Mr. Glass

When I was a kid...maybe ten or eleven years old, I was asked by one of our neighbors to come and "sit" with her father, Mr. Glass, while she ran to complete her errands. I remember that he was in his early 90's, was hard of hearing, and his vision was failing. Mr. Glass would rock back and forth as he sat on his chair and he told me about growing up in rural Alabama. We would sit for hours under his carport (that's a garage without the enclosure for my northern friends) and he would talk to me.

His daughter, probably in her 60's back then, would come to my house and ask my mom if I could sit with him (it was elderly sitting, I reckon, but I loved spending time with him), and I would always say "yes." Even back then I recognized personality and the ability to weave a brilliant story. Mr. Glass had a way of speaking that even a ten year old would appreciate.

Mr. Glass loved to "whittle," and especially he made "walking sticks," or canes. He would charge me twenty-five cents for each one, and I saved my money to purchase one from him--they were masterpieces after all, especially for a ten year old.

I recall a story he told me about walking along the train tracks back in the thirties and finding a matchbook with a hundred dollar bill in it. He gave it to his dad...not realizing what he had found or why anyone would keep that kind of money in a matchbook. That cash fed his family for the remainder of the year.

He always had this distant look to him...like he was peering into the past. He spat as though some unseen hair was stuck to his lip and he wanted to be rid of it. And still he rocked when he realized I came to sit with him. His face would light up knowing I was there to hear his stories.

I haven't thought about Mr. Glass in a long time, but something triggered this memory...although I'm not sure what.

I remember my mom picking me up from school. I was in fifth grade. On the way home she told me Mr. Glass had died. My initial feeling was selfish..."how would I hear his stories?" When I got home, I went to my room and cried...in private. I missed my friend, and I would miss his stories. Most importantly, although I didn't realize it then, I would miss his life lessons. What a sweet old man he was.

What does all this mean? I'm not really sure, but I think it is imperative that we learn from those with life experiences...and love without compulsion. I miss that old man...and would love to have another hour with him to record our conversations, and give him one final hug.

This video hit home after I wrote this--I Believe

Have a glorious Thanksgiving, y'all. Love your family and friends...and be thankful for everything you have.

A summer I won't forget

I haven't updated my blog since July. To be honest, I've dealt with trials, tribulations, and exquisite happiness--and all of it has pulled me away from my writing. My fourth book, Your Story: Tales of Love, Tragedy, Despair, and Healing hit the market in the early months of this excessively hot summer. A crazy and upside down experience at work (yes, I have a real job...believe it or not) reeked of havoc and lunacy for some time. But most incredibly, Cathy and I were blessed with grandchild number two...followed shortly by grandchild number three--obviously, our kids were bored out of their collective minds having conceived in such a short period of time.

Yes, my plans for book five and six were derailed, but I ain't mad. Life is good, as they say, and life with our grandbabies is phenomenal. Maya, Maverick, and Ellie light up every fiber of my being. I could not be happier than I am to have these young 'un's in my life. We had them all together not so long ago. Okay, I can only take a limited number grands at once, but I don't love them any less. :)

There's nothing better than the smell of a baby. When they look up at you with their trusting eyes and coo, my heart melts. Jesus...have I become an old softy? I want to help teach them the ways of the world...to show them all how to fish, hunt, take care of themselves, and show them a love of academia. Yes, I know they have parents who will mold them, but I do want to influence their lives in a positive way.

Anyway, the work thing is what it is. When a door closes, another will open. Like old Stephen King pointed out in his Gunslinger series, the door you choose doesn't have to dictate your life, but it will influence your here and now. So, now I am faced with a new door that I long to open...and we shall see what the here and now presents.

So, to everyone wondering what is in store for my writing--yes, book five and six are in the works. The political book I promised is coming along (slowly), and the next Bill Evers book will finally emerge (slowly). I am working, and I am writing, but at a pace that doesn't suit me, but it's a pace that God has dealt, so who am I to argue?

Peace and love, y'all.

~h

Your Story: Tales of Love, Tragedy, Despair, and Healing

Within a short amount of time, my fourth book will be available. The writing path I have traveled has been a strange one, and one discouraged by those in the know. Authors are supposed to stick with one genre, become ever-more-proficient at their craft, honing their skills, and making available even better material with each published work. Writing across multiple genres, so I am told, confuses and discourages readers.


This is most likely true, but I have thrown caution to the wind and once again stepped outside my comfort zone (I have at least two more works planned that are not a part of the action/adventure genre that I so enjoy). Your Story is a compilation of real life events told by regular people like you and me. Their struggles, their tragedies, the despair and grief from things such as losing a spouse or child, dealing with post-traumatic stress disorder from war-time activities or working as a first responder, cancer, and so on are only overshadowed by their indomitable spirit makes them wake up each day to face new challenges.

Your Story began as a journal entry for me--a pity party of sorts after I lost my job to company downsizing four years ago. I was not public about the events, but I wallowed in my own self-loathing...until I read about a friend dealing with a much larger problem than losing a job. Her story shook me up and made pause long enough to pick myself up by my bootstraps and get back in the thick of things. Her story also motivated me to begin reaching out to others who might be willing to share their personal tales.

This book details the journey of a few people down life's unchartered and unknown byways. Each person shares intimate details of the tragedies they have faced and what they did (and continue to do) to live another day. I am proud that I was a part of this, and prouder of each of these individuals who courageously stuck their necks out there and exposed the softest flesh of their being.

Here is Your Story--and these people could be you, me, your neighbors, your family, your friends, or your co-workers. Do we ever really know what someone struggles with or faces on a routine basis? Be sure to grab a copy of this work very soon; you won't regret it.

Peace and love,

~h

Writing-The How's and Why's

I have often remarked to people who ask me why I write that, "I have to so I know how the story ends." It's true...sometimes I know how a book will end, but mostly I let the story lead me where it will. If I have a preconceived notion of how it will finish, I find I box myself in and limit my imagination. In the writing world this is known as pantsing, or writing without a planned outline (known, ironically, as planning).


Along with the need to get a story into the open comes the more self-serving piece of the proverbial pie: the gratification I receive when someone tells me how much they enjoyed one of my stories. To say that this isn't important to a writer is a downright lie...a fabrication...an unholy untruth told by those who want to appear humble, but aren't. There is a personal satisfaction I get when someone identifies with a character or laughs in the right spot in the story. Perhaps they got mad at me for killing off a certain character they liked. Hey, that means they identified with that "person" too, and as such, I have done my job as a writer.

I must also tell you that writing can sometimes be a chore. Readers understand the conundrum...there are those slower portions of the story that one must wade through in order to get to the good stuff. The author must build the plot and show the reader what led to a certain scene, or lay the groundwork for something much more grand later in the tale. This can be as difficult for a writer as it is the reader. We want to get to the good stuff too, but we have this world we've envisioned and want to explain in subtle ways devoid of too much detail. God forbid with tell, rather than show! A literary tragedy is what that mire becomes!

It is my job, or my joy to map out a story such that the reader forgets he/she is reading; they should simply be gazing into the twisted mind of a person aching to describe something and convey a message without intruding on their real, personal world. Stephen King describes this as a pure form of magic--the ability of one person to transmit an idea to another and both have the same basic idea of the story being told. Perhaps he is right!


I write because it is in me to do so; not because I am the most prolific writer in the world--heck, I consider myself mediocre at best. The Craft is my therapy, my beach, my liquor, my vice. I feel as though it is my form of expression that I can share with anyone willing to ingest my thoughts and words.


So thank you for indulging me. You have no idea how much pleasure it brings me to see someone reading something I have written and they laugh or gasp in all the right places. That, my friend, is the ultimate high.


Peace,


~h

Spring Time Injuries!

Here in the southeastern United States it is springtime. That means wasps, snakes, tornadoes, hurricanes, and pollen...gloriously yellow-green pollen. Each year I am amazed at how quickly it all happens. One second the trees are barren and the next they are loaded with leaves. Similarly, we go from cool/cold to hot in a nano-second.


I have already begun my mowing chores and as a result, suffered my first injury of the year. Usually, I take time to prune the numerous trees on our property before I make my first round on the mower, but this time I did not bother.


I maneuvered around a medium sized oak tree, my eyes focused on the deck wheels of my mower; I do that to assure I maximize the entirety of cutting width. As I looked up I was met by a smallish limb that proceeded to hit me squarely upon my nose and forehead. My glasses sat catawampus on my face as I felt a trickle of blood drip from the bridge of my damaged breathing appendage.


Instinctively, I brought one hand to my face, the other still holding onto one handle of the zero radius steering mechanism on my mower. This sent my mower into a tail spin in the middle of our front yard. Picture, if you will, a sunburned guy holding his nose, his glasses riding askew on his face, and his mower spinning donuts in the middle of his yard.


My neighbor was apparently outside and watching all this transpire. His laughter could be heard over the roar of my mower engine and turning blades. To say I was ecstatic about his elation at my expense is probably an exaggeration. Had I been able to see properly, I would have pressed forward and run him over with my mower. Alas, all I could do was spin counterclockwise and hold my injured nose, and simply be mad that I couldn't watch his body being cut into a million pieces and thrown in a hundred directions at once.


Don't get me wrong--I like my neighbor, but he seems to take great joy anytime he sees that I've suffered an injury.


To be fair, I reckon I would have laughed at anyone spinning haphazardly on a mower while bleeding. Now that I think about it, it is kind of funny.

Chasing Our Pier and My Testicles Are in My Ears

Okay, you're probably wondering why my testicles are in my neck. We'll get to that soon enough. For now, allow me the indulgence to describe what led up to them being lodged a few feet higher than normal.

Alabama has received its Godly share of rain thus far in 2019. So much so, that our backyard, two acres or so that I normally spend significant time mowing, flooded--and remains flooded as I type this. Now, our problems are first world problems, and I readily admit that. We own a house on a long, narrow lake, built by the Army Corps of Engineers in the mid-1960's to help ease flooding further downstream, and to allow for a method of irrigation for farmers in the same area. Several years ago, a local farmer got the bright idea to bring his John Deere to the spillway and rip the water control lever from the concrete control mechanism because he didn't feel as though his cows were getting enough water (oh, how I would like to meet this guy today).

Three years ago, we had torrential rain and the same area flooded, so we knew the risk, but proceeded to have a forty foot pier put in so I could fish without having to drag my boat to the launch and do all things required of a fisherman intent on hauling in the big one. The pier formed the top of a "T" at its farthest reach into the water, a design element brought to life by Cathy and one that I quickly grew to love.


Once again, Alabama was pummeled by rain and wind, the former pulling our pier from its muddy sediment and the latter pushing it down the lake like a child's paper sail boat in a rain gutter. I awoke this past Saturday to my neighbor explaining to me that "your pier is gone."


"What do you mean 'it's gone'?" I asked.
"Gone, as in ain't there no more," he replied.


Sure enough, our pier had drifted down lake like a space aged monolith in search of a different form of life. Atop it sat the bench I had bought and placed two years earlier, unbolted and just riding along for the pure enjoyment. My neighbor, Danny, and I hopped in his boat, me with 100 feet of rope in tow, and headed toward the pier which now floated on the opposite side of the lake some quarter of a mile from its original perch.

As soon as we tied off the pier, Danny began having engine trouble on the boat. He attempted to crank it several more times, but to no avail. This is where I made my first critical mistake.

We decided to drop the trolling motor in the water so he could take his boat to the shop. Instead of tying the pier to a nearby tree, I simply tossed the rope on top of the pier and we rode off.

He called me a couple nights later to tell me his boat was fixed and that we could try to fetch it the next day. Remember that mistake I made?

We dropped the boat in the water and headed east where we left the pier. It was gone! The water was murky due to all the rain, and we both assumed it had sunk. We cruised around that end of the lake in search of my pier, but couldn't locate it, so we turned west and headed back for the boat launch.

I happened to glance further west and there it was--my pier! Instead of it being a quarter mile from our house, however, it had drifted about a mile. Here's where things started getting tough. We tied the 100 ft. rope to two legs on the pier, but due to the weight of the floating monolith he could not steer the boat.

I sat on the deck of the boat, rope in each hand, braced my legs and would pull one side then the other, which would cause the rear of the boat to turn. It also made the pier weave back and forth as we trudged along at half a knot per hour. For what seemed like forever, we weaved west toward my property, my arms screaming every time I pulled the rope to help steer the boat.

Finally, after two long hours of tugging and steering, and after feeling as though my arms would dislodge from my shoulder sockets, we made the turn toward our part of the lake. This is where I made my second critical mistake.

We pulled the pier as far as we could until one of the 4 x 4 legs got caught in the mud. I grabbed Danny's bamboo push stick and began feeling around in the water, checking the depth. At last I found a spot that was about three feet deep, about waist high on me.

I checked to make sure my rubber waders were secure then hopped into the water. Remember I said "second critical mistake?"

Apparently, when I was checking the water depth, the bamboo pole must have hit a tree stump. What are the odds? I landed in water about neck deep and screamed a line of unintelligible expletives as cold lake water rushed into my waders and rose quickly up to my chest. My testicles began clamoring for warmth and landed somewhere around my earlobes. My butthole puckered as I involuntarily squeezed my butt cheeks together. Obviously, my body assumed doing so would somehow warm it up; it was wrong.

As quickly as I could, I tied the pier to a nearby tree the drug the boat to shallower water so I could get back in. Do you have any idea how heavy waders are when they are filled with water? I almost capsized the boat trying to haul myself back in, and when I finally made it, I laid there exhausted. Danny laughed all the way back to the boat launch. I wanted to punch him, but couldn't lift my arms. My teeth were chattering and my testicles hung from my earlobes like two shriveled earrings.

And that is my pier retrieval story.

Making Good Changes

I turned fifty years old this year and suddenly I was put on AARP's mailing radar. They obviously have no idea of my political leanings, nor do they get my disdain for their organization or they may reconsider wasting money sending me literature. That notwithstanding, they see me as a future customer in the not-so-distant future and that is a little alarming.

Being on the backside of middle age also brings on certain ailments. All the damage I willingly imposed on my body in my youth has come back in crashing waves that promise to plague me for my remaining days on this earth. My knees (one operation), my shoulders (both operated on), my mid-back (beaten into submission years ago), my elbow (ruptured bursa), my fingers (all broken at some time in my life), each remind me of the damage inflicted upon them in a quest to sack a quarterback, squat or bench press a Volkswagon Beetle, or take throws while practicing judo.

The truth is, though, even with all the injuries sustained over the years--I got lazy, complacent, and soft. I stopped any meaningful exercise and used those injuries as an excuse. My waistline blossomed and the amount of material used to cover it expanded. I got sick of seeing pictures of myself; they were disgusting.

In December, Cathy and I decided it was time for each of us to embark on a lifestyle change. We now make healthy eating choices and I am back to exercising full force (that's the only way I know how to do things--do them yes, or do them no--no in between). Understand, I am no marathon runner. Even at my peak of physical fitness, running a couple miles was difficult for me, but I am now knocking out five miles and have lost almost thirty pounds. I have a long way to go to reach my final goal, but I'm doing something about it while I still can. Do my knees beg me to stop? Absolutely! Do my shoulders scream at me when I'm lifting weights? You better believe it. Do I sometimes think about stopping? No way. I'm not giving them the satisfaction of slowing me down.

Lastly, I am happy Cathy and I elected to make this change prior to January, as I despise New Year resolutions. We are both healthier, and I love working out again.

Fight on!

Bill Evers Is Heavy On My Mind

A couple months ago, I posted a video detailing how I lost a thumb drive with several manuscripts begun and tabled, then restarted at various intervals over the last couple of years. One project in particular was a non-fiction work featuring individual stories of struggles and triumphs; I hate that I lost that one most especially. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I hold out hope I'll find that little drive and rejuvenate those lost works. 

Included in that menagerie of works were a few Bill Evers manuscripts also at varying levels of non-completion. So embarrassed and disheartened had I become over losing the jump drive, I refused to sit and begin anew. Yes, I quit--I walked away. 

Bill Evers, however, was having none of my self-pity. He would appear to me in dreams, both sleeping and awake. One such story, tentatively title Infirmus, kept coming back to me. In a peculiar way, it was good that I lost the beginning of that work, some 12,000 words long, because the newest "version," the one Evers continues to push me to write is better. I write that, not in my opinion, but as someone who loves action/adventure/paranormal/conspiracy theory books. 

As with my previous novels, Of Blood and Stone and Occam's Razor, new(ish) technology is interwoven in the storyline. I am often reminded of a quote by the famous Kurt Vonnegut when he said, "I think that novels that leave out technology misrepresent life as badly as Victorians misrepresented life by leaving out sex."

I have been of a similar opinion as the meticulously verbose Mr. Vonnegut, although I could never possibly have articulated this thought in such a gloriously abbreviated way. In fact, I do believe that modern technology will eventually lend itself to a significant decline in morality, which will also lead humanity down a path of certain and inevitable destruction. It is, after all, the way of man; we build, we conquer, we destroy, and we are eventually destroyed.

That's a rosy picture I've painted, yes? In the meantime, prior to the end of our wonderful existence, we can immerse ourselves in books, or as my friend Gary often says, "suspend your disbelief." In actuality, much work written by those who engage in such fiction often find their imagination steeped in reality. Sometimes I wonder if remote viewing is a thing. Not sure what that is? Look it up--mind bending stuff (for real) that our government is also fascinated by.

I will keep folks up to date with the newest (renewed) work of fiction both here and on my Facebook author's page. Click HERE if you would like to follow; I would love to have you along for the ride.

Lastly, Faithful Reader, I hope you each have an excellent, healthy, fun-filled 2019 complete with books and things that help you grow in every facet of life!