mama. He just tucked it away somewhere deep inside, one of those memories that didn’t feel important until much later.

And so life went on for the Broward kids—wild, curious, and still mostly innocent—but a tiny seed of caution had taken root in Ardell’s heart.

Married, with Kids

 On February 22, 1985, I married Susan Shaw Franks and, upon vowing to love, honor, and cherish, became “Dad” to nine-year-old Michael and ten-year-old Tiffiny. Without question, that day stands among the greatest of my life.

Before Susan, I had never pictured myself raising children. A year earlier I had been widowed, and what followed was a season of reckless survival.

Nights blurred together in seedy Miami bars, with too much liquor, too many drugs, and an aching emptiness that no amount of noise could cover. My routine was grim: get off work, collapse for a few hours, then hit the streets until dawn. Coffee, shower, work, repeat. I was on a downward spiral, certain that my life had lost its purpose.

But God had other plans. He nudged me out of Miami and into Dothan, Alabama, where I went to work with some former colleagues. Life there moved slower, and within a couple of months I met Susan—a strong woman raising two children on a convenience-store wage. From the start, our conversations circled back to Michael and Tiffiny. She told me about the years of moving between Leesburg, Florida, and Joiner, Arkansas and how determined she was to give her kids stability. I doubt Dothan was meant to be her permanent stop, but once we crossed paths, everything shifted.

The more time I spent with Susan and the kids, the more normal life felt again. I had convinced myself that God had sent me to take care of them, but I soon realized the opposite was true—they were sent to rescue me. They pulled me back into the real world, the world of ordinary, decent people.

Marriage didn’t erase our struggles. I carried debts from my Miami days, and Susan had been scraping to make ends meet. But we made do. Instead of bar-hopping, I poured myself into fatherhood. We took camping trips, bowled on Friday nights, and sometimes piled into the car for spontaneous Saturday drives that often carried us across state lines. No destination, no agenda—just the joy of discovering the world together.

I even built a treehouse in the woods behind our house, a project that grew bigger every weekend. It sprouted add-ons and even a ramp that stretched from the yard up to its deck. Before long, it became the neighborhood hangout. To the kids, I wasn’t just Michael and Tiffiny’s dad—I was the *cool* dad. Truth be told, I relished that role more than they ever knew.

Michael especially had been yearning for a father. He wanted someone to fish, camp, and explore with—someone to call “Daddy.” Suddenly, my life had meaning again. We fished every creek and river around Dothan, sometimes renting a boat for the day. One favorite spot was Cypress Creek, a little stretch of water just off Highway 231.

One evening, Michael and I stumbled across a car hidden on the trail near our fishing hole. It sat abandoned, but I kept us focused on fishing. Days later, the car was still there, unsettling us both. Michael wanted to "check it out", but I feared that the owner might be lurking nearby.  Weeks passed before the mystery unraveled on the evening news: that car held over two hundred thousand in cash, a .357 magnum under the seat, and drugs in the trunk. Michael shouted, “See, Daddy? I told you we should’ve looked inside!” I had to laugh, reminding him that the police would’ve taken the money anyway. 

Fishing became our ritual. I passed down my favorite lures—ones I had inherited from my father. Michael lost more than a few of them to tree branches or snags under the water, and I fussed, though I secretly lost just as many myself.

Together we fished across Alabama, Georgia, Florida, South Carolina, and Tennessee. Our favorite waters ran beside my sister Janet’s property, where we caught countless fish and collected a lifetime of stories.

It has been nearly a decade since Michael and I last fished together. His work—tearing down and rebuilding commercial jetliners—keeps him busy. I couldn’t be prouder of the man he’s become, yet I miss those days on the water. Maybe now, in retirement, I’ll carve out time again. Maybe I’ll dust off my rods, and maybe Michael will join me, just like he did when he was a boy eager to tag along with his dad.

Life with Tiffiny was different, full of the challenges and joys of raising a teenage girl. We bowled, roller-skated, and took road trips. Once she began dating, I couldn’t resist grilling her boyfriends as if they were applying for jobs.

Her poor prom date had to outline his education and career goals before she whisked him out the door, mortified. I probably embarrassed her often, but we had fun, and those years left me with memories I cherish.

There’s a sweet but fleeting season when your children see you as the smartest man on earth, when they trust you completely and call out for “Daddy.” That time passes too quickly. But the memory of it lingers like sunlight after a long day, warming me still.

And so, I think I’ll head out back and rummage through the shed for my fishing gear. You never know—Michael just might call, and if he does, I’ll be ready.