Forget Coronavirus For Just a Minute

As the virus gained momentum in the United States, and was no longer an Asian or European phenomenon, I was on a series of airplanes traveling up the east coast with stops in Charlotte, NC, Baltimore, MD, Philadelphia, PA, and Boston, MA (oh, and I started my journey in Atlanta, GA). Each of these airports are major hubs, and home to a vast number of international flights. To say that travelers buttholes were puckered tighter than a baby's mouth after sucking a lemon would be an understatement. The Coronavirus seems to have us all rather distraught at the moment!

People are nervous, and for good reason. We are being bombarded with growing death rates without valid testing and recovery data. Most understand that the virus is more hype than dangerous, but there is still a significant amount of concern to be given to this twenty-first century plague. Before I move on, allow me to say this: I have never seen passengers so courteous, aware, and cognizant of their surroundings. At no time in all my years of air travel have I seen airports and airplanes so clean and sanitary. It is truly a shame it took a global pandemic to get us to this point, but as the saying goes, "It is what it is."

The reason for this entry, however, is one that has remained with me the past thirty-six hours. On my return flight from Boston to Atlanta, I had a layover in Philadelphia. I noticed an older woman whose head was held high; her face a haughty facade. I notice these things about people and make mental notes of them as I move about public places.

As luck would have it, the lady sat across the aisle from me once we boarded our flight from Philly to Atlanta. She quickly ordered a Bloody Mary (it was bloody 10:30 AM and I was astounded!) and drank it down before boarding group six was seated. She and I were seated in first class (upgrades were available for forty dollars, and I could not pass that deal up), and were in boarding group one. American Airlines has made remarkable progress in the expediency of seating airline passengers--thank you, Southwest Airlines for the model!

I was battling a cold and cough and attempting, rather feebly, to mask my cough as the hypersensitivity of winter sickness ran amuck through the plane. If you dared cough or sneeze, the consensus was you were infected with Covid-19, do not pass go, do not collect $200.00. I am currently on the mend if you are wondering. :)

About forty-five minutes into the flight, and three or four Bloody Mary's later, I noticed the haughty woman crying. I watched tears roll down her face as she stared blankly out her window, the bright morning sky reflecting on her shiny face. Not wanting to touch her, or anyone since I was sick, I leaned closer to her and asked if she was alright. The next few minutes rocked me to my core.

"Yes, I'm fine," she lied. She then followed with, "No, I'm not."

"Well, whatever is bothering you, I hope it turns out okay," I responded.

The tears really began flowing after our exchange, and I noticed her hand as it shook the empty cup that formerly held her drink. She spun the ice clockwise then counter-clockwise, her mind lost in thought. After a few minutes she looked at me and said, "I bought a one-way ticket to Atlanta. My daughter has cancer, and I'm trying to get all these tears out of me before I see her. I've never dealt with anything like this before."

Whew! I thought back to my original impression of her and realized how wrong I was. This poor lady was trying to maintain her composure in a chaotic environment.

"Where are you from," I inquired?

"Central Jersey," she replied.

For a few minutes, this glorious lady went on to tell me that her daughter and her daughter's husband had moved to Atlanta less than a year earlier. It was then that she was diagnosed with cancer in her adenoid and tongue. She showed me a picture of her smiling daughter lying in her hospital bed, a smile on her face, but beneath her chin a cut in her neck from her right ear to just past the midway point of her throat.

"How old is your daughter," I asked?

"Thirty-one," she said.

"I'm so sorry," I told her. "That's way too young for these kind of problems."

The lady wiped another tear away from her cheek, as she told me about how strong and wilful her daughter is. She was obviously a distraught mom going to a new city to provide something only a mom can give.

She and I talked for the remainder of the flight, and I helped her to baggage claim and to the location where her ride would find her. I let her know that she and her daughter would be in my prayers. It dawned on me after we parted that I never asked her name, nor she mine. But what she did do was thank me for letting her cry on my shoulder.

For that I am forever grateful.

Be good to one another, y'all.

~h

Time Marches On

Another year, another Christmas, another birthday has passed, and here I am still hanging in there like a rusty nail. I took a month off work at the beginning of December, and spent a week in San Francisco...the time focused on reflecting on 2019, the additions to my life, the good friends I have made, the laughs, anguish, the victories, and the failures.

Like everyone else, life stops for no one, and we all have to deal with what life throws at us on a regular basis. In most cases I try to remain positive, but when things get truly difficult, I sometimes get angry or wallow in misery. Hey, I am human. What can I say? Yeah, 2019 threw me a few curve balls, but I soldiered through it.

All that said, 2020 promises to be even more exciting than 2019. More changes are around the corner. Some of them make me very nervous, but life, as I said, waits on no one, so onward I will charge. It's not that I fear failure, it's that I fear not being successful. Does that make sense? I want nothing more than to build something from scratch that is profitable, sustainable, and more than value added.

Now that we have officially entered the new year, my wife and I have planned our first ever cruise. Yes, we have traveled all over the world, but I have never been on a cruise ship. I am super excited to do this! On top of that, the cruise is the second ever launched Crimson Cruise--a ship full of former Alabama football players and coaches. Roll Tide Roll!!!

We have also been busy booking flights to Orlando where we will bring a lot of our family together to hang out for a few days. In May, we will host our annual family reunion at Green Acres, and in June, we are having good friends in from Pittsburgh.

On top of getting to see grandchildren and play with them, I really plan on doing some hiking and a lot of fishing this year. In fact, I want to get my scooter ready for some serious road trips. I have done any real riding in some time.

There are also events planned with respect to my martial arts. Indiana, Washington D.C., and Pittsburgh on my to travel to list this year. I do hope 2020 works out as planned. Like I said, life always throws us curve balls...we just have to keep swinging away.

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.