Thanks for the Memories

First images I have when I think or speak this phrase are those of the legendary Bob Hope; bless his soul, crooning his theme song. I am privileged to have seen the great one at Clemson’s Little John Coliseum. Memories are indeed precious, especially around the holidays. Some could and would debate differences, good verses bad memories. When the holidays arrive, specifically for me, Thanksgiving and Christmas; and yes, it is Christmas, has been and always will be, regardless to the nonsensical, irrational behavior prompted by the insanity dubbed what I refer to as political incorrectiveness. Sorry, memories and tradition go hand in hand for me.

Anyway, Thanksgiving is one where I tend to think of family, not black Friday chaos. I’m surprised the political pundits haven’t claimed foul for naming it that. Heaven help us if it had been called White Friday. Growing up in a small southern town, forget finding any stores, filling stations as we called venues that sold gas back in the day before the world crumbled, or restaurants open on Thanksgiving Day. Of course, we had mainly mom and pop establishments then. Family ALWAYS came first. Families large or small gathered, not to watch football or the Macy’s Parade, or feast on an endless supply of food and beverage, but to be around one another, enjoy each other’s company and yes, be thankful for an assortment of things. Well sure, many liked football, parades and food and beverages but that was just the bonus to an already given celebration.

Everyone’s situation and circumstances are different so I can only share mine; take it, leave it, read it or don’t. For people who know me personally, or have read my memoir, The Caregiver’s Son. Outside the Window Looking In; will get where I’m about to take you. For those still in the dark, just try to keep up. I am an only child, coming from parents, where my mom was an only child too. Memories are where I hang my hat now that both my parents are deceased.  Nostalgia, remembering what once was; making new memories from what life offers now. In 2004 I lost my mom to cancer, three months later my dad to Alzheimer’s and Parkinson, five months after that, I lost my grandmother, my mom’s mom; essentially my entire close family bloodline in an eleven month span.  Yes I miss those Thanksgivings with mama, daddy, for many years being celebrated down on South Main in Abbeville, S.C. at my granny and papa’s wood frame mill house.

I smile thinking about turkey, ham, homemade potato salad (not that gosh awful sweet kind), cream corn, traditional giblet gravy and dressing, green snap beans, cathead biscuits, banana pudding (real nanna put’in) and sweet tea with sugar not sweetener. In my young eyes back then, Thanksgiving was a portal, the sign that Christmas was the next stop on the kid merry-go-round. I was surrounded by family, granny and papa, mama and daddy and assortment sometimes of uncles, aunts and cousins. We laughed. We joked. Tears were shared reminiscing about those we had lost. These were good tears of course. The bond was strong, traditional and genuine. Even as a kid I could feel it.  Those who haven’t experienced this or snub the notion of celebrating holidays that have made our nation strong, then to coin Mister ‘T’ from the A-Team, ‘I pity the fool.’ 

Whether times are hard or bountiful or anywhere in between, you can always find reasons to be thankful for what you have. Sure, you can play the pity game, fume and fuss about your situation, begrudge those who might have it better than you, but look around; as bad as things might be for you, others might have it worse. Those who live their lives based on entitlement, what’s yours should be mine, even if I didn’t have to lift a finger, in the long run live miserable lives. Be happy for those who have prospered. They didn’t do it to make your life worse. Demanding they share is wrong on so many levels. People should give and share because they want to, not because they have to, that it is expected. Be thankful for what YOU have, not spiteful for what others have. I’m on old man now, by comparison, and keeping it real. I often catch myself grumbling about this and that, an ache or a pain, unable to do things possibly as good as I used to but I stop short; seeing others with heath issues or terminal sicknesses. Thanksgiving is that one day a year that allows us to give thanks. It doesn’t mean that it’s the only day that we can.

Yes, I miss my family, those who have left me behind to carry on tradition. I have memories though and I have a new family. We’re eight strong here at the beach. I’m thankful where one ended, the other picked up the slack. While turkey is the traditional choice, it really doesn’t matter whether one graces your table or not. It’s just a big ole fat yard bird, that’s all. I can make a gourmet meal out of can of Spam.  It is what you make out of it, what you’re willing to make out of it. Familysgiving Day, I just started a new tradition, served up with warm hugs, wet kisses and a hearty helping of love put’in, nannas optional.  

Happy Familysday Ya’ll

A Merry Christmas is Just Around the Corner

The opening of 'Last Stand of the Grand Strand'...waiting in line to be published...

The closest house was at least a quarter mile north of where the three young surfers enjoyed the seclusion. While the three to four feet waves offered no great challenges, beggars couldn’t be choosey along this stretch of Grand Strand beach. The pack made up of Cody, Tanner and Newt, sixteen year old best buds, were content to riding the bumps, pumped just to be on the ocean. Tanner had just pulled off a duck dive as he approached the other two straddling their boards.

“These are lame bumps today,” commented Newt.

“It’s tough to do much carving today, for sure,” added Tanner,

“Where’s your dream waves,” asked Newt, paddling up beside the pack.

Tanner bobbed his head up and down. “Got to be the Trestles in Orange County, Cal. It’ supposed to have easy paddle-outs and high-quality breakers.”

“No man. Numero uno has to be the Pipeline in Oahu. Threading the nettle, how cool would that be. Hell, just bobbing the perfect crest would be awesome.” Cody gave the hang ten sign.

“I’d do the box,” said Newt. “It has late takeoffs and right hand barrels.”

“Yeah, right, sharky place to surf, dude,” scoffed Tanner.

“I would. Sure, it’s sharky as hell but it would be worth it. Anywhere in Australia is going to have those great whites. Double daring makes it cool. Same goes for the Supertubes of Jeffrey’s Bay in South Africa. Surfing Magazine said that’s where the best right-handed rides in the world are.”

With that, Newt broke off and got one but misjudged his dismount, hamming his left wrist against the sandy bottom. He held his left arm trying to shake off the stinging pain. One thing for sure, he wasn’t going to let on to the others. He bellied down on the board and paddle back out. Once there, he flipped over on his back and decided to take a break. He rode the bumps, facing towards the ocean while Cody and Tanner searched for the next dune, wishing they actually existed along the Atlantic Grand Strand.

“Look,” called out Tanner, pointing to an enormous swell, “Got to be a rogue.”

The ocean piled up, a small concentrated mountain forming and heading directly towards them. Newt, fifteen yards away, still lying flat, the splashing water to the side of his ears had obstructed him from hearing Cody and Tanner’s excitement. They had already turned, belly down, paddling towards shore, timing to catch the once in a life time big one, clearly now stacking upwards of fifteen feet. It was upon them quicker than they had anticipated. Tanner managed to make it just ahead of the potential crest, while Cody was still paddling like hell.

White water broke like no other they had ever experienced. A gaping hole opened in the wave, a dark cavity lined with rows of gigantic razor sharp teeth. Cody, surf board and all was sucked into the hole in the wave, swirling as if caught in a giant flushing toilet. Tanner was up, balancing on his board, but something wasn’t the norm. He glanced over his shoulder to see why. Caught off guard by something entirely un-wave like, he fell off his board just as his board disappeared inside the nightmare. Still attached at the ankle, he was towed along for the ride. A Tsunami crashed on shore washing away their street clothes and cooler resting on the beach, any signs of them ever being there.

Newt, now aware of the pattern change in the water, up righted himself, straddled the board and then padded to face the shore. A huge bump was now moving ocean bound. He had never witnessed a wave this large, one moving away from the shore. It was maybe twenty yards wide and heading in his direction. Screams made him shift his stare. Thrashing about just behind the crest of the wave was Tanner being dragged helplessly behind it? Newt was spellbound. It was unclear what he should do about the approaching bass-ackwards wave and his friend in distress. The wave crashed inward and Newt watched helplessly, too late to avoid the evitable.

Seconds later the Atlantic Ocean was as if nothing had ever happened. The pack, boards and all, were gone. Three young surfers with aspirations of the hanging perfect ten would never be found. Only their beat up Ford parked on an old beach access dirt road would mark the last place they had visited. A search would turn up nothing, surf boards reduced to tiny pieces that would wash ashore eventually but would never be recognized for what they once were.

Just another one of 18 completed novels waiting to see the light of day...here's the opening for 'Outside the Clique', a fictional tale depicted in Calhoun Falls, S.C.

This has been one hell of an eye opening class reunion. I still straddle the fence with what I should do with the dirt I’ve uncovered and the challenges I face. I had not seen my group of high school buddies in twenty years, last attending the five year get together. I had no earthly idea that their Entrepreneurship had flourished so. Hell, I didn’t even know they were all in business together. I suppose I can be thankful that I moved out of town after graduating or I too could have been part of this hometown enterprise. As it turned out, luck smiled down on me and I wasn’t privy to their mad house or at least not until the last few days, but knowing their dirty little secrets has placed me in a most uncomfortable predicament.

            We have our bags packed and ready to check out and I still haven’t shared my discovery with my beloved little trophy wife, their name for her, not mine. That would just make her an accessory too, so I need to think my next move oh so carefully as not to endanger either one of us.

Given the circumstances I could possibly work this to my advantage, even though I question whether I should have joined them for that first boy’s night out. Adult beverages have a tendency to loosen ones’ tongues. Friends say a lot of things to friends that they wouldn’t share with anyone else, especially when ripped. I suppose I’m still a valued member of the clique after all. Frankly I should count myself lucky to be here to tell about it.  I guess I’m getting ahead of myself.  I should start at the beginning and not so close to the end, since I’m as much a part of it as them now.

 

1

The latest chapter in my life actually started two months ago when I received the invitation for my 25^th Class reunion, the class of 1971. I had skipped the ten year reunion, for good reason. My second wife and I were honey mooning in Bermuda. Not even she would have granted me a kitchen pass for such a lame excuse as partying with my old school pals. A honey moon divorce wasn’t on the agenda. Two wives in less than five years, I wasn’t quite ready for a third. History has a tendency of writing its own pages unfortunately.

My buddies and I were inseparable while in high school and we vowed we would never lose scope of that fact. They didn’t. I’m the one who drifted away long before that fifth year out of school. Love had tugged at my loins and influenced the purple headed warrior to take charge of those brain cells that had not been rendered useless from toking on all those left handed cigarettes. We didn’t consider burning a joint doing real drugs back in the day. It was more of a rite of passage in a small town with nothing better to do. Hell, we had nothing better to do...really.  

Anyway, directly after our senior year I relocated one state over in Georgia, The Peach State, living on the outskirts of Atlanta, if living that close to Atlanta really has any outer boundaries. I could see Stone Mountain from my deck. Thinking back now, I should have renamed it Stoned Mountain because reefer madness had dominated much of my life there. For anyone who hasn’t traveled in and around Lawrenceville, where I lived for a while; Stone Mountain is a quartz monadnock, a large granite rock in the middle of nowhere. It has these gigantic carvings on one side of civil war heroes, Stonewall Jackson, Robert E. Lee and Jefferson Davis all riding horses. The south may never rise again but we still have our rock with a confederate portrait chiseled on the side that the Yankees can’t take away from us.  

Stone Mountain claims to be the largest exposed slab of granite in the world. At the top its elevation is over 1600 feet. They say the granite reaches depths of nine miles. The carving covers about three football fields. Okay, so much for the history lesson but I just so happened to have researched this while living there. This really has nothing to do with the events that will change my life forever but it seemed like a great history lesson and they have a neat park, weekend concerts, a train ride and laser shows there. Okay, I’m done with Stone Mountain. You should be glad I remembered this after burning so many joints.

Let’s fast forward twenty years to 1996. I opened the 25th year invitation and asked my third wife, Ginger, if she would care if we attended. She had never met any of my high school buddies and being newly weds of less than a year, she humored me with my request, saying it sounded like such a quaint little town. I’m not sure about that quaint part but little certainly fist the build.  

Wifey number three, Ginger and I reside in close proximity to Charlotte, North Carolina. She’s twenty years my junior and gave up a promising striper career, headlining at Twin Peaks, to join me in blissful matrimony or at least that’s the way she tells it. I don’t remember all that much about the actual proposal but I’m sure she wouldn’t lie to me about a thing like that. She said she wasn’t interested in my money and loved me for just being me. I’m sure she’s honest as the day is long because she’s been spending it at a record pace to just show me that once it’s all gone we’ll still have each other.

In two short months I would be joining up with the old crowd. I could hardly wait. I returned my RSVP promptly and called to make reservations at the only hotel in town, a locally owned mom and pop three story restored behemoth anchoring the south end of the town. The John C. Calhoun Inn, Bar and Grill had become quite the tourist stop. This would be my first time staying there. It had been condemned during my youth but still laid claims to being haunted by a whore or should I say a Madam of the night, which had been allegedly murdered by a drunken mayor back in the late 1800’s. Playing the ghost card now drew tourists like flies to cow manure. I of course asked for the whore’s room to partake of the ambiance. It only cost twenty eight dollars more than a regular room so I thought why not splurge.

Ginger could hardly contain her excitement. She often pretended to be a medium while performing at Twin Peaks, painting her size 38’s to resemble dual crystal balls for her gypsy routine. An apparent clairvoyant, she had seen me in her future. I do recall gazing into them and being head slapped a time or two between those mountains of delight during a friend’s bachelor party. Those wonderful assets lead to my many returns to Twin Peaks and to me eventually proposing matrimony to her so I’ve been told. I’m a sucker for all natural tits and there was nothing artificial about either one of hers, so bouncy and fleshy, not like those rigid basketball sized ones most strippers sport. I think they call them boob jobs because boobs are a sucker for them.

So the table had been set. We would arrive on a Thursday. A Scotch Foursome golf tournament was scheduled for Friday for those men and woman who did play golf. A concert was planned Friday night with performances by three local bands, all made up of a splattering of our fellow graduates. The main gala would be Saturday night, a reenactment of prom night 1971. While all events would have an open bar, we were encouraged to BYOB and I opted to bring ours. In two months I would be united with the brew crew as we called ourselves back then. Ginger would require a new wardrobe for the occasion and I saw a case of Jack Daniels in my future. Neither of us would be disappointed. 

 

author T. Allen Winn: Available just in time for Halloween, with my hom...

author T. Allen Winn:  Available just in time for Halloween, with my hom...:   Available just in time for Halloween, with my hometown, Abbeville as the backdrop.     Halloween 1968, two car loads of eleven...

author T. Allen Winn: Losing to Win Growing up we played all sorts of sp...

author T. Allen Winn: Losing to Win Growing up we played all sorts of sp...: Losing to Win   Growing up we played all sorts of sports, most not organized, but we had teams just the same. Baseball, basketball, foo...

author T. Allen Winn: Follow this link to watch me with Cecil and Amanda...

author T. Allen Winn: Follow this link to watch me with Cecil and Amanda...: Follow this link to watch me with Cecil and Amanda October 24th on Carolina and Company Live, promoting 'The Perfect Spook House.' ...

Follow this link to watch me with Cecil and Amanda October 24th on Carolina and Company Live, promoting 'The Perfect Spook House.' It always a blast appearing on their show. I'm the second guest if you speed through it.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kaPT2eLAkKs

Losing to Win

 

Growing up we played all sorts of sports, most not organized, but we had teams just the same. Baseball, basketball, football or even bowling, the competition was fierce. More often than not we mimicked our favorite sport's heroes, sometimes even wearing their numbers. We were them, hoping to possess their athleticism, more often then not falling well short. We were dreamers and schemers, plotting a path to win column. We were kids being kids, sometimes making it to the victory circle, other times falling well short. Everyone wanted to be first but we settled for second when things didn't work out. Eventually we'd have our chance, each of us having strengths in one sport activity or the other.

 

Hitting, catching, fielding or pitching gave us options to succeed on our cow pasture baseball diamond. So what if we sucked, we had fun and life went on. If one led the others of our merry little band in home runs over the bared wire fence, then we recognized him as the home run king. On base percentage meet you could hit the ball where one if us wasn't or it took a bad bounce off a cow patty or uneven field. We laughed when bad plays were made and cheered when great ones were made. Strike outs happen just like walks did. We never played to a tie. Someone would win if we played long enough. There were no trophies on MVP awards, only because we couldn't afford them. At the end of the game, we piled in some one's car and headed to the nearest place we could purchase soft drinks, ice-cream or other goodies of choice. Losers and winners celebrated alike.

 

Football was the same. We scored touchdowns, didn't kick any field goals. Shrubbery, trees or other fixed objects marked the out of bounds. Interceptions were acknowledged as loudly as touchdowns. One team eventually won meaning the other one lost. Next time we'd choose sides differently and it might or might not impact the outcome. Who really cared? We were having fun. Don't get me wrong; we all wanted to win and took winning seriously. But once we had and we had razed the losing side, we were over it.

 

Basketball was usually a friendly game of Horse or some other crude animal or thing. Those with trick shots had the advantage. I had an under the leg shot that they heated. I think they eventually banned it. We some times had enough kids to go three on three but most of the time we settled for Horse. We called that person whatever game name we were playing if they lost. Sure, losers hated being tagged with losing game's name but we all eventually lost. The loser always wanted to play one more game. Sometimes we did, sometimes we didn't.

 

Bowling was a fun sport. Stupid stuff always happens on the bowling lanes. People fall, drop balls and even hit pins. Bowling was my game. I was good by kid standards. Did that mean I always won...certainly not. I hated losing but like in any of our other antics, we laughed even when we lost. We controlled our destines. We made the rules, sometimes even following them. There was no fairness. Winners won, Losers lost. The scoreboard never lied. Well we actually had no scoreboard except in bowling. If an inning of baseball scored 25 runs then that was just the way it was until all three outs were made. The other side had three outs too. We played football until finally we just got too tired to play any longer. The one leading at the time won.

 

So where am I going with this you must wonder. Well wonder no longer. I hate what sports have become for the young kids now. It isn't tolerated to be labeled a loser. Everyone is a winner...really? Who made up a stupid rule like that? Outs don't count in baseball. IT'S BASEBALL...OUTS DO COUNT. Since when is it wrong to keep score? Strike outs are part of the game. You get three, not an endless turn at bat until finally you put a ball in play. Football is for hard knocks. You get a bloody nose or knee, it is part of the game. You don't not keep score; that is so terribly wrong. Same goes for basketball. Why would anyone want to run up down the court and then find out at the buzzer that both teams won.

 

Same goes for school classes. If I made an 'F', I either didn't study or gave wrong answers. If you're smart then you should be hailed as being smart. F's don't necessarily make you stupid. Some kids try harder or are smarter than other kids. That just the way things are. Making kids think they are smarter than they really are is not really helping them. Making every kid think they are winners are just setting them up to be big losers in the adult world. There's no even playing field for adults. Screwing up doesn't make you move up. Handouts and entitlements create weak and pathetic adults in the long run. 

 

What's wrong with this world when we don't prepare our children for the real world? The crime is not. I grew up getting whippings by my parents and in sports. I obviously deserved both, either because I did something I wasn't supposed to do or I stunk up the cow pasture in whatever pastime we were playing. That's life. You can't pretty it up by being deceitful to the youngsters by making they seem something they are not. Eventually the truth will catch up with them and in this case, it will not set them free.  

 

Losing builds character. It makes winning feel more special. We all mistakes. We learn from them. But if we never lose or think we make mistakes, we are in for a rude awakening in the real world. Claiming a victory when there isn't one will spell doom for those ill prepared. I am glad I grew up in a time before fairness and even play ruined the world. Bless your hearts, those of you who are now learning otherwise. Blame those who made you believe you never lost at anything. Welcome to the real world.



Excerpt from The Perfect Spook House, now available @ Clock Tower Books in Georgetown or where books are sold on line:

I hung up the phone, relieved to know the Calvary was on the way, even if I had five hours to fend off the onslaught, before he arrived. I returned to the closet. I dragged out the box marked High School Stuff. Apparently I had slipped firmly into the grasp of a nostalgic Sunday afternoon, ready or not.

     I normally don’t spend Sunday afternoons at home alone or even at home at all, if I can find something better to do. Today, the past had a strangle hold on me, so abnormal conditions ran rampant. A sunny October afternoon in my little hometown of Abbeville gave way to brewing storm clouds, the kind that don’t register on the Weather Man’s radar screen.

     I picked through the half dozen high school annuals until I eyed the one that interested me, 1968, my junior year. That year so happened to coincide with the year it happened, the year my life came unraveled. I flipped through the pages, reliving the scenes as if they were just yesterday. They would have been joyous care free times, if not had it been for that day, Thursday, October 31st.

     I had very few signings in the year book. Hardly anyone had wished me luck or told me what a joy I had been to know, except for my very closest friends. Real friends were few and far between, after the incident that night. Most gave me wide berth. I would have probably been a social outcast at a Leper colony. My senior year had so sucked. The class nerds had gotten more attention than me.

     Flipping the pages, I gazed on pictures of happy students walking the hallways, cheering at various sports events, crowned kings and queens, mostly likely to be or do this and that. The photos looked nothing like the year I remembered. I appeared in none of them. My fellow classmates had scorned me, banished me to a desert island, all because of what had happened, and what couldn’t have been prevented. Maybe it could have, if we would have stayed away from that damned old house.

     I would have loved to have seen any one of them do any better, considering the circumstances. I needed a drink. After all, it was past noon. I checked the pantry and spotted a pint of rum, not my preferred drink, but what the hell. I poured an ample amount in a mug, added a couple of ice cubes, some Pepsi and a splattering of lime juice. I was off and running. After a couple of long swigs, all was good, or at least getting better. That catchy 1970’s tune leaped into my head. I began singing while I danced around the room. It just seemed the right thing to do.

She put the lime in the coconut, and drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, and drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut,
Called the doctor, woke him up, and said,
"Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?
I say, Doctor, ain't there nothin' I can take,
I say, Doctor, to relieve this belly ache?"
She put the lime in the coconut, and drank them both up
She put the lime in the coconut, and drank them both up

 

Available just in time for Halloween, with my hometown, Abbeville as the backdrop.

 

 

Halloween 1968, two car loads of eleventh graders venture down the winding Cedar Springs Road. An old deserted house screams haunted dares to those in search of spooks and goblins. Do tricks or treats await the young thrill seekers? Spontaneity has never taught a tougher life’s lesson, prompting a tiny southern community to shun their very own.  Ask Payne Lewis, the past can haunt forever. Nineteen years of torment comes to a head and eleven men must face their childhood demons one last time. Nostalgia guarantees no happy endings and sometimes is just better off left alone. There once was the Perfect Spook House…

 

 

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Disembark…Where’s Beaufort Pusser when we need him?

Disembarking the ship had its challenges. We couldn’t do it on an empty stomach so we had to hit the Lido deck one last time for breakfast. One had to wean one’s self off of endless grazing gradually. After a healthy and hardy pant’s splitting breakfast, we opted to carry off our luggage. Bad decision, sort of, as it appeared most everyone else had chosen this option. Elevators were a near impossibility to catch. We were assigned the Place Theater as our destination to wait until time to disembark, because we had to be out of our cabins by 8:30. Luckily we caught the elevator going up from deck 6 to 8. Luck ran out when we had to haul our luggage down 6 decks, two flights of stairs each. Clumsy wheeled luggage is suited for stairways filled with impatience luggage carrying people.  Luggage rage was running rampant, a new serial killer in the making. Victims could be easily targeted, no shortage for sure. Somehow we survived. Putting the oceanic adventure behind us, The Griswolds motored to their next destination.

The last two days of our after cruise journey were scheduled for Beaufort, S.C., about a three hour drive from Jacksonville and a stop on our way back to Myrtle Beach. We already had two hotel rooms reserved. None of us had ever stayed in Beaufort so we weren’t exactly sure what to expect. Many movies had been filmed in the area and that was part of their claim to fame. Forrest would say ‘It might be like a ‘box of chocolates.’  Forrest Gump or at least portions of it were supposedly filmed there, as was the Big Chill, The Great Santini, GI Jane, Platoon and Forces of Nature and a few others. We had marked movie locations tour on our to do list. No, Walking Tall was not one of the films but I couldn’t help thinking Sheriff Buford Pusser when the name Beaufort comes up. He was the Sheriff of McNairy County, Tennessee, from 1964 to 1970. That Buford is known for his virtual one-man war on moonshining, prostitution and gambling. It prompted several movies and TV series as he battled the then Dixie Mafia and Stare Line Mob. 

After much of a rain free cruise we were in one monsoon after the next commuting towards Beaufort.  We didn’t have access to Doppler radar and the ability to perform zig-zag maneuvers as had our cruise captain dodging rainstorms, similar to battleships confusing submarines intent on sinking them.  We managed to make it to Beaufort with only one grazing stop.  We didn’t want to suffer withdrawals. We eventually arrived and after unloading the car, freshening up, we ventured out and about to check things out. We ended up in the old downtown section, Mayberry with heat and humidity. Finding a parking spot on the Bay Street, we began feeding coins in the parking meter.  A quarter bought you about six minutes. We started with an hours’ worth, later returning to up the ante when we found a place to dine on the bay front.  Like Nassau, we had completed a several block walk-about and other than the meter feeding and feeding our faces, we did nothing else to boost the quaint little town’s economy.  We rode around afterwards in this and that direction to get the lay of the land.

The next morning we were ready to take our show to the streets and tour some more. Several consignment shops had been targeted; historical ones I’m assuming or maybe these were film locations…NOT. Sister-in-law was not doing well. She made it to several stops before crying uncle and the next stop was Food Lion to purchase meds. They bowed out before noon, opting to settle back in the room. We ventured out and scoped out more of Beaufort, returning in time to see if they were up to some grazing. An addiction is tough to kick. They emerged from their cave long enough to join us before packing it back in a second time. We told them happy hour started at 6. The sister-in-law was still feeling a bit puny, hacking and coughing so neither she nor my brother-in-law joined us for happy hour @ 6 at poolside. Perhaps they thought a bathing suit was required.  It was optional and we had opted out.  I bet if I would have said a buffet was being served…

No one had felt up to doing any tours, neither by van or horse drawn carriage; either too sick or it was just plain too hot and humid. Again, we didn’t do too much to boost the economy on our little pit stop.  Instead of heading back to Myrtle Beach via Charleston, we decided to skirt through Summerville, distance about the same. There we intended to stop for lunch at Perfectly Franks, a dinner we had seen highlighted on Guy Fiei’s Drive-ns, Dinners and Dives.  We arrived @ 1100 Am. The sign on the store said hours begin @ 11:15, an odd time for opening. One couple pushing a stroller was already there waiting. We asked them had they ever eaten there and she said, “Oh my God yes.” We knew then that we wouldn’t be disappointed. Crowds began forming in the next few minutes and they opened up at 11:10. Every Frank on the menu was named after someone or something aka the Frank Sinatra. Aretha Franklin, etc.

I had the Frank Cuda…chili, topped with blue cheese slaw, bacon, crumpled fried onions, and a special mayo, watch out elbows. The Cuda family tradition began in 1910, when Perry’s grandfather, Frank Cuda, Sr., at the age of 15, stowed away on a boat from Italy to America. Later he moved to Pittsburgh, PA. From there, he brought all of his family, eight brothers and sisters and his father, to live with him in America. As the oldest brother, Frank was determined to make his way in his new home by opening a food store and selling hot dogs. With just three stools and a counter, “Cuda’s Hot Dogs” was born. Frank Cuda, Sr. continued to grow his business and soon had four hot dog stores managed exclusively by his family, which included Perry’s father, also named Frank. Today, Perry Cuda is carrying on the tradition and continues to pay tribute to the “Franks”.  Go to http://www.perfectlyfranksonline.com/menus.html#3

We eventually, Lido like belly popping full, made our way back to the grand strand. The in-laws made a swift retreat and headed for Abbeville, a four and half hour driver, having apparently had enough of our company. A vacation is what you make out of it and I like to keep my memorable. Being a little foolish is okay. Enjoying it is priceless. I can’t wait for the next time the Griswold wantebees hit the highway. Maybe next time we’ll too go in search of Wally World.

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Day 5: Milk-um Dano  

We’re on the last leg of our journey, a day at sea, skimming our way through the ocean towards Jacksonville. We’re up and at-um at 7:30, ready to milk this cow, our final oceanic adventure before returning to the life of norm. With an all day island adventure behind us, those late night partiers give way to skimpy crowds on the Lido; no lines, no waiting, pile those plates high, eyes always bigger than the bellies. Stan the Man is making he rounds, still meeting and greeting passengers. Sucking up day I suppose; tonight we divvy out the gratuities. Stan has certainly earned his, hands down.  

The pool area on the Lido was a virtual invasion of the towel creations. The fluffy white animals were everywhere and represented almost any animal imaginable. I had never seen these creatures outside our cabin. My best attempt at a towel animal is my depiction of the ‘Blob’, an oddly shaped towel on the bathroom floor. Others don’t appreciate my ingenuity and creative talents so I don’t leave my masterpieces there for long. They are preparing to do an ice carving pool side. A huge block of ice is already positioned there. Guests are supposed to guess what the carver is creating as he chips away. Crowds close in obstructing our view. Fine, I’ll just keep my guess to myself. We leave, just the deck, not the ship. What do they do with the sculpture after it melts?  

We check tonight’s menu…boring…nothing really weird to hold my attention or expectations. I’ll have sushi as my appetizer just to maintain some semblance of weirdness. I do have a reputation to maintain. Tonight’s entertainment includes tow comedians, back to back, the non adult versions of their shows; The Diva Show in the Palace Theater and I’m already having visions of Bill Davis’s Diva paintings. Other than that, we shall eat…eat again and then eat some more. There is a special VIP gala planned before dinner for those previous cruisers, by invitation only. I’m not on the invite list even though I’ve sailed Carnival way too may time. The “Three’ are. My brother-in-law isn’t interested and tells me to take his spit. Chameleon like, I have the ability to mimic almost anyone. I am him and escort the ladies, one on each arm. I become an official VIP for forty minutes. I am one with the elite, the ultimate party crasher. I wow them by dancing with both my escorts simultaneously, a slow dance, a tribute my way as old Frankie would say. Earlier in the casino I played the slots one last time earlier, end up breaking even. High roller status is not a reality or obtainable goal.  

We break bread with our table once last time. Besides us, our table buddies include Robbie, the karaoke singer, Kathy the odd and annoying one who cruise one cruise after the next, Edith the widow and energetic and entertaining octogenarian, and Cynthia, the quiet one from Ohio. I envision a plot once again revolving around these four characters and some devious shenanigans. I even share this with them for a good laugh. We commit to joining Robbie, the Sam’s Club marketing guy, later in the karaoke bar. Oh no, we plan to watch not sing.  We eventually follow up on our promise to watch him belt out a few tunes. He ends up singing a couple of country tunes and then a Commodores’ tune, Brick House. We cease the moment, Edith, my sister-in-law and me, becoming Robbie’s on stage back-up dancers, with his permission of course. It is required that on every cruise, you must make a fool out of yourself at least once.  We completed this task royally. I have the video to confirm it. My brother-in-law filmed the entire set with my camera. Kiss and say goodbye…Pips here we come.  

Tonight has ended. Tomorrow we disembark. All things, good or bad, must come to an end…or not. We plan a two night side trip before arriving Sarueday in Myrtle Beach. Beaufort, S.C. here we come, ready or not.

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Day 4: An Hour in Paradise  

We’re here. The island is there. As mentioned previously, I’m the only one who brought a bathing suit. I discover just this morning that it is one that the strings don’t tighten up so well. I have been considering going snorkeling but skinny dipping wasn’t in my plans. Weighed down with water that might just happen if I do, but, snorkeling really isn’t fun without at least one bud along. I’m Bud-less so I decided not to go. No one in my group is going to sunbath on the beach, swim, kayak, walk and/or bicycle the island trails, ride horses or anything like that. We’re just going on the island for the promised BBQ. Go figure, eating is involved, island grazing this time. One has to ponder, does water go all the way around the island. Goodbye Lido Deck…keep the food light on for us.  

We take one of the tenders and soon arrive on our island paradise. For greenhorns, tenders are the boats that take us to the island. We arrive, a beautiful layout I must say, paradise found. We walk to the beach, see it and walk back, and then visit the one souvenir shop. Shade, there must be shade some place so say some in our party, the others I call them. The 11 AM BBQ time arrives. As on the ship, eating is located on what seems like the opposite end of the island. I guess this ensures that the patrons work up an appetite getting from here to there; like we require an excuse for being hungry. Heck on a cruise you eat whether you are hungry or not. It’s an endless buffet. Chickens, real chickens are everywhere on the island; instant BBQ I’m thinking. My beloved is terrified of chickens; anything with feathers to be more precise. She is a near basket case and is ready to be voted off the island. I almost want to pull a Jeff from Survivor and say I’ll go tally the votes; if anyone has the hidden immunity island and would like to play it now…  

BBQ, where’s the BBQ, ribs, chicken, pulled pork…no, we have hamburgers and hotdogs. That’s grilling, not barbequing. Is this some sick joke? Are they no chicken pluckers on this island? As Lost in Space’s Doctor Smith would say. “The shame, the shame of it all...’ We do as we are supposed to and forge on, consume the food provided, and then we catch a tender and head back to the ship. There’s always the Lido deck. I catch a reprieve after reading tonight’s dinner menu…frog leg appetizers…I’m good…two appetizers please. Let’s recant. I’ve had escargot, gator and hippity-hoppers await me. I live for weird food so the others call it. Oh yeah, on the Lido Deck I have already devoured calamari fritters. Add squid to my list.   

We decided we deserved a happy hour before dinner and invite the couples to join us in our cabin. That’s the least we can do since our non-traveling cruise partners (the high rollers) have a bottle of Cherry Rum and a bottle of wine that they want to get rid of. Get ridding of I am good at. We take a nostalgic trip, swapping stories about growing up in L.A. (Lower Abbeville). South Main, Perry and Hunter Streets, Langley Milliken, Greenville Street grammar schools, the mill hill, all the characters we knew and their antics; adult beverages emboldened our tales. I mentally take notes; novels require new characters and wild adventures. This was the best of the cruise so far.  

After dinner, and upon my consumption of six frog legs, we settled in at the Palace Theater. When I say we, I mean half of our original six. Two went back to their cabin and one hauled tail to the casino. The cruise director had assembled several couples on stage for Carnival’s version of the Newly Wed Game. One question stood out above the others as a hoot and I’m glad we weren’t participants. 

Question: When your husband emerges from the shower does he resemble (a) A stretch limousine, (b) A dump truck (c) a VW bug with tiny pink flat tires.  

Tomorrow we are all day at sea; just perfect for non sun bathers. There’s always the Lido deck. How much luggage are you allowed to take off the ship? I feel like I’m lugging around a lot more than I arrived with…

 

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Day 3: Nassau is Not NASA 

Docked and ready to see the space shuttle, a few astronauts and launch pads…you’d be surprised. Time to disembark; my down is sometimes up. We’re so used to ascending we forgot today we’d be descending three decks and six flights of stairs. Our little ole Fascination is a mere baby boat docked between the massive behemoths of the sea from Disney and Royal Caribbean. The humongous Royal Caribbean’s International of the Seas has nothing but balcony rooms. Even the interior rooms have balconies so we were told. I find my self suffering from a severe case of ship envy. Size does matter. I feel so inadequate and out gunned. No need wishing what I can’t have so we head a shore, the whole time, the ballad of the SS Minnow is playing over and over in my head, a three hour tour. There’s only one tune worse, It’s a Small World After All. Dang it, now I got that one in my head, thank me very much.  

We’ve played this game before, having been to Nassau more times that I can possibly remember. We know the walk, the lay of the land and typically do our little walk about through the various tourist trap shops before returning to the ship in time for a Lido deck visit. In one shop I spot a Book Nook. Just as the ship’s library, it is void of any T. Allen Winn masterpieces. I will have a word with my fan club president and only member of that illustrious group and have her inquire why they don’t. In another shop we zoom in on a coupe wearing Costal Carolina Teal tee-shirts. We walk over and speak to them. They are from New York and have been on nearly forty cruises, blowing us out of the water. Their grandson has just started CCU, receiving a scholarship in track. He’s a high jumper. We swap emails and I take a photo of them, small world after all.  Dang it, I should have never keyed that in.  

Thinking towards eventual retirement, I eye these unique cork creations of animals. A sign warns no photographs. Somehow I manage to heed the warning. I tell my lovely wife, the wine connoisseur to start saving her corks. I might have a creative moment. Screw off caps are not going to kick start my creative potential. We trek on, completing our three or four block loop. Coping with the heat and humidity as best we can, we make our purchases, two bottles of water, a buck a piece, one genuine Bahamas souvenir golf visor, made in China, 6 dollars, sweaty and smelly, priceless.  

We’re no longer sun worshippers, me being the only one foolish enough to bring a bathing suit so dock day can be quite boring on the Fun Ship.  But, wait, we have endless eating to fill our afternoon until our 6 PM early dinning. I might qualify as a Sumo wrestler by the time we debark in Jacksonville.  

After dinner, we settle in at the Piano Bar for a second helping at 9 PM, solo of course as our cruising partners returned to their cabin, predicted. The ivory keys were as good as the first time. At 10 PM one of the clubs is supposed to have an hour of country music. We’re up for a little country music and Texas two stepping. We arrive, secure us a seat and after three songs of watching a non-energetic or entertaining DJ playing country, no one on the dance floor, we decide to leave. I can do better playing songs on my radio while commuting to work Mon-Fir. We call it a night.  

Oh, I nearly forgot, shortly have we hit the seas again and the casino opened, I tried my luck at quarter slots again. We had learned to use our on board cards as cash and could earn points as we played. 1000 earned points guaranteed free drinks. Go figure, I played on that same ten dollars foe a good thirty or so minutes, eventually cashing out @ seventy dollars. Between the two of us we were netting $20 to the win column. I had earned a big ole whopping 63 points towards my 1000 point high roller status. I was living large…NOT! A Win is a Winn. 

My book juices are always flowing. I pondered a cruise novel with the Love Boat theme song now playing annoyingly in my head. Cruising Dead, a zombie thriller, Lido Lovers, the Tale of the Cannibal Chef, The Constant Cruiser, old lady cruising continuously one cruise after the next, a soul eater, having her way with an endless buffet of folks, or maybe, Triangular, Trudy and Woody investigate why passengers are vanishing on certain cruises. Yep, that’s me, I think about stuff.  

Tomorrow we’ll be anchored at the private island, Half Moon Cay or as the crew calls it Half Mon-key.      

 

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Day 2: The Man Show

Stan and Piano  

Stan the Man, that’s what he called himself, our dinning room Maitre D'. He looked too much like Annie’s Daddy Warbucks. He had more personality than all the Maitre D’s from every cruise we have ever taken. He was personable, friendly and funny. We had ended up the first night’s seating each couple assigned different tables. The third couple, not in our original party, was at what else but a third table. We had asked Stan the Man the previous night if we could all sit at one table. No problem, Stan the Man came through for us. Every time I saw him, no matter where on the ship for the remainder of the cruise, he always called me by my first name. That was just too uncanny but appreciated.  

Earlier during the day I tried my hand at the twenty five cent casino slots, ten dollar bill in, no dingers and in less than two minutes, like magic, my ten had disappeared. That’s worse than unlucky. I later ventured into the ship’s library, the same spot on a different cruise ship where I had my very first photo taken of me and my very first published novel, Road Rage. I had just received my proof copy before our vacation cruise sailed from Miami and then we spent a week in Key Largo. On that vacation I sold my first copy of Road Rage to a couple from California staying at our resort. Sadly, looking about the shelves, there were no T. Allen Classics. Unlucky at slots and libraries so it seemed.  

We had started our morning with pre-arranged room service, mater juice and coffee to our cabin @ 7:30. We met my in-laws for breakfast later on the Lido. Sister-in-law was commenting how she thought service was better on Celebrity Cruise Lines. I advised her to tone down her voice in front of the Carnival servers. To prove we were fit as a badly tuned fiddle, we opted for the stairs instead of the elevators. We were on deck 6, Lido on Deck 10 and everything else was between those decks. Oh yeah, cramps got me later that night, the old legs debating the decision to ascend and descend. It didn’t deter us from sticking to the game plan. One must find a way to counter the grazing frenzies.  

My dearest was going to let her sister borrow gold ear rings for dress-up night. She called their cabin to tell her to drop by and pick them up. Not going to happen, her sister told her she had lost her holes. How do you lose holes in your ears I asked? They must have grown over from not wearing them, so I offered to poke new holes in them. Wise woman, she declined my offer. Just as well, the way my luck was going I would have made a mess of that too. I’m not ear pierce person but I did stay once in a Holiday Inn Express. She lost her room key too if that tells you anything. She eventually relocated it though but those ear holes never showed up.  

I said at the beginning that Day 2 was the Man Show. After dinner, we visited the Piano Bar. Of all places, the Piano Player lived in Anderson, S.C., was originally from Georgia, a good ole God fearing Baptist boy. We had heard him play on the last ship we sailed. It’s a fun guy and takes requests. He said he had to get this one tune over with though and played Piano Man. He was indeed Piano Man Extraordinaire. At the end of his set he said he had one more tune to play. Fist he said he was required to make a disclaimer; he was about to play a gospel tune in a bar. He said if anyone in the bar was offended by Jesus music then ‘there is the door.’ He brought the house down with an Elvis rendition of “How Great Thou Art’.  

Earlier during dinner, sadly escargot was not on the menu but not to fear. I got my weird fix on with gator fritters. I had flash backs of all those gators I see on the Grand Strand golf courses. Man, there are a lot fritters on those ten footers. And no, gator does not taste like chicken folks; only chicken tastes like chicken so please stop spreading all the roomers about everything else tasting like narrow head, yard bird that is.  

We made until around 11 PM, until most of the good entertainment had expired. The other couple in our party had departed to their cabin after dinner. Sorry, I don’t get it, going on a cruise and not staying up to do anything.  

The male part of our third couple was a casino junky.  I could be one too if I could afford all the losing. He claimed he was winning, had been pegged as a high roller, even receiving complimentary drinks. I hadn’t even reached low roller status yet. The cruise wasn’t over yet though. Lady luck might be out there somewhere. If she was, where had she been hiding the past 61 years? What a tease? After all, we had three more cruise days to go yet. Miracles can happen. Tomorrow, tomorrow…right. I better consult Daddy Warbucks, Stan the Man and request that he please conjure up me a winning streak. I’m not greedy; braking even is a good thing. Speaking of tomorrow, well typing speaking of tomorrow, we’ll be docking in Nassau. That means a walk about, window shopping in the oppressive heat and retuning in time to do lunch on the Lido. You cam never pass on a grazing opportunity.

 

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Day 1: Saturdays are for Cruisers and Bruisers

 

Surprises at the terminal, first time out of Jacksonville and what happens; we’re spotted by another couple from the hometown, Abbeville, also sailing from this port for the very first time. Go figure. We reminisce, we board, and we are ready for the next five days of leaving the rest of the world behind. As mentioned, the other three, the clique were issued gold VIP on board cards and I receive a blue first time cruiser card, 18 cruise, sorry, I’m not a virgin. We bring on board the permitted amount on none alcohol beverages, not to exceed more than twelve cans or bottles of 20 ounces each. Mingled among the water could be contraband, just saying. We also brought a couple of sippy cups.  Not to be outdone, the in-laws purchased water bottles and sippy cups too. Theirs is still in the car, go figure.  

Waiting to sail in three or four hours, we else is there to do but hit the Lido Deck, let the grazing begin. Green tea is supposed to be healthy, I get that. Dipping green tea, tea bags in a cup of coffee just so ain’t right. Sister-in-laws often defy logic. Mixed drink I suppose. We eventually make our way to our cabin, hoping we will have one bed, not twins or bunk beds. One bed it is. The other two of our party have the same outcome at their cabin. They have the cabin folks redo it and make twin beds. Logic defied once again but not my cabin, do your thing.  

Sister-in-law is put off by a motorized wild woman driving about and running her nearly over. To be continued…it ain’t over by a long shot.  

Silent moment…mama sure did love cruising. She would have been right her with us, no doubt, miss you mama.  

Fairy tales do come true and why I love to cruise is confirmed the very first night. We check out the dinner menu. It’s escargot night. I order two appetizers, twelve snails please. I’m in heaven. My goal each night, eat and try new and different stuff. I dubbed as the one who eats weird stuff. Weird can be good. Don’t knock it unless you try it. Man’s mantra: ‘I’ll eat anything that doesn’t eat me first.’ I live by that creed too and will try anything once and have.  

We attend the show, and as we enter the theater, they are giving out tickets. My beloved tears off one section and drop the other copy off for the drawing. In-laws are excited they have tickets too. One problem, they still have both sections, doubling their chances I suppose. You can’t win if you have both sections, sorry. We make it to 11:30 our first night. Older and wiser we don’t try to hang out to the wee hours with the youngsters. We’re cruising ya’ll. I wonder if the crew is sleeping on he ship too.

‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

Pre-Cruise Madness

 

Okay, I concede; we are four technically, two couples, brother-in-law and sister-in-law as related to me. I could name names but sometimes it is best to protect those who don’t often protect themselves. Wink…nod…some of you will figure it out anyway. I’m still not over those three biscuits by a long shot though. One is a lonely number but this one never forgets. Ask anyone. I take half a day off from work on the day before the embarkation date. We decide to drive close to Jacksonville so we’re the first in line the next day. We eventually circle the wagons about thirty miles from our destination, plenty of daylight to burn but close enough to call; Comfort Inn becomes our campsite; we do have a rewards card after all. Two rooms…perfect… 

Our rooms have king sized beds, are roomy and have min frigs, microwaves and those one cup coffee makers.  And what does the brother-in-law do and we are glad we weren’t with him when he asked? He goes to the lobby and asks the front desk attendant for a coffee pot because one is missing from theirs. No pot is required she explains. Just place one of the provided cups underneath, add water, the supplied coffee and press start. Coffee pot…really. One must learn to get out of Abbeville (subliminal hint) more often. Sister-in-law decides she wants one of those reward cards so she can receive all the quirks that come along with them. Quirks…perks…sound sort of alike, don’t they? Quirk: something strange happens for reasons that you do not know or understand. She is sort of quirky. Perks are privileges granted. Strange happening or privileges, she may as well have had utters; we milked the quirk angle for the remainder of the vacation. She is our female ‘Norm Crosby.’ Google him if you are too young or too quirky to get it.  

Writer and blogger privileges, perks of the trade; I decide what I write and all are primed and fair targets. I didn’t take my laptop but I have an elephant’s memory. I file things away but store them up for later. In this case, I did things the old fashioned way, note tablet and pen. At the end of the day I converted those chronicled events to paper, saving the quirkiness for now, perks indeed. We haven’t even gotten to the cruise yet. Bear with me, wild and craziness looms ahead as only I can spin it.

 ‘The Griswolds Have Nothing on Us’

The Power of Three 

Bored and having not taken much of a vacation in the past two years other than staying at the beach condo, we decided it was time to do a road trip. Sure, the condo comes with an ocean and a beach but we can go there anytime and have. I know it’s hard to believe but living less than ten minutes from the beach makes going there less special. We decided it was time to do another cruise. We hadn’t been on one in a few years, having burned out of doing them, dozens of them. What the heck, at least we could hop on board, have our hotel, our meals and entertainment all inclusive, destination not really that important. We decided on a five day, leaving from Jacksonville, much cheaper than going out of Charleston. It really makes no sense…same cruise line, same dates, same destinations, just a different ship but worth the extra three hour drive further to Jacksonville than just and hop and a skip to Charleston. We tacked on two nights afterwards in Beaufort. 

We invited kinfolk. They accepted. We booked the cruise two months in advance. August 30^th arrived on schedule. The kinfolk were coming down on the 29^th but in their typical fashion, and really no surprise, they came to the beach two days earlier than originally planned. We’re used to this. On the 29^th, a breakfast supper was served. After most of the food had been consumed, only three biscuits and two sausage patties survived the night time morning feast. The female kinfolk, while still seated at the kitchen table, smiles as she eyes the three biscuits and says, we have three left and there’s three of us. Excuse me…I’m still here, and just because I work half day tomorrow doesn’t mean I don’t eat breakfast too. I immediately smell conspiracy, the clique being formed and me on the outside looking in. Ironically I have a completed novel titled ‘Outside the Clique’ so I get it.  

Fast forwarding to cruise check in time, The Three all receive gold on board passes. I receive a blue pass card and I’m the one who made all the reservations. Gold signifies VIP. Of which I’m not. The power of the three rears its ugly obvious head once again and I’m just a P, VI to my name apparently. Later each of them will receive a special invitation to attend a welcome aboard dinner. I’m VIP-less…go figure…I can’t. The male kinfolk, not one to drink, dance and socialize, offers me his VIP invite. A chameleon, I become him for 45 minutes.  

Hold onto your britches The Griswolds Cruise Vacation lurks in the next entries, five days…really? It seemed much longer. Clark, eat your heart out…

 

The Perfect Spook House novel is at the publisher's, just in time for a pre-Halloween launch.

Halloween 1969, two car loads of eleventh graders venture down the winding Cedar Springs Road. An old deserted house screams haunted dares to those in search of spooks and goblins. Do tricks or treats await the young thrill seekers? Spontaneity has never taught a tougher life’s lesson, prompting a tiny southern community to shun their very own.  Ask Payne Lewis, the past can haunt forever. Nineteen years of torment comes to a head and eleven men must face their childhood demons one last time. Nostalgia guarantees no happy endings and sometimes is just better off left alone. There once was the Perfect Spook House…

The backdrop is Abbeville, S.C., as along the theme of the Detective Trudy Wagner series in Myrtle Beach, local hangout and landmarks are speckled through the saga. I as always when I have new book published, will plan a book signing in the hometown, especially since this one is centered there.

Next up and hopefully before the Thanksgiving-Christmas shopping time will be Cornbread and Buttermilk, Good Ole Fashion Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense, a memoir of course. Pass the Hash, Make Mine a Second Helping on Loaf Bread, second addition to first, more nostalgic foolishness.

My first ever kids novel is being proofed and edited too. Mister Twix is Missing, A Cat Scene Investigation. Join neighborhood sleuths Bucky and Elvis as they attempt to solve the missing cat caper and help little Lorrie find her cat.

Blogging is something one must sustain or the blog goes dry. Reruns or mulligans don't work. I've been focusing too much on writing and proofing and writing and editing. I just haven't written anything new here. Rambling isn't blogging, is it?

Okay, I am trying to push my butt towards at least publishing something. It's been nearly a year and half since I published the last two. It's not that I don't have plenty of stuff to publish, because I do. I'm sitting on top of nearly twenty completed novels. I hope to have The Perfect Spook House published by Halloween. Hoping and doing are not exactly cooperating. Procrastinating is working just fine though. I don't have writer's block and don't think I ever have. It's that drive to promote and sell that has come to a screeching halt. Sadly, that rests on my shoulders as all who self publish are aware. No one pays us to write. No one is out there peddling the goods. It falls squarely on our shoulders. It often makes you feel like a mutation, a cross between a used car salesman and snake oil peddler. It works for a while then it gets sort of old for me and those I'm dogging.

Every author, sounds too strange for me to admit I am, searches for that one break out book, one that makes the world take notice. Unfortunately there are a zillion hungry souls out there chasing the very same dream. You can only go to the well so many times before family and friends cry uncle and band you from the land. People begin avoiding eye contact, crossing to the other side of the street, stop commenting to your babbling on Face Book. Book sales become mercy killings.

I began writing in 2003 while cooped in a hotel three night a week during business travel. I did it for me, not real aspirations to publish. I cranked out a 650 page something called The Lord's Last Acres. Looking back at it now, it needs a tune up and should be sliced and diced, made into a series instead of one book. I wrote The Caregiver's Son for me, my way to overcome grief and depression after losing mama, daddy and granny in 11 months. I did it for me, never ever really expecting to share it with anyone else. Road Rage just came to me after we moved to the beach. I kept a log of near misses, crazy drivers, eye witnessed wrecks for a few weeks and came up with the idea, what if someone was pushed over the edge...and no, I am not a serial killer but I did stay at the Holiday Inn Express. Dark Thirty bubbling in my pea brain after seeing all the senseless bullying in this world. I liked my characters in Road Rage, thus North of the Border evolved and I'm currently winding down the third in the Detective Trudy Wagner series, Tithe and Offerings, with the plot of a forth already stewing, The Low Country Hunt Club.

Lou Who evolved from this crazy brain of mine, a woman suffering from Alzheimer's becomes possessed b a vengeful one hundred year old witch. Alzheimer's finds it way into many of my tales.

Absent on Arrival, a weird tale of something gone terribly wrong at a resort in the Smokey Mountains, a little Steven King sort of...and NO, I'm not comparing myself to the great one.

No Mulligan came to light after watching Tiger Woods life spiral out of control. I put my twist on the story and upped the anti to toss out a murder mystery with my usual twists.

The Perfect Spook House is depicted in Abbeville. Outside the Clique is centered in Calhoun Falls. A group of high school buddies attend a high school reunion many years later. One of the guys has lost touch with the others. Dark secrets exist for the homeboys who never left and he is soon reeled back into the clique where things are not one they seem.

The Tenth Elemental is centered around the world of Gnomes and deities in Maggie Valley.

More bullying exists. Mack, Dark Thirty Continues. Just what happened after the ending in Dark Thirty? I have a series of short stories geared towards young folks, Bully on Board.

I have two more kid's books completed but no published of course. Digging Sea Turtles and Mister Twix ix Missing, A Cat Scene Investigation.

Of course I have my Sasquatch Trilogy, the first two novels complete, (1) Foot (2) Another Foot and the third started, The Final Foot.

Characters from Foot series and Trudy Wager series cross paths in Last Stand on the Grand Strand, something primeval swims in the waters off the coast.

More memoirs:  (1) Cornbread and Buttermilk, Gold Ole Fashion Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense, (2) Soppin the Possum, the Second Helping (3) Fostering Four, my time as a foster parent


Have I babble blogged you senseless? How about this, the in progress projects that I am writing...

(1) The Hardwood Walker of Ports Harrelson Road, a tale from Bucksport, SC, based on factual events, with my spin added. (165 pages in the can)
2) Just Who the Heck on the Joneses (another mystery, 78 pages)
3) Raw Ride, a Good Ole Fashion Zombie Apocalyptic Shoot-um Up (44 pages)
4) Potential Novellas or Four stories within in one book titled Love from the Man Cave Perspective with four stories 1) Love from the Dark Side 2) The Longest Hello 3) The Single Guy's Roadmap to Marriage 4) The Widow Magnet
5) The Book Peddler - just what would you do to sell your books?
6) Potential kid's books 1) Walking my Fish 2) Chicken Lovers Inc. 3) Drum Stick and Jack-O-Lantern 4) The Pinecone People

And then MAYBE, the BIG SURPRISE, a nonfiction one might eventually see the light of day.

And one other project potentially, a collaboration with a talented Abbeville Classmate...

Say shut up...blogged you good, didn't I?

MYRTLE BEACH, SC (WMBF) - The sign at Myrtle Manor Trailer Park has been stolen again. Filming of the third season of TLC's reality show "Welcome to Myrtle Manor" is scheduled to begin at the park on Friday.

The sign was taken from the mobile home park at around 3 p.m. Tuesday, according to Barbara Patrick, the owner.

She and her husband Cecil said a police report has been filed. "Myrtle Manor," also known as Patrick's Mobile Home Park, is located off Highway 15 in Myrtle Beach. 

The Myrtle Manor sign was stolen back in March of 2013, shortly after the reality show premiered on TLC. 

The third season of the show is expected to begin filming on August 8, according to the Myrtle Manor Facebook page.

The reality show features the ‘colorful residents' in the ‘five-star trailer park' of Myrtle Manor, according to its website.

The show first aired March 3, 2013.

Copyright 2014 WMBF News. All rights reserved.

 

Okay, here's my take on this article posted on WMBF News website. I confess. I have watched every episode of Myrtle Manor thus far. I have even driven through the movie set location in Patrick Trailer Park. I live in Myrtle Beach so why wouldn't this intrigue me. This is similar to the perception of Tiger Woods. You either hate it/him or you love it/him, not much wiggle room for in between. I am a wiggler just the same. As mentioned in this article they're about to begin shooting episodes for season number three. Yep, I'll most likely watch them too. One must keep it in perspective. It's like watching wrestling on television. I go into this realizing most of it is staged and fake. Reality TV is not really reality as we live it. My life as a reality show would be canceled after the first episode...boring...that is unless I did stuff to make it more entertaining. Those who know me, know that isn't going to happen because I'm so shy and introverted. Well...I used to be.

Recap...the sign has been stolen for a second time. Souvenir hunter or someone totally embarrassed by the show, there lies the mystery. Possibly it was a publicity stunt or munity on the Myrtle. Some have been real pissed about the show depicting the community and palmetto state as a bunch of dumb ass hicks. Oddly, many of the characters on the show have been northerners. Actually depicting a Myrtle Beach trailer park speckled with northerners (Yankees for those not catching my drift), is probably more accurate. Living here for ten years now in the tourist community, I have realized that I am the minority, an anomaly, as few South Carolinians actually live here.

Be careful how you stereotype grand strand dwellers. Good ole boys don't sound like wise guys when they talk. We like grits, fried chicken, our style pizza and we wave when we meet you, whether we know you or not. We like the ways things are and don't expect the world to change just because we moved here. We're laid back and slow because it is less stressful and that's the way we like it. We're not lazy. We just work smart. Myrtle Manor is just a show. Wrestling isn't real. Make believe and an hour of silly ass entertainment is just that...entertaining.

I don't take it seriously and can remote to any one of a zillion other channels if I don't like it or feel offended. This is America. Right now I have choices. File that one away for another time; change isn't always good. I write this stuff because I like doing it. It's my form of entertainment for those who enjoy reading it and put up with my babbling. If you don't...then don't. I'll sleep well if you don't and you'll sleep better by not allowing it to get all bent out of shape. I write mostly fiction novels. Guess what, it's mostly make believe. Well, the names have been changed to protect the innocent or maybe the guilty.

Myrtle Manor...its just a show looking for ratings and a following. It's your choice to watch it or not. If the ratings suck, it will go away. Third season filming...someone must be watching. Get your own sign and leave theirs alone, how about it? Okay...now go back to whatever you were doing before I reeled you in...that is if you got this far.

Razing and Rulings

From out of bounds, a tale from the Whomper

Golfers like to trash talk or just plane raze their fellow whomping buddies. Rules are only good when the rule helps your score, not your opponents.

The score doesn’t really matter, especially if you’re playing badly.

            When the game turns really ugly, find a happy place and quit keeping score. Declare a practice round and hope you don’t birdie or hole one. If you do, begin rescoring once you make that first acceptable score.  

            The all inclusive excuse for the bad shot, I’m looking up. A cruise ship golf pro explained that it is physically impossible to look-up in the middle of a shot and demonstrated why this was mere myth. I still think you can look up.

            “You’re going to like it,” he shouts as my ball then rolls into the water or sand hazard or worse. Please refrain from calling my shots good until the ball actually stops rolling!

            “I’ve lost my wedge head cover.” After a quick search with no cover to be found, “Oh well, I have others at home.” Seems that Mr. Obsessive Compulsive keeps an extra set of head covers stashed away. Imagine that!

            The “you were talking while I hit” do-over. This one has been way too prevalent in our group. We all tend to imagine we hear those little voices somewhere that distracted us, prompting another free shot. “You were talking, do-over! I think you moved, do-over. You opened that beer, do-over!” Funny, no one ever calls a do-over when good shots are made, regardless to how much whooping and hollering is going on behind us.

            There is no such thing as a dishonest or unfair foot wedge if you maintain eye contact with your partner while in progress of adjusting the ball’s position. They didn’t see it, it’s fair. Root rules always apply. Trust me, even grass has roots which can justify repositioning your ball.

            Use of chain saws are not permitted, however, you may twist or break that tree branch, or pen it firmly behind another before attempting your shot. Better still; ask one of your cart buddies to hold the tree limb out of your back swing. Remember to ask them not to release it until you have completed the shot and cleared the area.

            Rock hard sand in the hazard: “I can’t hit out of this crap!” he yells. “Crap must be every where” is the proper response. OK so rake the sand thoroughly to fluff it up then replace your ball strategically on an elevated sandy tee. Complain about the wet sand if you still don’t make it out on your first attempt.

            Three attempts and ball is still in trap, however, most of the sand has now been deposited on the green. The proper call, “Are you finished sandblasting with that wedge, now? If so, either pick-up or just place it on the grass.” Counter that sarcastic remark by only counting one bad shot.

            Hit the ball in the water and there’s no drop area on the other side, declare one. Pick your own spot that improves your chances of greening the next shot.

            While removing all pine nettles, pine cones, sticks, pebbles and other debris from around your ball, often requiring that you strategically reposition your ball in the rough afterwards, your playing partner remarks “Do you need a blower or will a rake suffice?” 

            “Let’s plan to go fishing after the round. You’ve certainly dug up enough bait!”

            “Were all those turtles on shore before you hit your three balls in the water?”

            If your ball skips ten or more times across the water, you receive a free drop on the other side even if your ball doesn’t make it to dry land. Seems fare!

            If one whiffs at the ball or digs a trench behind it without making ball contact then a stroke can’t possibly apply. Just declare, “I didn’t hit it then try again!”

            It’s proper to declare a double boggy for that double par if money is not riding on the outcome, however, you will be provided assistance in tallying those strokes when wagers have been made. 

            Funny, your partners will tell you to pick up a five foot down hill putt, but you’ll have to hole that one footer if a buck is on the line.

            One never requests assistance to find your ball when you know it is hopelessly lost. Bend down; declare you found it as you strategically replace it with a new ball. Try to at least use the same name brand. Caution, if you find the first ball, even if shot is better, you must declare you just found an extra ball, not yours.

            It’s OK to hit a fellow partners ball (1) if neither of you have the ball initialed and his is the better of the two (2) he doesn’t know what brand you’re hitting (3) you’re in the trap and he’s not, and you arrive there first, make the switch quickly (4) You put his in your pocket and replace it with yours before partner arrives (5) he’s beating you shamelessly (6) you don’t like him or he’s pissed you off (7) if caught, you’re able to declare you’re intoxicated and thought you hit your own ball (8)  he’s intoxicated and will not know the difference (9) you’re both intoxicated (10) if it helps you brake a 100.

            Remember, it’s ok to trash talk and bend the rules among friends providing the friends can take the razing and dish it back at you and you can take it. If you’re playing with serious golfers, you’re on your own. If you’re bad as me, you have no business playing with real golfers. They really don’t appreciate our natural ability. It is so sad to be so misunderstood. See you in the rough! Bring your foot wedge!