author T. Allen Winn: I caught the beginning of H.G. Well’s The Time Mac...

author T. Allen Winn: I caught the beginning of H.G. Well’s The Time Mac...: I caught the beginning of H.G. Well’s The Time Machine just before midnight last night and had to watch the entire movie. It was the 196...

author T. Allen Winn: If Papa Would Have Played Golf Papa, born in 19...

author T. Allen Winn:   If Papa Would Have Played Golf 
Papa, born in 19...:   If Papa Would Have Played Golf   Papa, born in 1900, passed away at the ripe old age of ninety. That seems like yesterday to me, hi...

author T. Allen Winn: Y, because we Love Them Man’s best friend; nope,...

author T. Allen Winn: Y, because we Love Them  
Man’s best friend; nope,...: Y, because we Love Them    Man’s best friend; nope, not the female or a pick-up truck or even a gun, we’re talking the original four ...

Y, because we Love Them  

Man’s best friend; nope, not the female or a pick-up truck or even a gun, we’re talking the original four legged kind and this excludes pussy cats, hamsters and guinea pigs. These are the real tail wagging, tongue lapping, fetch this stick, and chase the ball, cute and cuddly puppy dogs, warm and dear to our hearts; especially when we’re kids.  I’m sure everyone remembers their first dog and being strapped with their first real challenge as a kid, naming that pooch. It can be most difficult when left to the imagination of babes, look out.

            My first, the year 1959, a boxer bull dog and me just after reaching the ripe old age of six, my parents assigned that responsibility to me for naming him.  A dog barely with its eyes open, how did they possibly think I could name MY DOG? I had never named anything before so what did I know about choosing one. Not only did I now have my firs dog; I had my first pet of any kind. Parents sure know how to put the pressure on you. What made them think I could pull this off? Oh, but they reminded me he was MY DOG so I must choose what he should be called; some sort of right of passage. Just like them saying “and you will take care of him.”

            I had not yet started first grade so I didn’t know how to see Spot run yet or I would have possibly dubbed him Spot, even though he had no spots to speak of. We had just returned from a two week across country trip to California to visit relatives where I had met my uncle and aunt’s tiny tan little lap dog, a Chihuahua called Teco. I didn’t know any other dog names so I decided to name mine the only one I did know, so Teco it was. I didn’t exactly infringe on the other Teco’s name because he lived 2000 miles away so I just figured, why couldn’t I have an East Coast Teco? How did I know that my relatives would soon move to our town where two Tecos would reside; a miniature and extra large version?

            Over the next thirty six years, seven canines would pass through my life and naming them would become much easier once I learned the Y formula. Living in the south, most names ended in the letter Y. I for example am Tommy. My friends were Billy, Larry, Speedy, Donny, Stanley, Jody, and Stevie (sounds like it should have ended in a Y doesn’t it?) My first crushes were on girls named Sherry of first grade monkey bar fame and Trudy. My wives were named Beverly, Shelby and Judy.  My first car was a Chevy; well, only if I exclude the VW bugs. My first manly car was the Chevy Monte Carlo, its first year off the assembly line. My daddy with a Y, bought the first one in town.

            After Teco departed for doggy heaven, a stray dog wondered into my life and I named him Happy. He was a yellow and spotted medium sized mixture who always looked like he was smiling; thus his name. That dog was a kleptomaniac. He brought me all sorts of need stuff from around the neighborhood, including a nifty baseball glove.  I had no lost and found department. Possession was 9/10’s of the law, right? What ever happened in the backyard between me and Happy, stayed there? As strays go, some years later he disappeared and I wasn’t happy about that.

Then came along a tiny little white baby Chihuahua with this brown spot around one eye and with Teco still living and breathing I couldn’t reuse that name. For no particular reason that I can remember, I dubbed him Tippy. Poor Tippy met an odd demise coming in contact with rats and contracting some incurable infectious disease. We had to put him down as we’d later have to do to Teco. My first two dogs never lived to ripe old ages. That’s a tough thing for a kid to understand. You killed my dogs?

My mama became more attached than me; if that was possible, and vowed we would never have another dog in our house. Shorty after that she allowed me to get a third dog, not counting Happy the stray; and my second Chihuahua; this one tanned with these bulging eyes. I dubbed him Poppy, getting better at the dog naming. While Poppy did live to a ripe old age, he too became stricken with something that eludes me now, but he had to be put down by a vet. I’m glad we don’t do this to people.

Fast forward to 1972, married to Beverly, my first wife, a rite of passage, we had to have a dog, the American way. A neighbor’s Yorkshire terrier, a little hussy apparently, had a tryst with a poodle producing three furry little York-a-poos and of course we just had to have one of them. We would call our brand new baby girl Taffy. I so loved that pooch. When the wife and I separated a year later, she took Taffy with her. I sure missed her; Taffy that is. She had been accustomed to a fenced in backyard and under my ex-wife’s supervision fell victim to a car accident. I’m sure glad we didn’t have any kids.

With wife number two, Shelby, I adopted Buffy, her dog, a Pick-a-poo. Boy, poodles must be horny little boogers. They never pass up an opportunity. We instantly became best friends. I’m talking about Buffy.  During the marriage we took in a black poodle named what else, Blacky. He chased something into the highway and met the same fate as Taffy. We had no fenced in yard. I cried like a baby. Buffy later became inflicted with some weird sort of intestinal ailment. The vet had to put her out of her misery. We were left with a cat named Sheba. Apparently Y names didn’t apply for cats.

My mama still vowing to never own another dog talked me into coming with her to see this cute little Pomeranian that needed a home. You got it. I fell for it and took her home. Mitsy, she was named and being the animal lover I am we became inseparable; couldn’t say the same for wife #2. Now in the 1990’s, this time the dog came with me and I moved back in with my folks for a while to ride out the divorce. During that time mama became way too attached to Mitsy and spoiled her rotten like she did all the dogs in her life. Mitsy became a lap dog and begged at the dinner table under mama’s influence.

Judy and I married. Now while Judy would never mistreat any animal, she wasn’t an animal lover. I think she convinced mama that she should keep Mitsy and keep her she did. I retained visitation rights. Feeling guilty I suppose, that I for the very first time since my sixth year on this earth had no pet, she surprised me with a salt water aquarium for Christmas. I soon saw through her little scheme. Fish remained in the tank, didn’t shed, didn’t have to be taken out at night and we didn’t have to worry about them when we took vacations.

Salt water fish came with their own issues though and are much tougher to regulate in an aquarium than fresh water fish. I killed over a dozen fish the first couple of weeks, too impatient to allow the tank to balance and cycle out chemically.  I did eventually enjoy it once I actually had live fish swimming about and none belly up. Oh yea, Mitsy eventually had to be put to sleep too. I never had to put a fish down but I have flushed a few.

Fast forward to 2010, I now have fresh water fish and we live in a new neighbor. Most every neighbor around us has a dog and they walk them all the time. Judy knows them all on a first name basis, neighbors and canines alike, as she walks most every morning.  I’ve considered loading a few of my fish in a Ziploc bag and walking them around the neighborhood. Of course I would have to name them first. I don’t suppose it would be that difficult if I imposed the Y formula or maybe it would just be too fishy. Oh well, guess I was always alphabet challenged. I learned nothing from seeing Spot run. Swim fishy…swim…see fishy swim. Y because we love them…

No Trespassing

Last time I checked, I noticed that I live in a beach community, one that is supposed to cater to tourists. People come here on vacation, right? That explains why we have miles of beaches, tons of hotels and resorts and every kind of eating establishment imagined by man.  The South Carolina Grand Strand is supposed to be a tourist attraction, a vacation of fun in the sun, sightseeing, golf, putt-putt, dining and dancing. That’s why people flock here. Don’t move here if you expect a laid back peaceful utopia, one void of bumper to bumper traffic coming and going. This is a place where highway 501 can become a seasonal parking lot, and a destination where you must be prepared to get in line to do most anything. If you’re thinking otherwise, you obviously did live under that proverbial rock.

I live and work here. I’m not bothered by those who come here. I understand. I used to be one. I moved here knowing my small town lifestyle would be forever changed. Traffic, sure it would be the worst I had every experienced on a daily basis. You learn to plan and pick your battles if you’re a resident, realizing which roadways to seasonally avoid, quickly finding those mom and pop restaurants the tourists haven’t discovered or picking your time wisely to visit those that you fancy, to beat the crowd. I didn’t move here to lead the crusade to implement an extreme makeover. I don’t complaint saying how this or that is much worse from where I once lived. What’s the point?

Let’s recap a bit of history. There are those here who wanted the bikers banished from the land. The couple of weeks they are here each year just simply ruined their lifestyle, too much noise, too much fun, too much scantly clothed females and boisterous leather clad hoodlums. So what did the leaders of the community do? They weaseled in all sorts of laws to control noise, make them where helmets, restrict vendor permits, and all sorts of other nonsense. No, I’m not a biker. The only bike I have is one that is dependent on how hard I peddle it; one speed, whatever I manage.

The premise of the less tolerant, get rid of the Harley Davidson crowd and those Atlantic Beach black bikers. Life would again be perfect for those already living in their very own little perfect existence. It worked. Many bikers bit back, deciding not to spend their hard earned tourist dollars within the city limits of Myrtle Beach. Let’s get this straight, in a state that allows riders the option of wearing helmets, the Gestapo attempted to force feed riders to wear helmets in their slice of heaven. The newly adopted unlawful like law was eventually overruled by the higher courts but the bikers didn’t forgive or forget. They had the last laugh, avoiding Myrtle Beach like the plague, enjoying Surfside, Garden City, and Murrell’s Inlet, all of the others with welcome mats posted. 

Golfers, while not directly targeting them, they have begun another quest to rid the city of the many Gentlemen’s Clubs. Golfers come here to golf and many have package deals. No, the strip joints are not typically part of any package deals but many golfers support them, their night time mulligan so to speak. Ordnances have been written and passed to banish all adult entertainment from the city limits of Myrtle Beach. Most have been here forever, just like the golf courses. Think about the direct link to tourism and these visitors funneling money back into the community. Seriously, think beyond the pole dances for a second. Who else depends on the success of the girlie bars; alcohol distributors, food services, specialty clothing stores, cab companies and just think how many people are employed. Beyond the female entertainers you have bartenders, waitresses, cooks, bouncers, DJ’s, parking attendants, folks in the insurance business, etc. Think about tax revenue. Some golfers will stay screw coming here and will go to other places to play golf and have their nightly fun. Then the course, hotels and restaurants are impacted. No, I’m not carrying the torch for strip joints; I’m getting to my eventual point.

Now the all powerful Oz is proposing an ordinance to band beach tents of all things. Again, before I even get there; for the record, I don’t own or ever have owned a beach tent or beach umbrella. It just seems to me to be just another slam on those who support our area, the tourist. While going to the beach and enjoying the sea and sun is fun, it does come with health issues, being exposed for prolonged times.  The tents bring welcome relief from the heat and burning rays; especially for the tiny tots and elderly or those with the fairest skin in the land. Never bite the hand that feeds you. This seems to be the theme of local city council. They say the tents block the lifeguards. I can see that point but why not restrict where they can be erected, prohibit obstruction, not banishment. Could it be that if all these tents were gone that people would be more apt to rent beach umbrellas? Might we have profiteers among us? Seriously, have you ever tried to fit a family of four or more under an umbrella? Tents, really…

How do I end this sort of rant? Why not let’s just see if we can deter all tourists from coming to the grand strand? Get rid of the bikers, the golfers, those pesky families with the tents, and let’s not leave out the spring breakers, those wild kids just looking for trouble. What about the snowbirds; should we let them cross our northern borders? They must be mentally challenged or deranged, flopping their polar bear butts into the wintry frigid Atlantic. Maybe Myrtle Beach should scrutinize everyone and grant just so many visas per season. Wait, they just haven’t implemented the visa part yet. It’s a tourist town, FOLKS!!! Maybe we should ban those noisy air planes while we’re at it. Why do we really need an airport?

I’m sorry. I just don’t get it. This is a food and hospitality industry here. Folks depend on the tourists to make a living. No, I don’t work in either. Why not just chase them away and see how that works. I’ve lived and worked here for nine years and bikers, golfers, strippers, spring breakers or the zillion beach goers have never negatively impacted my life style. Sure, I pick and choose my times to go here and there but it’s a mere ripple in the ocean of my blessed world. My advice, if having all these people around you really disturbs you and distorts your vision of living at a nationally known beach escape, then perhaps you should move to a world with no ocean, no attractions, hotels or motels or maybe just back underneath that rock. Just possibly we should be contemplating how we can banish the Beach Gestapo before we all become extinct. Most of us are already endangered but in our case, not protected. I’m shocked they haven’t gotten rid of tourism to protect the loggerhead sea turtles. Don’t get your panties in a wad; that was just my twisted sarcasm. I have nothing against sea turtles. Several of my best friends are on the beach turtle patrol. I’ve even written a kid’s book about them, Digging Sea Turtles (not yet published).

Nip it in the bud, quit beating around the bush. Why not just erect signs at all entranceways to Myrtle Beach, Tourist, Keep Out. We Don’t Want Your Kind Here.  Yes, this means you!  

I feel so much better having gotten that off my chest but don’t spread that around. I might be asked to leave for not being pissed off at all these visitors to paradise. Failing to comply is sort of like insubordination isn’t it? Add traitors to the list of those not wanted. Makes me want to go out and buy a Harley, pitch a tent and stuff a few one dollar bills. Care to join me?

 

 

  If Papa Would Have Played Golf 

Papa, born in 1900, passed away at the ripe old age of ninety. That seems like yesterday to me, his only grandson. Never a golfer, his pastimes were hunting and fishing. During my childhood he always took me both. I have tried to visualize what a round of golf would have been like if I had talked Papa into joining me. The corners of my mouth immediately go north just thinking about it.

            First of all, I’d certainly have to pay because he’d never fork over the price of admission if a day of fishing wasn’t included. Next I’d have to find a course without those dress code restrictions.  He’d most certainly be wearing his Camel brand denim overalls. Picture this, a two hundred forty pound barrel-chested, bald and toothless southern grand old man joining me wearing par 4 knickers aka Payne Stewart style for an afternoon of playing the gentleman’s game. Now wouldn’t we have been a sight in the fairway, or the way I hit the ball, in the woods, which would suit Papa just fine.

            Standing on the first tee box looking over the lush green fairway, I can hear his first comments, “Hun, that there would sure make a good garden spot.” He always had these huge vegetable gardens and would figure fairways were just a waste of good farm land. “Might raise a goat or two out there.”

            I’d probably tee up the ball for him and hand him my driver. He’d be wearing a pair of those cotton work gloves on both hands. He’d hand me back my club, reach down and pick up the ball, then pull out that hand crafted sling shot from his overalls, his weapon of choice when hunting rabbits,. He’d load up the ball and fire that puppy. The ball would land out there in the middle of the fairway about a hundred fifty yards off the tee. “Maybe you should get back in the cart and just ride, Papa, and enjoy the scenery.”

            Squirrels scurry left and right, across the fairways and I notice that scary little twinkle in his eyes. I place my hand on his hand still clutching the sling shot giving him the look of disapproval.  On this particular course, huge fox squirrels hop right up to your cart, standing on their hind legs as they look for a quick handout. I can hear him now. “Lookey yonder, Hun, at the meat on them bones. These critters are a lot bigger than the little gray ones I usually nail back home. Heck, I could snatch him up and put him in the game basket behind the seat of this little car we’re riding in.”

            I again reinforce that the golf course would not appreciate it if we began slaughtering the local wild life. He tosses them one of his goobers. That’s boiled peanuts for you that don’t understand the goober term. I notice he still has that stew pot gaze so I speed off to our next shot.

            Papa stays easily entertained as we continue on our little trek through the wild kingdom. On number five, three turkey cross the fairway, all gobblers, and I have now taken possession of the sling shot for good and am warning him not to throw any golf balls. Doves flutter by and he encourages me to try to nail them with my seven wood. “How much do they charge you if you just want to hunt here?”

            I see the course ranger approaching. I convince Papa that he’s a game warden and tell him that we’re on game management land. He tips his hat as Mister Ranger rides past us. He behaves for a while, but I not ready to drop my guard just yet.

            I boomer-rang a hook into the pines to the left of the fairway and we ride over to search for my ball. I avoid saying let’s go hunt for my ball and get him started again. The pines are thin so I find it fairly quickly, turn and see Papa with my driver in his hands. Only bad thoughts come to mind. He’s staring up a small oak, club cocked like a deranged base ball player in a denim uniform. He’s motioning me to join him; not good.

            “Walk around to the other side.” He’s now applying his patented treeing technique on a fox squirrel perched head high on the opposite side of the oak tree. Respecting my elder, I tactfully remove the club from his grasp, lead him back to the cart and ask him again not to try to kill anything, please.

            We somehow make the turn with no fairway trophies. I buy Papa a coke, salted peanuts and a hotdog. He pours the peanuts in his bottle of coke sloshing them around and frequently taking a swig.  Because he left his store bought teeth at home, he pulls out his pocket knife and carves the hotdog into tiny bite sizes that he can gum down. I dread the back nine because several ponds await us and I too often feed the water gods.

We’re over looking an ominous pond on the number ten tee box. New problem raises its ugly head. I didn’t consider his interpretation of a water hazard.

            “Hon, take out the rods; we done found us a fishing hole! Hit another one of your worm burner shots and scare us up some red wrigglers.”

            I slice my drive, where else, in the pond. I drive over to drop and play my third. As we pull away he yells, “If you drive real slow I could troll from these little car.” He has my ball retriever in his hands scooping at the water. Pointing to the beverage cup holders he tells me that we could put the bait worms in them.

            Finally we’re heading down the eighteenth fairway.  I’ve had to talk him out of grappling in the last pond. Grappling is when you wade in the water and reach under the bank trying to find catfish.  Pulling up to the club house, he greets every group asking them what did they get. Interpreted this means did they catch any fish or kill any critters.

            Taking Papa golfing; what was I thinking? And boy, am I lucky that I never did. Would have been a hoot though…corners of mouth go north again

Life of a Pirate

Okay, I get it. Wearing a black patch over my left eye does make me look pirate like. The grey beard doesn’t help dispel the myth. Recently I had my forth vitreous hemorrhage, 2^nd in my left eye, last time 3 ½ years ago. Don’t worry, no pain is involved. It occurs when blood vessels leak into the vitreous 'gel' inside the eye.  Here’s the medical explanation: The eye is filled with a clear vitreous ‘gel’. When blood leaks into this gel, usually from blockage or damage to the blood vessels of the retina, is known as a vitreous hemorrhage. This usually results in blurred vision, as the leaked fluids block the light that passes into the eye. Luckily I’m not blind in one eye and unable to see out of the other as the old saying goes.

My right eye experienced this phenomenon for the first time back in 2004 while on the second day of seven day Caribbean cruise.  I woke up to my right eye traveling warp speed just like on Star Trek. Well, that’s the best way to describe the zillions of tiny floaters impairing my vision. My eye doctor upon return identified the situation and sent me to a retina specialist. There is always a concern of retinal detachment. Mine was routine, apparently everyone undergoes this evolutional process as they mature, some sort of separation of the fluid from the retina. Most go undetected. Lucky me, mine snagged and broke a blood vessel. Totally blind in one eye and having a new appreciation for the gift of eyesight, you just wait until the blood dissipates; experience putting this to a month or longer. My right eye did this one more time about a year after it cleared and surgery corrected it. I’m on the second tour with left eye and if it persists after clearing this time, I’ll have the corrective surgery for it. Again, there’s no pain involved, if you exclude the fact that I have no peripheral vision on my left side and disrupted depth perception.

Enough of the gloom and doom; it’s more an inconvenience than anything, once the doctor has confirmed you’re in no danger of retinal detachment. I’m 0 for 4 in that category.  I wear the eye patch to ward off insanity.  One eye not working badly interferes with the one that is. I spend much of my work day on a computer, as well as doing my writing at night. That white screen wrecks havoc on a sightless eye. The patch helps. Quick side story: back in 2010 I had my first incident in this left eye about the same time my wife had cataract surgery in hers.  Complications temporarily left her blind in her eye until surgery corrected it. Imagine the two of us, often in the same room, unable to find one another. We literally walked in circles and into one another. We were one stooge short of three.

The patch is a sarcasm magnet. I’m the king of sarcasm so I appreciate this fact and feeding frenzy. I’ve heard every pirate and blind joke. I’m quick on the trigger and usually have excellent comebacks. I’ve been asked if I was trying out for a roll in Pirates of the Caribbean.  No, but I’m stunt double for Captain Jack Sparrow.  Sometimes I just nip it before giving them a chance. I tell them I’m in role play for a character in my next novel, Grey Beard. Other times I will strike my Captain Morgan pose, ‘Fifteen men on the dead man's chest--...Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest--...Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!’ How’d you like that, landlubber? I’ll pass a coworker in the hallway and announce, ‘I’m off to rape and pillage, care to join me?’

Sometimes I just stare them down and say, ‘I know, you thought Snake Plissken was dead.’ More times than not I get the deer in the headlights look, most apparently not familiar with Kurt Russell’s role as the one-eyed, patch wearing, mercenary in the classic, Escape From New York. I haven’t gone Rooster Cogburn on anyone yet. John Wayne did have a few classic quotes in True Grit. ‘Baby sister, I was born game, and I mean to go out that way.’ I’m sure I’d just waste them, just like my Snake comment but you have to love a line like this, ‘A fella that carries a big-bore Sharps carbine might come in handy… if we get jumped by elephants, or buffalo, or something.’ Or, I mean to kill you in one minute, Ned. Or see you hanged in Fort Smith at Judge Parker's convenience. Which'll it be?’

As mentioned, sometimes the quips come from those beating me to the punch. “Why are you wearing that patch between your bucking-ears?’ To that I just let out a deep throated arrrrrrrrrrrr. ‘Where’s your hook?’ And to that I just say, ‘Don’t make me go Peter Pan on you, Tinker Bell!’ All is in good fun. I can dish it out just as well as I can take it. I told some of my friends at church that it should be a law against the ushers confiscating a man’s sword, gun and parrot at the door. At a meeting at work, I looked around the room and asked was I the only one that that knew this was take a pirate to lunch day. In another meeting I tried to rally my coworkers, calling for a mutiny. Hey, if I locate the patch over my right I’ve got first dibs on Pin the Tail on the Donkey and I’m quite good at Piñata. By the way, I have my eye on you. I work in quality assurance so this doesn’t exactly instill warm and fuzzy feelings. I could be the Mayor on the Walking Dead or Patch of Days of Our Lives. I’ve been called Cyclops and Cyborg and resemble those remarks.

In all seriousness, having this handicap is an eye opener. Blindness is nothing to kid about, right? Driving an automobile can bring about road rage to those not wanting to share both lanes with me. A good drive to work is if I don’t cause an accident. And if I did, I must have not seen it. The first morning the eye blinked out on me I was driving my thirteen mile workday morning commute on frozen tundra.  The highways were frozen due to sleet and freezing rain, a rare occurrence for Myrtle Beach. Talk about the perfect storm. Luckily few drivers were on the roadways.  Only a blind man wouldn’t heed the highway patrol’s warnings to not drive in these conditions if you didn’t have to. What you can’t see can’t hurt you. Maybe not, my left shoulder is sore from running into door jams and people not yielding the right-of-way.

With no restrictions from the doctor, I attempted a round of golf, having the perfect handicap. It put a new spin on keeping my eye on the ball. Can you say depth perception impaired? First tee shot went much better than expected, long and in the fairway. I even managed a double bogey on the hole, three putting because I couldn’t make out the green contour. At least that’s the story I’m sticking to. The next three holes were a series of thirty yard strikes, double paring all of them. Thinking, what had I been thinking; I made a slight adjustment, moving the ball back in my stance to hopefully correct topping the ball. It worked. I actually had two pars during the round and shot a lower score than I had been shooting. My golf buddies told me to remember that adjustment when my vision returned. Heck, I’ll just close one eye from here on out.

It’s been two weeks now and I’m noticing a slight improvement. I can identify some objects and can even tell if I’m alone in a room or jot. Picking my nose or scratching private parts is not recommended. Utilizing the sympathy card has not come into play. Because I’m in no pain or on any sort of medication, people don’t seem to think I need any help or the occasional pass. Who knows what sort of monkey motions they are performing from my not so good peripheral vision. I should spin around quickly and give them the evil eye. Oh well, I still have the eye of the tiger and will survive this Buccaneer experience, shiver me timbers and all that crap. Rum and coke is on me at the 19^th hole.

I caught the beginning of H.G. Well’s The Time Machine just before midnight last night and had to watch the entire movie. It was the 1960 version with Rod Taylor and Yvette Mimieux, one of my favorites. H.G. Wells and Jules Verne were two of the best authors, the trailblazers of Science Fiction in science fiction. Think about it, with Well’s classics such as War of the Worlds, The Invisible Man, The Island of Doctor Moreau and Verne’s Journey to the Center of the Earth, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and Around the World in Eighty Days, each mesmerized kids and adults alike. Every one of them has been transformed into movie classics just as the novels before them. Inspired to say the least, reading these marvelous novels and then watching them play out on the silver screen could have possibly inspired some of my writing and spun yarns. See if you agree.

 

Here are a few of my unpublished novels, you decide: 

 

The Perfect Spook House

 

In 1969 Eleven Eleventh Graders from Abbeville High will forever be impacted by the events of that Halloween night. An old deserted house of the Cedar Springs Road holds secrets to their past, present and future.  Nineteen years later the adult versions are drawn to that house one more time, this time for answers. Sometimes the past is best left in the past. Digging up old bones can harm you. Driven or possessed, they must see this through and they might like what resides in Pandora’s Box.

 

My Sasquatch trilogy (Foot, Another Foot and The Final Foot):

 

Foot

Indian lore becomes reality for a trapper turned wagon master when mountain man BN Carlson leads a handful of hopeful frontiersmen westward. Some aspiring to cash in on the gold rush, others leaving their past behind, the patrons of the small wagon train follow their dreams; their second mistake, trespassing into the northern woods, their first, trusting in their fellow man.

 

The Indians honor and protect the Northern Woods. The S’cwene’y’ti defends their territory. The price of admission can hold tragic consequences for those unfortunate souls trespassing into the sacred territory. Far worse circumstances await those brought unwillingly to the secret valley. 

 

No one knows this more than five unsuspecting mountain men seeking to strike it rich as loggers, and a small Indian rescue party attempting to impress their old chief. Get rich schemes in the northern woods bring death quicker than riches. Rescuers soon find themselves in need of rescue.

 

BN holds the key to their survival and only if he makes the right decisions. By self admission, he’s not cut out for this wagon master trade, struggles with the responsibility and discipline required to ensure safe passage for the patrons. 

 

Be warned. Stay away from the North Woods!

 

 

Another Foot

 

November 24, 1971, the beginning of one the largest manhunts and unsolved mysteries would forever haunt one man. His obsession would drive him to extremes. Over the next nine years the Pacific Northwest would become a hot bed of sightings and discoveries, leading to one defining moment, May 18, 1980. Others followed separate paths, those destined to cross. Myth and nature would define Mattie Reynolds career. Question, would she be willing to solve one mystery at the expense of exposing an even greater one. Obsessed, she had lived her life pursuing tales documented and defined by her ancestor and now she had proof or did she?

 

A chance encounter and those consumed by greed make for the perfect storm, lives drawn to one place, one time and only one way out. Stay away from the North Woods for the S’cwene’y’ti defends their territory. 

 

                                                       Final Foot

 

Twenty years should be long enough for Mattie Reynolds to distance herself from that defining moment in her life, but she can’t shake destiny and unanswered questions. She is drawn once again, like it or not, into a world that isn’t supposed to exist. Can she really handle the truth? Legend, Lore or Lie, greed has its own path, modern technology has a will and a way. Survival of the fittest has never been taken to this extreme. Sometimes there are no winners in the great North Woods.

 

The Lords Last Acres

 

Man has always pondered the ultimate fate of earth. It has forever been a mystery and somewhat of a dice roll as to what would ultimately bring an end to this world we occupy. Scholars, sooth Sayers, evangelist, scientist, politicians and the every day hard working man have all had their theories.

Would it be catapulted into another ice age from a renegade asteroid or giant undetected meteor’s impact? Could a nuclear holocaust spell the end with some small country or terrorist group accomplishing what Russia and the USA failed to do during the cold war? Could man simply destroy mother earth as a result of biological warfare unleashing a deadly virus or plague with no known cure or immunity?

Destruction of the ozone was supposed to slowly do us in, leading to global warming! Could man just simply deplete or pollute all of natures resources through recklessness and over population? Mother Nature could decide enough is enough and unleash volcanic eruptions, earth quakes and tidal waves of biblical proportions.

Let’s not leave out Hollywood’s version: conquest or extermination by a superior alien race!

Since the beginning of time man has predicted the end of the world and proposed all the scenarios. A simple belief: it will happen! Man may not know exactly when or exactly how, but mankind has forever forecast earth’s final destruction!    

Can earth survive the human race? Can man survive man? Rebirth of earth and a test of man’s sanity and ingenuity for survival begins here...but no one could have fathomed the human race would face potential extinction while earth continued to flourish.

In a tiny coastal community nestled in South Carolina a storm is brewing; a storm not visible on Doppler. An unsuspecting farm in the southern belt may hold the key to earth's future. Beach just minutes away and palms swaying in the glorious ocean fed breezes, a battle will soon be underway, but not against a known enemy, but a battle just the same. The farm's residences and visitors will be tested. A passing grade will ensure a chance for mankind. Every life is critical and instrumental to the success for survival. Unlikely heroes shall emerge as the faith of others is pushed to the limit. Love will bloom and human rage will be unleashed. The world will never be the same. And so the saga begins...

 

The Tenth Elemental

 

Jaybird McCracken’s home place is for sale. What greater place to have a summer home than in peaceful Maggie Valley, North Carolina, the perfect retreat from the South  Carolina Grand Strand. Doyle and Jill Vandergrift, son Travis, daughter Megan do just that, venture into a world where cell phone service is spotty with no distractions of a zillion television channels. It’s a perfect backdrop for Doyle’s magazine assignment, cozying up to local heritage. Perfection comes with a price and in the shadows of the b Blue Ridge Mountains is it known as Salvatore Perozzi but you can call him Jimmy, the last elemental.

 

Lou Who

 

Alzheimer’s is a cruel disease but there are worse fates than losing one’s mind. Ask Greenwood resident, Emma Lou Stetson. She is coping with a life no longer her own, and everything you think you know you might not. Sometimes you might attempt to find your way and instead find something else, one with deadly consequences. Wade Stetson loves Lou and will be there for her, for better or worse, until death do them part. How bad really defines worse and dead isn’t always dead. Doctor Kelly Garner works feverishly to assist a family in distress but sometimes the medical profession struggles for the answers too. Revenge is powerful medicine, especially when evil controls the reins.

Absent on Arrival

 

Many people ventured in the fall of Great Smokey Mountains to take in the seasonal changes and the leaves changing their colors. The resort was nestled in a secluded section of the Great Smoky Mountains, southwest of Hazel Creek. Ten floors, seven with rooms, would house around two hundred fifty people. The hotel staffed nearly fifty employees during peak seasons. One access road brought the visitors to the resort, guaranteeing a secluded stay. Amenities such as horseback riding, bicycling, and walking trails offered what most visitors cherished. It amounted to an all inclusive in the shadows of the mountains, a rare jewel for most.

Jay and Mira Myers have been looking forward to this, as have others, secluded and rustic, a perfect setting. Within minutes of checking in, dark secrets greet the travelers. The hotel isn’t what it seems and checking out isn’t an option. Literally, Jay and a handful of hopefuls face their darkest hour. Nightmares, are you kidding? What happened to good old fashion hospitality?  Welcome to the Big Blue Resort, we’ll leave the light off for you.

Last Stand on the Grand Strand

 

Chad Reynolds, kicking and screaming, gives into his wife’s wishes for a vacation of forced family fun along the shores of South Carolina. A marine biologist, physical oceanographer and marine chemist, one would think this would be a vacation hotspot for Chad, the Atlantic Ocean at his beck and call but a tourist trap doesn’t inspire his creative juices. Something stirs in the waters that might change his opinion and bring work to an otherwise not so pleasurable experience.

 

Being the son of an infamous Bigfoot hunter brings unwanted attention to the oceanographer. Mattie Reynolds never attempted to influence her son one way or the other, allowing him to choose his own path. He wanted nothing to do with the Great North Woods and chose the ocean instead as his passion. The fruit doesn’t always fall so far from the tree. Myths and monsters know no boundaries. An old and new nemesis will excavate bones he’d rather leave buried. Battling both could cost him his life and the lives of those pulled into his little drama. There will be no fun in the sun this time.