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