http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Cornbread-Buttermilk/T-Allen-Winn/9781941069271?id=6150572901101

Book #6, Cornbread and Buttermilk, Good Ole Fashion Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense is now available.


http://www.amazon.com/Cornbread-Buttermilk-T-Allen-Winn/dp/1941069274/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1438989988&sr=8-1&keywords=t+Allen+Winn

 

 

 

 

 

We (several Beach Author Network authors) were at a recent event last weekend (North Myrtle Beach Tent Sale) and while things were slow, we started chatting it up because that's what we do. Somehow the subject got around to funeral arrangements. Various BAN members shared how theirs was already planned, one even said he wanted his ashes placed in shotgun shells and shot across his favorite land. I was sort of challenged to write a story about it because my buds know my brain works like that. So here is the opening, unedited and proofed but just tossing it out there; might work its way into a novel, might not. What do you think? 

Guns and Ashes

Hardy Bovine did things his way, in his timeframe; mattered not to him whether you liked it, agreed with it or chastised him for doing it. Well, those who chastised him only did it one time. Hardy had a not so tactful way of telling you it wasn’t really any of your damn business what he did, what he thought or how he acted.  In his words, ‘he didn’t need no man or woman telling him what’fer when it came right down to his business or his opinions.’ He spoke his mind, called them like he saw them and if he didn’t like it nobody was going to convince him otherwise. Call him colorful. Call him an obscene foul mouthed old coot or even worse if you felt real froggy and ready to get your butt kicked. Yeah, that’s right. Hardy Bovine never shied away from a good fight, verbal ones and just plain scuffling in the dirt. Never pick a fight with a pig in the mud. You’ll come up on the short end so says Hardy.

Rite of passage, Hardy would spout it to anyone what wanted to listen. Hell, he would speak his mind whether you wanted to hear him out or not. This here day, second Tuesday of August, he was two months and three days from seeing his ninetieth year of being above dirt, and he was still as healthy as a plow mule and almost as stubborn. He had plenty of smarts between his ears; hadn’t got him none of that Old Timer’s sickness like some of his old buddies, not that he could recall anyway. Hardy still dipped snuff, drank his fair share of George Dickel Whisky, green label, 90 proof, preferred, and hankered now and then for a little poke over at Miss Lottie’s that catered to a man’s needs, one that is with a stash of green in his billfold. Paying for it suited Hardy just fine; no courtship and no ties once it was done. He sure didn’t need no live in cook and maid making his life miserable. He could take care of that just fine and still hunt, fish, drink and gamble without no gospel spewing woman putting up a fuss and raising a ruckus.

Yes sir’ree Bob, Hardy Bovine was his own man. He wasn’t handsome, but who was at his age? His face left no doubt to those who looked upon it that he had been rode hard and put up wet. He had earned ever wrinkle and every scar fair and square. He had the stories to back up most of them and after putting away a pint of George green label his tongue loosened up a tad and he would lay claim to all his conquests, his brawls and back breaking labor that landed him to where he stood today. Hardy wasn’t a believer in taking handouts. He always gave an honest day’s work for what was owed him. It just right down pissed him off to see folks taking advantage of a free ride, thinking that they was entitled to food stamps and unemployment checks, acting all pitiful and poor and broken down. ‘Get off your lazy ass and find a job’ he would fuss. Jobs are out there for the taking if you’re not sorry and worthless like a pile of green blowfly invested horse manure.  

Hardy was man’s man, stout, no sagging chicken wings under his arms and he got around without the help of a cane or walker like most his age. He spat in father’s times face, refusing to be just the next old fart shuffling along, biding his time until the Grim Reaper laid claim to his rickety old bones. Hell fire and full of piss and vinegar, that was Hardy Bovine to a tee. Rough around the edges, manners lacking, living life to the fullest as he would often say, ‘got know way of know when it your time to cash it in, punch the ticket, get life’s pink slip, so you damn sure better make the best of it. Holding back was for wussies, except he didn’t always keep that comment so clean, especially after a little green label kicked in. One thing about Hardy Bovine, he was the same way all the time, not one to pretend to be somebody he wasn’t and sure hell wasn’t to put on window dressing to suit the crowd. Like him or not, he was genuine to the flesh and bone.

August days, dog days what some called them could get pert near unbearable in the low country of Carolina. Didn’t make no mind to ole Hardy though; living in Ridgeville, about 35 miles north west of Charleston and a stones throw from Monks Corner where he had been born into to this world. Ridgeville was known for the Lieber Correctional Institution, the states depository for those sentenced to death. Hardy had a fondness for the penitentiary having worked as a guard in Columbia’s Broad River Correctional Institution  

Hardy took pride in his prison job while there, his face being about the last one those being put to death laid eyes on before the electrical juice fried their worthless good for nothing, Godforsaken souls. Hardy didn’t have much tolerance when it came to lawbreakers, especially those murderous scoundrels responsible for innocent law abiding peoples’ deaths. Cop killers just made him want to be the one what volunteered pulling the power lever. He likened his role to that of them guards in that Green Mile movie. Tom Hanks, now that was a fine actor in his book. Hardy liked catching those Bosom Buddy reruns. As cantankerous as Hardy Bovine might be, he wasn’t a law breaker by nature. Sure, he colored outside the lines when it came to gambling, womanizing and drinking but by his view, none of these vices hurt anybody and surely didn’t get nary a person killed or raped or robbed. Fighting and tussling came natural but he drew the line when it came to maiming or murdering.

Yep, in two months and three days he would for sure reach another milestone by some folks reckoning but to Hardy it would be just another day like any other day in his life. He might smoke him a cigar and sip some George Dickel but otherwise it would just come and go with no fanfare, no cake, and no damn candles to huff and puff until extinguished.  Hell, a cake, if he actually had one, would be declared a fire hazard if loaded up with his life time worth of little wax candles. He wasn’t that much into sweets anyway other than having him a slice of Widow Jenkins’s homemade nanner put’tin every now and then.  Just thinking about hers made his mouth moisten up and if he didn’t get his mind off of it he’d be slobbering like an old rabies invested red fox. He sure didn’t want to get caught looking like Gabriel Turner, his ole hunting buddy, what had landed in the old folks’ home, bedridden,  wearing those depends and drooling like a three month all chap, bless his heart. Widow woman Jenkins had taken a fancy to him, always wooing him and wanted him to show her favors. He’d save his favors for  down at Miss Lottie’s where the woman folk were young and rounded in all the right places; not shaped like the Liberty Bell, eighty three year olds and horny like Widow Jenkins. He’d do without first.

The position of the shadows on his front porch told him it must be nearly four o’clock, the summer daylight more than half gone. It was still hot a blue blazes but a man ain’t really healthy if he ain’t bleeding ignorant oil. That’s what Hardy called senseless sweating, bleeding ignorant oil. His daddy, Big John Bovine, rest his sorry soul, had always called it that, saying ‘boy, if you got no better sense than to stay out there under that blazing hot sun and bleed ignorant oil, then you best not bring your stinky self to my supper table without running a rag through it.” Ole Hardy broke out into a grin recalling those long gone times with Daddy John. Today just seemed to be one of those days where his mind just wondered about aimlessly from one subject to another. Sometimes he just couldn’t help it. Might be that the Old Timer’s disease, might be sneaking up on him; forgetting what happened an hour ago but remembering crap that had long been buried in his head. Well, didn’t much matter one way or the other; it was his mind to do what he wanted with it. He didn’t have to answer to nobody but Hardy Bovine and he maker above.

The following are excerpts from Divas on the Move, a short story based on Bill Davis's Diva painting of the same name...

Divas on the Move 

Excerpt (1)

Norma Joe stared out the window, her daddy’s corn field expanded for many acres; silky ears just days away from needing to be pulled. Oh how she dreaded dirtying up her blue denim gown, her elbow length cotton work gloves and matching designer sneakers for the sake of keeping her daddy happy and harvesting that corn. Divas weren’t put on this earth to perform sweaty manual labor. A greater calling awaited her. She was clearly emancipated and old enough to take charge of her own destiny; that is, if daddy and mama would let her.

Her parents had kept tight reins on her ambitious dreams. Daddy didn’t even allow mention of the ‘D’ word in his house. Mama was a tad more understanding but abided by daddy’s wishes. Men of the old south ruled the household. Norma Joe had not had an opportunity to distance herself from a generation still intent on making an honest living off land that had been in the family since the beginning of time.

Propped on the windowsill, she daydreamed. Divas are excellent daydreamers. Even diva rookies can accomplish much while reaching for the stars in a world fabricated from their unique imagination. Uniqueness is the essence of Divaness. She wished she had brothers but sadly she was an only child. Daddy would have sent the boys out into the fields instead of her if she had male siblings. Visions of the lesser of the two evils seeped into the outer boundaries of her daydreaming. Mama would have surely focused on honing her domestic skills. While cooking, sewing, washing clothes and dishes, cleaning house was part of the wilderness woman regime, there was no place in a divas world for symbolic frontier womanly tasks. Divas would have other people in their employment to take care of the rigorous chores of the day. Blistered hands, broken nails, bad hair and displays of perspiration were prohibited flaws. Daddy hadn’t undergone the learning curve yet, stressing Norma Joe to the brink of desperation.

Thunderheads were forming in the distance. Unfortunately rain showers didn’t guarantee farm chores could be ignored. Sure, trampling about in the garden might possibly be off the agenda, but other more despicable chores loomed in her future. Just thinking about them plunged her into the pits of homespun housewife hell. Mere nonsensical demeaning exercises served no purpose in the life of a diva. How would she ever break away from her southern upbringing and seek a world she knew she was destined to live in?

There was college of course, an out she kept in her hope chest. College, yuck, commoners competing for careers, a life of co-eds, despicable cheerleaders and aspiring homecoming queens, a shallow world she wanted no part of but an escape pod just the same. Her grades were outstanding so seeking an appropriate affordable college, as her parents pointed out, should pose no obstacles. Divas were not just mere dumb blondes. Some were actually redheads or brunettes. Mama called hers dirty blonde. She cringed at the mere description of her hair color and mama prohibited her changing it. Emancipation offered promise and a glimmer of hope, if her parents didn’t roadblock her path.

A flash of lightening, followed four seconds later by a crack of thunder caused Norma Joe to blink and return to her world of non- diva support.  She heard footfalls on the steps, recognizable as her mother’s. What trivial demeaning household task would she divvy out this time? Norma Joe wanted to scream at the top of her lungs and did just that from in the inside. Never let them see you perspire, diva mantra. Even symbolic perspiration was a no-no. The image must be upheld 24/7, even in the confines of country bumpkin world. She almost regretted thinking that, almost. She shouldn’t depict her parents in such light or her life. Reality spoke volumes unfortunately. Living off the land, as her daddy so proudly put it, had gotten them this far, without government handouts or charity from neighbors. He stood tall, knowing he had provided for his family and had never failed to put food on the tale and clothes on their backs.   

Excerpt (2) we join Norma Joe, Mavis and Wanda on the court square...

 

Maneuvering the uneven brick laden pattern on the square’s street was not easily negotiated, not even with those possessing diva prowesses. The trio, while wobbly at times, made it to their destination, regaining their composure before making a grand entrance inside the Rough House. They opted for bar side stools instead of a table or booth, preferring to stage the perfect diva pose for the afternoon patrons. Each was served up a world famous hot dog, no onions, and Coke Cola in an authentic glass bottle. Food and beverage was consumed with the utmost poise and caution, ensuring that their gowns and gloves remained stain free. A true diva has the ability to pull this off while wearing silken gloves.

The trio passed with flying colors, afterwards, standing and smoothing out any wrinkles before heading to their next stop, Uptown Girls. Henry passed by the frontage window and gave them a courteous hat tip. Still, they paused for a moment to allow him free passage and some distance before leaving. Photo opts were officially off the table even though Norma Joe would have welcomed one. She honored her companions’ wishes though, not wanting to banish them to the rural outskirts for an undetermined amount of time if busted by their parents.

As predicted, they found themselves in the afterglow of accessory heaven; Uptown Girls exceeding their diva expectations. After numerous trips down the imaginary runway, each picking at least one item, the trio exited, and pondered what to do with the rest of their afternoon. Still at hand, they hadn’t sealed their escape strategy. A world belonging to divas existed out there somewhere, seemingly out of gloved reach for now, but obtainable once a plan evolved. The three made the loop, cutting the square on foot. They paused at the steps leading to the Belmont Inn lobby, picturing themselves as traveling diva celebrities, met with open arms by the patrons of the inn, joyous with the knowledge of actual diva’s gracing the walls of the Belmont for an overnight stay. From there, they then graced the presence of the Abbeville Opera House, perusing the marquee for coming attractions. Annie was on slate next. A sign on the theater indicate that a rehearsal was in progress. The historical 110 year old Opera House is listed on the National Register of Historical Places; somewhat of a grand old diva as buildings go.

Excerpt (3) The three Divas make their rounds...

“What are we going to do,” asked Norma Joe.

“What do you want to do” asked Wanda. “We’ve had a hotdog, are sporting new accessories and have all but heeled our way around the square.”

“No, I mean, when are we leaving and where will we go when we do?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you,” commented Mavis.

“As serious as a diva drinking wine from a glass slipper…”

“We’re underage and can’t do that just yet,” added Wanda.

“A diva may aspire to do anything she wishes,” Norma Joe reminded them. ‘There are absolutely no limitations.”

“All we need then is a glass slipper and bottle of wine,” laughed Mavis.

“My brother and his pals drink Mad Dog 20-20,” added Wanda.

“Dime store wine, my dear; a diva sets her sights much higher, vintage only,” proclaimed Norma Joe.

“I suppose we can discount Boone Farm’s Apple then,” said Mavis.

“Nothing in a screw cap will suffice,” stated Norma Joe. “Uncorked is our destiny.”

“Obviously we’ll not be partaking of wine this afternoon, unscrewed or uncorked, so back to your original questions, how, when and where,” asked Wanda.

Walking down Trinity Street, they paused in front of Natty’s, a fairly new bar and hang out.

“They have wine in there and every beer you can name so I’ve been told,” said Mavis.

“And we’re still underage,” Wanda reminded her.

“We look older and refined in these gowns, don’t we?”

“Forget it, they know us and our parents,” said Norma Joe. “Let’s try to stay focused. To become full-fledged, out of the bathroom, dressed to the nines divas, we must leave Abbeville. We’ll never be accepted for who we are until we do.”

They waved at one of the owners. She smiled and cordially waved back, mouthing how she thought they looked fabulous.  Of course they did; they were divas after all. Still, it lifted their spirits and inflated their egos somewhat for someone in town to recognize that fact. Actually, divas were quite egotistical without reinforcement. Others should always be appreciative of their presence. It was their gift to society; even when, in their eyes society didn’t exist in their hometown; at least not a society that recognized the diva movement. Three strong, it was time for those frozen in time folks to move aside, sit down and shut up; the new world order had arrived.

 

Here's the opening of one of my projects. Let me know what you think. It's based on a true story, with a smidgen of ole T. Allen added for good measure...

The Hardwood Walker of Ports Harrelson Road 

It’s not often that I think back to those days growing up in Bucksport, not that I don’t have fond memories, because I do.  Like many tiny coastal towns in the watery edges just a mere rock’s throw from the touristy section of the beach, Bucksport had once made its mark in the rich history of South Carolina’s culture. People not from around here look at the name Bucksport and often interpret its meaning incorrectly. Too many folks I have encountered tend to focus the pronunciation on the  Bucks part of it, thinking it must be a deer hunter’s paradise and that fact weighed heavily into coming up with the name. While deer are plentiful, neither Bambi nor any of his relatives had anything to do with the namesake.  As a young girl living there, I never gave it much thought one way or the other. As an adult, I did research it, looking for answers. Nothing answered the question of why we had been tormented so by what lived there in that house.

Fact doesn’t lift the burden. Bucksport was founded more as a rural port. That’s where the port part of it comes from; sort of easy to figure out if you really put your mind to it. It’s really not my way to spew a history lesson, but for the sake of painting the picture, I guess I must. How else are you going to be able to relate to what I’m going to tell you, that is, if I actually decide to share my deepest, darkest secrets with you.  Believe you me; this doesn’t come easy for me. No, not the history lesson; well, yeah that to, but what I have experienced has been well kept from anybody but those who know what I know. It’s been nearly a lifetime of trying to forget it seems.  I must apologize. I do have a tendency to ramble and sort of drift off point. It might be a tad intentional. The subject matter still terrifies me to this day.  Looking back doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.

All right, Bucksport is where me and my three sisters grew up. It was for the most part a fun place to live back in the fifties and early sixties. I say for the most part with reservations that I’ll get to eventually; that is if I can really make myself venture down that path. That was over fifty years ago, hard as it is to believe now. Trust me, I don’t really want to go there but maybe it’ll help if I just say it out loud, but the jury is still deliberating on that verdict. Verdict, that sounds serious, doesn’t it? It sure felt like a life sentence after it started. We were imprisoned so it seemed, with no chance of parole. Daddy wasn’t budging so we were trapped in a nightmare.

Bucksport is nestled between Conway and Georgetown, South Carolina; not so easily found on a Road Atlas. Just follow 701 from either direction and you’ll eventually see the signs; that is if you don’t blink or sneeze. It’s not too far from the sands of Myrtle Beach. Okay, let’s see if I can muster up that history lesson; as best I can anyway.  I might just surprise you and me too, what I learned about its origin. What happened there has surely been on mind lately so I have done a little research? Don’t get too excited though, it’s not much, but maybe it’ll be enough to bring you up to speed. Location is everything, right?

That being said, the rural port is located on the Atlantic Intracoastal Waterway at the merger point with the Waccamaw River. Probably more highlighted and recognizable these days is the Bucksport Restaurant and Marina. You can get there by boat or car. It seems to still be a favorite eating place for locals and visitors alike. A man named Henry Buck of Bucksport, Maine moved here in 1820. He came to South Carolina in search of wood and started up a lumber mill in what he named Bucksport; go figure. Somehow he had found out that Horry County had a significant timber industry with cypress, pine and hardwoods in abundant supply, here for the taking.

Henry Buck eventually had sawmills in Bucksport and Bucksville.  A man with money can name whatever he wants after him I suppose. Bucksville was located near Bucksport, why the two different names I don’t really know. Both properties are listed on the National Register of Historic Places, in case you’re interested. The Buck family really has nothing to do with the house where we lived, not that I’ve ever heard, but still the man is responsible for developing the little community.

Henry Buck did well for himself in Horry County, using his personal fleet of ships reportedly shipping three million board feet annually from his little enterprise to Carolina cities Charleston and Georgetown, even to Yankee land as far away as Boston and New York. It was said his wood, ours, had even been used in the construction of the Brooklyn Bridge. It put my county on the map back in 1860 as one of the five greatest timber-producing districts in the state. Funny, living there as a child, it never felt like we stood out any kind of way. I guess being way out in the boonies wasn’t so special.

I’m better suited for procrastination. Spouting all this Bucksport history prevents me from getting to the root of the evil, my non history making saga. Anyone of my sisters or me could have probably put Bucksport on the map for an entirely different reason, but daddy would have tanned our hides if he caught us talking nonsense as he called it. I’m not sure who we feared most, daddy or that other one. Who am I really fooling? Daddy didn’t hold a candle to that other one if truth be known. I would have faced his leather strap anytime if it would have made things normal for the rest of us.

More history, fact, a lot of black folks resided in Bucksport. Last head count I can actually remember seeing was from the 2010 census where the population was reported as being somewhere around 876, the negroes accounting for nearly 80%; whites coming in a not so close second at less than 8%. I guess Henry Buck could be blamed for these skewed numbers. In his day he was the largest owner of Negro slaves in Horry County, needing them to help out on his 20, 000 acre plantation. I always chuckle when northerners tend to want to blame the south for being slave owners. Henry was a damn Yankee and he brought them here. Funny if you really think about it; those fleets of ships bringing over those poor kidnapped Negroes from Africa flew the United States flag, not the confederate one. It’s always been easier for them to blame us than look in the mirror I reckon.

We grew up surrounded by Negroes back in our time in Bucksport. It was just the way it was. As an eight year old, I didn’t think much about it one way or the other. They were part of our lives. I didn’t see any right or wrong side of it; not like folks prefer painting the picture today. We southerners get a raw deal, based purely on the acts of a few, blaming us for mistreating them, the Negroes. I never mistreated anybody, black, white or any other color. I sure didn’t steal them from their villages and whisk them away to this country. I have never owned a slave. Stop stereotyping us as evil. It won’t work on me. I know what evil really is. I’ve experienced it. So have my sisters. Five long years can wear you down. Sadly we had no say so about where we wanted to live or what was best for us. It was what it was and we had to learn to cope with it. In a sense, I was enslaved to the circumstances.

Looking back, I’d like to hang the blame on my parents for putting us through this, but what were they supposed to do? The Burgess family had to live somewhere. Besides, daddy never believed us or maybe he did, but admitting he did would mean he had to do something about it. Maybe he didn’t know what to do so he buried his head in the sand, a more convenient approach to avoiding it. Mama knew. I know she knew. She was trapped like the rest of us though. I wonder if she ever experienced what we did. I mean the full experience. If she had, I honestly believe she would have talked daddy into leaving. It would have most likely fell on deaf ears. Daddy was too strong willed. He wouldn’t have left even on her say-so and pleas. He was too proud to admit to such nonsense. He had no desire to be the laughing stock of Bucksport. That’s why he hushed us up, forbidding us to spread silly rumors.

There was nothing silly or rumored about what was happening. I know. I was there. It happened to me and it wasn’t my imagination. Ask my sisters if you don’t believe me. Cancel that. They’re not going to tell you anything. Maybe after I clear the air, one or more of them will step from the shadows and back my story. Then again they might just leave me out on that limb by my lonesome. What’s the point of airing the dirty laundry now and risking everything? Many would just think it was silly talk conjured up by children or worse still, they’d peg the whole lot of us loony birds, that crazy Burgess clan.      

Taking a deep breath isn’t going to kick start this, that’s for certain. It’s been buried way too long and way too deep.  Fifty years but yet I can’t completely shake it free. Maybe I should run this by mama first. Daddy is gone so he no longer has a say in it. Sadly mama is in sort of a fragile state. She has what they used to call hardening of the arteries or old timers. Her mind just isn’t what it used to be. No, she’s not crazy. Years ago she had her opportunities to cross over into crazy land, just like the rest of us, but she was too feisty to give into it, I suppose. She is just old and in the early stages of Alzheimer’s. It was a good day when she remembered I was Rebecca. Her sickness can’t really be blamed on the past. We’re all way past the straight jacket days. I babble on, don’t I? It’s just tough to choose a starting point. A story deserves an ample beginning, a time before it happened. I hate just jumping right into the middle.  After all, five years is not a lifetime, even though as a child it seemed like an eternity. Living down on Ports Harrelson Road wasn’t always bad but when it was, bad was our worst nightmare.   

Did I already use my mulligan? Oh well, if not sure, call a 'provisional do-over.' Here's a wedge shot from the Whomper files:

The Golfer’s Kitchen Pass

 

 

One can not play a round of golf if one can not make it to the golf course. Oh how often does the avid golfer or striving Whomper attempt to justify to a spouse, a significant other, parents or the boss why they should be allowed to play that beloved round of golf.

You must be creative to ensure success or be prepared to pay the consequences when these explanations don’t hold water. If you’re a golfer; you’ve been there and will most assuredly find yourself there again.

Sometimes your little schemes have worked; other times doomed from the beginning, you stammered and stuttered, failing to execute. The perfect golfing kitchen pass must flow effortlessly from that golden tongue of yours.

You ask why you could possibly need a pass. Why not sneak off secretly to that round with the buds? Guaranteed, you most certainly will shoot that personal best low round, break some type of club record or sink the elusive hole in one. Secure your kitchen pass first then celebrate guilt free and openly.

From the pages of the Golfer’s Kitchen Pass Manuel, here are some of my favorite passes:

1. Invite her family to visit. Making sure there is a golfer among them. Take that in-law for a round allowing her quality time with her non-playing relatives.
2. Invite your family for same reason as above; however, it is important that you ensure she’s compatible with yours before you strand her with them.
3. “It’s a company tournament and it would look bad to my superiors if I didn’t participate. Besides, it’s free golf.”
4. “It’s a Vendor treat; it doesn’t cost me to play today and its part of the job.”
5. “This is my forth round on my local’s pass and I’ll receive a free round next time I play.”
6. “This is my free round on my local’s pass.”
7. “But honey, Angie and Mary Ann are letting John and Carl play this afternoon. Now how would it look if I didn’t join them?”
8. “John’s wife is out of town for the weekend and we’re obliged to keep him occupied because you know how he has that wild streak. We’re playing Saturday and Sunday to keep him out of trouble.”
9. Parlay Mother’s Day into a kitchen pass. “Just for you on your special day, let’s do an early brunch (your choice of restaurants). Afterwards, I’ll take the kids or grandkids, and/or son-in-law golfing. Relax, do what you want to do on me and enjoy some quite time alone or with your daughter.” 
10. Pick a vacation spot with a golf course, all inclusive with the green fees or free rounds of golf included. Guilt free golf guaranteed especially if you treat her to the spa.
11. Pick one of those plus 90 degree days: “Honey, would you go with me to the course today? I know you don’t like to play but it’ll only take four or five hours of your time. Pick a rainy day or day of greater than 50% rain predicted and ask same as above. Pick a cold day and you know the drill. She’ll gladly let you play without her.
12. Have one of your buds call your house to ask if you could join him. Make sure you know when he plans to call and let your significant other answer the phone. Trust me, they will not say no. Typical answer: Doesn’t matter to me or he does what he wants. Grab the clubs and exit the building quickly, Elvis!
13.  “Gerald has a two for one pass so he’s letting me split the cost with him.”
14. Go shopping with her or do something that isn’t your cup of tea. This can be later parlayed into a golf outing.
15. Encourage your wife to go out on an afternoon with the girls. Helps justify that day of golf with the boys. Better still, have the wife invite some of her girl friends over for the weekend; gives you an excuse to get out of their way. Even better, encourage her to go visit the girl friends for the day or weekend. Free golf if you do not give her the opportunity to develop a “honey do list” of projects for you.

                        Kitchen Pass Tip: Remember you may strategically utilize “the sad puppy dog look.” Tilt your head slightly. Squint or partially close your eyes. Have that slight whimper in your voice as if in submission. Lip quivering is not a bad touch. Do not try this unless you have practiced and perfected it. While projecting, ask can you play a round with the boys.

            The “I can’t help you pass” - You’ve been out of town on business for a few days and your flight returns @ 11 AM Sat morning. Your buds are playing at noon. Decision, do you go straight from the airport and join them on the tee box or go home first? You’re on your own on this one. If your marriage or relationship is on the rocks, and you’re looking to put that final nail in the coffin; by all means tee’em up.

            Off Limits: Christmas, Thanksgiving Day, Valentines Day, her birthday, anniversaries, graduations, family funerals,  if she’s sick, if she’s in the hospital, non golfing family or friends visiting.

The Kitchen Pass Creed

I, your name, swear to execute the appropriate golfer’s kitchen pass, delivering an academy award performance, and leading by example for those less fortunate. I shall maintain my integrity as I overcome insurmountable odds ensuring my spot on the round’s final four. I shall encourage my playing partners to support each GKP with the same vigor, conviction and sincerity as I so that they will never be doubted by those expected to grant them. To protect the GKP manual, I must not abuse the passes and will not divulge the manual’s existence to those granters of the pass. I will enjoy the round guilt free and encourage others to do the same.

 

 

 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the archives of the Whomper Files comes another mulligan...

License to Kill 

Well old 007 does hold these credentials but I have experienced the thrill of the almost kill far too many times. Some of my whomping buddies were just not meant to be behind the wheel of a golf cart, putting in jeopardy those of us that share the cart with them.

Maybe there ought to be a sanctioned drivers test before one may be granted permission to drive a golf cart. As a young man, I walked with a pull cart, tough to wreck one of those. And those tour professionals just don’t know what they’re missing by walking or maybe they do.

            Whether electrical or diesel, the ultimate all terrain vehicle can maneuver the worst contours on the course, and the drivers can overcome any obstacles placed in their path. Carts are made to go where our ball lands. Where do I start?

            Playing Parkland Golf Course, Scottish foursome format with my female whomping buddy driving the cart, we were completing #6, a dog leg to the left. Adult beverages had already come in to play and the noon hour still lurked a couple of hours away. Maria Andretti, at the wheel, decided to make an evasive maneuver, without consulting her co-pilot of course. There I sat, legs extended, propped and crossed, arms folded on my chest, and a twelve pack cooler resting on the floor between us, when the hard left appeared out of no where. Both me and the cooler tumbled from the cart, arms, elbows, ice and beer, poetry in motion. Unharmed, but lesson learned – hold tight and keep the beer away from the driver.

            I witnessed two of our playing partners back a cart down a slope into a creek on #7 at High Meadows Country Club. Big healthy boys, they huffed and puffed, walking the next two and half holes carrying their clubs.

            I’ve almost been raked from the cart by low hanging limbs and then that same left turn maneuver nearly tossed me from the cart; concurrent incidences on the same hole at Quail Creek. Fortunately, I had a hand hold and feet were planted firmly on the floor, lesson learned and remembered.

            Then I recall the Dukes of Hazard General Lee leap, I being the driver this time on #4 at Hickory Knob Resort. Severe down slope, steep hill to be exact, I had a good run going when we hit several deep ruts. The cooler behind the seat launched, offering up ice cubes and beer projectiles, dumping the entire contents on us and almost ejecting my cousin. He did manage to save the beer and most of the ice. It certainly made for interesting pop topping thereafter when his can’s contents spewed like Old Faithful. It had no impact on my water bottle.

            Then there’s bump drafting, with similar NASCAR racing results. The bumper car strategy works like this. The trailing cart bumps the leading cart inflicting whiplash to those in the lead cart; all in good fun of course. I witnessed one driver on the very first tee box, ease up and then bump one of our whomping buds lightly on the back of his legs.  We laughed as he jumped. Old Dale Earnhardt thought he had his cart in reverse and pressed the gas peddle a second time. The cart slammed into buddy number two again, this time wedging him between the carts; not so funny that time. 

            “Rules, we don’t need no stinking rules!” Do they really put those little wooden markers and ropes along edges of the cart paths for a reason, and don’t you receive bonus points for hitting them? I suppose cart path only usually means cart path only. Please keep all limbs inside cart at all times and if you don’t understand this one, drive through a mud puddle while dangling a leg or while hanging your head and arms from your cart.

            Bag drops are not necessarily just located in the parking lots. They can be found on the cart path, in the fairways or in the rough. Why do we tip those cart attendants if they can’t properly secure our clubs on the cart?

            Make a game out of it by trying a few of these ideas:

 Drive off while your partner is either making his club selection or is trying to replace clubs.     

Don’t necessarily wait until your rider has both feet in the cart with butt firmly planted before you press the gas; very effective with anal retentive partners. And never let an Obsessive Compulsive drive because the round is all about them.

 Park strategically close, partner side, to a ten foot gator and sit firmly behind the wheel as if not paying attention.            

Back up with that annoying alarm going off while your buds are striking the ball or making a key putt.

            One last thing, I have this marvelous short cut maneuver I like to pull on first time, unsuspecting cart buddies.  Crossing the street between holes #11 and #12 at Quail Creek, there’s a narrow foot bridge over a ditch before you reach the cart path. Traveling at near full speed I veer at an almost impossible angle and caddy-corner the bridge causing my riding partner’s butt to lift in a prune pucker. I’ve made it so far every time but what might the odds be for next time?  Who’s riding with me?          

 

Déjà vu - Caregivers

I recently stumbled upon a Caregiver’s group on Face book (Caregivers Support Group for Myotonic Dystrophy) and felt compelled to join it and at first I wasn’t exactly sure what prompted me to do it. I certainly wasn’t familiar with this particular disease and I’m not presently facing the challenges and pitfalls of caregiving, but I still think about my stint in that caregiver role. Caregiving is caregiving, no matter the situation and this brings back old memories, stirring those of mama…daddy…granny. It’s hard to believe that it has been eleven years since I lost both mama and daddy and ten since losing granny, the toughest eleven month span of my life. When I think about the term caregiver I can’t help but smile. The corners of my mouth are not turning upward from remembering my role at the helm but envisioning mama’s. Her vow still haunts me, ‘I will not place Thomas or Mama in a nursing home.’  Bad nursing homes have certainly given good ones a bad reputation in general, but then, that’s another story. One thing for sure, vows were kept, promising actually. I don’t regret following her wishes but I still regret she made me promise, taking that choice out of my hands.

For those of you who haven’t read my journey, seen the underbelly of careless giving and come away with a better understanding of how I had to do it my way, then this might sound like rambling gibberish, a man still coping with his demons, but I assure you it is anything but that. Quick recap for those who haven’t read The Caregivers Son, Outside the Window Looking In, my memoir is not a how to for caregivers. I had no targeted audience when I wrote it. Heck, I had no aspirations for ever publishing it. Mary Elizabeth Winn was my mama, an only child as am I. When my daddy’s illnesses reared their ugly heads, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson Syndrome, sending his life of retirement bliss spiraling downward  into a pit he would never ever emerge, mama decided then and there that she would care for him at home. He was after all, her husband, my dad and she certainly had a choice in the matter. She embraced her role, caregiver extraordinaire, had it down to a tee, putting his life ahead of hers literally. She had been healthy as a horse all her life and fit for the job ahead.

Mama was ill prepared for the real journey though. No caregiver who takes their role seriously can ever grasp the concept.  The next half dozen years would take its toll on her, my daddy eventually spending the last few years bedridden, unable to do anything, including communicate his feelings, his thoughts, his likes, his dislikes. He was trapped inside a shell. He was fed what his caregivers wanted to feed him. He was moved about from room to room when the caregivers decided that was what they wanted to do. He was forced to live, to survive, his home healthcare nurse and friend making sure his life, such as it was, remained a healthy existence. He was loved whether he wanted it or not. Choices, he had none, other than live as he did or face the alternative. Ironically given the conditions inflicted upon him by the ravishing diseases his vitals were that of a healthy person. Go figure.

Daddy would look at us, follow us with his eyes and even attempt to form words on his lips. Sadly in his bedridden grip, he couldn’t move or articulate. I often wondered if we were doing the right thing. How could we possibly know? The intent was to make him comfortable, feed him, clean him, see to his bodily functions and watch him simply exist. Demeaning, maybe, but that was my perspective. Possibly he was just happy to be alive in any shape or form or maybe he wasn’t. I certainly can’t make that call now any better than I could back then. Second guessing really serves no purpose and isn’t relevant to where my head is right now. It was but a passing thought. Thinking about stuff only leads to thinking about more stuff so it seems.

Who would have ever thought that the super caregiver, my mama, the rock, would have gotten diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer just days after Christmas 2003? After all, she had been the one who had decided to keep Thomas Jefferson Winn, my daddy and my granny, her ninety year old mother, Ruby Bowie, in her home and out of any assisted living facilities; not that they couldn’t afford it but because she wanted to do it. The caregiver now required the services of a caregiver too. An only child and his wife got a reality check, not because we had to but because it was the right thing to do. Trust me, I am not singing my praises by any stretch. I had flunked royally as the caregiver supporter. My wife had done a much better job and had been more supportive in that role than me. That old what goes around, comes around saying never screamed louder.

Mama lost her battle with cancer three months after we received that awful news. She died sitting up in her single bed, in her bedroom, me holding her in my arms as my daddy watched from across the room in his hospital bed. Her last words to me before taking that last gasp of breath, ‘I love you sweetie.’ Four words I will never forget. We think a blood clot took her from us, actually saving her from the likely suffering ahead from a painful disease. Daddy had never been more alert as he had been watching his wife pass before his very eyes, unable to even say goodbye; at least not verbally. Mama had been the caregiver but I in my substitute role ironically had completed the worst part of the journey, watching HER die. Little did I know the worst was not over by a long shot?

Most people, including myself, don’t quite grasp the entire scope of the caregiver. Let’s just say I didn’t when I was on the outside looking in and only in the sub role. A caregiver can often give up everything. Lost in the shuffle by those just visiting or staying on the sidelines, is the reality of the sacrifices the caregiver has made, putting their love one or patient first, themselves and their health second. Mama had basically ignored the warning signs her body was screaming at her, putting daddy and granny first. Such is the life of most that are caring for others unable to care for themselves.  Mama might still be here if she had seen about herself before it was too late. Early detection is the best prevention, right? Caregiver support is a vital peace of the puzzle. You cannot walk in those shoes 24/7 or YOU WILL pay the price.  I confess. I didn’t initially get that either. Lessons learned too late can be costly. Lessons never learned are inexcusable. I had to do things wrong first to learn how to do them right.

Daddy died three months later while under our care. Doctors and home health care nurses had warned us that in his current condition that aspiration was always a possibility. That’s why we took every precaution when it came to feeding him his pureed meals. When it struck like a lightening bolt, we were ill prepared just the same. Watching your daddy choke and not being able to stop it is a helpless and hopeless feeling. Frantically my wife and I were trying to contact home health care, the ambulance, anyone who could rescue my daddy. Time is never on your side when these things happen. I held my second parents’ hand in his bedroom, across the room where my mama had just died three months prior and watched him breath his last breath. There were no words spoken, no formal goodbyes; he was just gone within in precious minutes. Promise fulfilled, daddy as mama, had not gone to a nursing home. An only child in three short months had lost both parents. I could have never imagined a worse scenario. With every life is a promised death. These were just way too soon but aren’t all of them?

Then there was granny, 92 years old, having witnessed her only daughter and now her son-in-law perish before her elderly eyes. The matriarch of our family had outlived many and it was hard to fathom just how she was going to cope after losing mama and now daddy.  Cope she did, defying the odds. Her mind had always been sharp, even after her body had long ago failed her. Five or six months after my folks death I had an opportunity to start a new job. This would require us moving from Abbeville S.C. to Myrtle Beach, 4 ½ hours away. Would granny consider going with us? We were her caregivers now. Long story, short, she did relocate with us, moving away from where she had lived her entire life. Even before the move we had noticed her health declining, bits and pieces, here and there. I’m sure the heartfelt burden of her only child’s death weighed heavy on her heart and her mind, faced with the fact she had outlived mama and now daddy. Two months after moving to Murrells Inlet she gave up her good fight and joined the others in heaven. My aunt, my daddy’s sister said she completed the journey to the beach just to make sure I was okay and then her job was done.

Eleven months and now they were all gone. Little by little I sank into a very dark place, oblivious to the fact that I was tittering on what might be described as depression. My wife would later say that I had never really had the opportunity to properly grieve over mama’s death before being faced with daddy’s and then granny’s passing.  Mentally it was just too much in too short of time span. Everyone has to face these consequences in their own way. For me, I turned to writing. I’ve always seemed to be able to put to paper what I can’t express and share openly. So I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, bleeding my roller coaster ride of emotions on my laptop. I did this for me and nobody else. Guilt, grief, happy times, sad times, could have, should have, didn’t, I pretty much let it flow, and in some cases taking myself to the wood shed over poor decisions and uncaring choices. Selfishness, self centered, living life for me had been a piece of cake, that is until I treaded down the path of the caregiver. Sometimes you really do have to do things wrong to finally get it right, rung like thunder in my ears and my heart.

I called my journey, my self assessment, my beat me down and pick myself back up, The Caregiver’s Son, Outside the Window Looking In.  Nope, I was not an accomplished writer, not an author or had ever published a single stinking thing, or had I ever tried to publish anything. Like I said, this was for my eyes only and remained at such for nearly eight years. Fate will find a way. Purely as true chance, Bob O’Brien, a neighbor I had never met, showed up at our front door in 2011 holding his book, The Toppled Pawn in his hands. He looked at me. I looked at him. He finally admitted he had expected to see the previous home owner, not realizing that we had purchased the house. He apologized saying he had just wanted to show that guy that he had published his first book because apparently his ex-neighbor had shown some interest in writing. I told him I dabbled in writing. Bob asked if I had a manuscript. I told him I had ten but no one had ever read any of them.  He placed his hand on my shoulder and said ‘son we need to get you published then, I just started my own publishing company.’ You can’t avoid signs from above can you?  I looked at my wife saying what are the odds?

I know what you’re thinking. I then chose my caregiver book and published it. Nope, instead I picked a fictional novel, Road Rage as my first. I published my very first book at age 57 ½. I next published Dark Thirty, my fictional novel about Bullying. In 2013 I was about to publish my 3^rd, North of the Border, a sequel to Road Rage, when I mentioned to my wife my caregiver story. Again, no one, including her, had ever laid eyes on it. I wasn’t even sure I was ready for even her to read it. After all, it revealed me inside those pages, a ME with emotions, thoughts and so forth that I had never openly shared with anyone. I eventually consented. After she read it she told me I needed to publish it. She said she cried, she laughed, she relived much of it. I ended up publishing it along with my other choice, a two-for so to speak.  Friends, family and strangers loved it, experiencing the same waves of emotions.

Originally I had no targeted audience other than me. I thought after publishing it, it would serve as a good tool for caregivers and actually I dedicated it to the caregivers, the true unappreciated heroes. I was wrong. Not to say that those who haven’t walked the caregiver path can’t relate and fully understand my journey, they certainly can. If I had a mulligan I would say it was better targeted at the caregiver supporters, those who don’t understand what it takes to be a caregiver and what the caregiver really needs. Many have said this is my best work, their favorite. It came from deep down inside and not one of my fictional spins. Did it land on any best seller list? No, I never expected it to because I never expected anyone to ever read it. For those who do take time to read it, I hope it opens their eyes and their hearts. It’s no how to book. It’s more of a how not to, an awakening, one man’s way of dealing with life the only way he knew how to, and yes, I had to do it my way, the good, the bad, the ugly and then the right.

For those of you who don’t know them, that’s mama and daddy on the cover. It is the last best photo ever taken of them, my daddy already suffering from the diseases that would eventfully take him down and mama enjoying her last ever cruise with him. It challenged him, her and us by taking them on that trip but it was what they loved in life to do. Enjoy them while you have them. Poof, they can be gone in a blink. An only child continues to cope nearly eleven years later. The difference is my memories are filled with joy, laughter and very few tears now, every memory precious as they all should be. This was probably my blog to top all blogs but as mentioned, writing about it comes much easier for me than talking about it.  For every THE END there is always a new BEGINNING. I’m creeping up on 62. The journey is never over. I love and miss you sweetie.

Myotonic dystrophy (dystrophia myotonica, myotonia atrophica) is a chronic, slowly progressing, highly variable, inherited multisystemic disease. It is an autosomal-dominant disease.

It is characterized by wasting of the muscles (muscular dystrophy), cataracts, heart conduction defects, endocrine changes, and myotonia.

There are two main types of myotonic dystrophy. Myotonic dystrophy type 1 (DM1), also called Steinert disease, has a severe congenital form and an adult-onset form. Myotonic dystrophy type 2 (DM2), also called proximal myotonic myopathy (PROMM) is rarer than DM1 and generally manifests with milder signs and symptoms. Myotonic dystrophy can occur in patients of any age. Both forms of the disease display an autosomal-dominant pattern of inheritance. Both "DM1" and "DM2" have Adult-Onset forms.

To the Book Mobile

Peddling as Fast as I can

Who said selling books would be a piece of cake? Even writing one is no sweet tater pie. Funny though, at least from my perspective, writing is really the easiest slice of the pastry making to me. I can whip together a fictional recipe in a blink, the tale flowing faster than my fingers can keep up with it. More times than not I’m working three to six novels simultaneously while some say they’ve worked years to finally finish their first on the next wishful best seller list. Am I forfeiting quality for quantity? My loyal few followers don’t seem to think I should give up on the expensive hobby, mine not theirs. Fact is its downright fun, the writing part that is; proofing and editing, no so much, unless you’ve landed on a best seller list. Necessary evils are...well…necessarily evil. Traditional publishing…prompt the puke heaves now…make me sick to the lower extremities. Just the mere thought of seeking an agent or submitting query letters to pad my rejection resume force me into a life only a reclusive ole hermit would understand and appreciate.

Yep, I do love to write but transforming my masterful scribbling into something resembling a book is no easy row to hoe. Having someone like good ole Bob to publish them makes that part much easier but, still, the one backing these investments stares me down in the mirror, some alter ego he makes. I struggle with the self promoting and selling part though. I compare it to making cold calls, or being the girlie show barker or even a glorified snake oil peddler. Readers give you that look, their eyes saying it all, is this really worth the price of admission? Quickly you find out just how many times you can return to the well, especially when it comes to family and friends. Rule of thumb; never benchmark you sales on your very first release...unless it was a best seller. Everyone can be taken in by that blessed event, not expecting that you intend on birthing another. Your first child might be a cutie pie but birthing them left and right sort loses its luster, unless you’ve banked a best seller.

Reality can truly provide harsh lessons if you’re not on some zillion best seller list. Flaunting shamelessly isn’t as easy as it sounds for those lacking Koontz, King or Roberts last names. No one pays me to write or lines up around the corner for their signed copy. Hooks, gimmicks, off the wall contests and/or giveaways may offer some hope. Finding an affective hook, gimmick, contest or giveaway poses the ultimate challenge. Merely standing behind a table, smiling and nodding at foot traffic is comparable to trolling the streams with a bare hook. What do you really expect to catch if you don’t toss out the right bait? I’m not convinced having a room full of hungry authors really snags that many buyers. It could do just the opposite. Possibly the shopper is overwhelmed by the selection or guilt ridden, they’re plagued with buying a book from one particular author and slighting the others. Maybe the price is too costly; given the fact they can shop at the library for free or download a copy to their Kindle much less than that old clunky hardback. 

Then there are those dreaded yard sales and flea markets. Is someone really going to pay $15.95 for my book when they can buy books three for five dollars or a quarter a piece? Heck they can visit the library and take home a bag full free. Better still, they can shop the book event and then go to the library and have them order the one that interest them. Still, mine are homegrown, nurtured tenderly and can be signed, creating a keepsake. Can you say souvenir or collectable? Think about it. Suppose I do land on a best seller list or hit the big time. You will have one of those early releases, a rare gem, an actual signed and dated copy, marking it as a viable candidate for EBay or Craig’s List. You can even boast you knew me when. Peddling your goods, keeping your name out there and creating a must have book phenomena is no easy task. Five times I have proven this theory. I have twenty others lined up waiting their chance to take the reading world by storm.

I confess. I’m a genre hopper. My writing is all over the place. I’ve published two detective books, one on bullying, a memoir and a paranormal thriller. I’ve heard you should find your wheelhouse and stick with it and develop a following, target a market. I’m unfortunately cursed. I have no targeted market. I write about what I like to write about which includes a variety of flavors, from my Bigfoot trilogy to missing cat mysteries, from end of the world sagas to high school reunion thrillers, golf stories to witches or sea monsters, people vanishing at mountain resorts to more southern nostalgic memoirs, zombie westerns to sea turtle encounters, I’m all over the place. How to you wrap a marketing and promoting plan around this mess? There’s but one thing for me to do. I just keeping peddling books as fast and furiously as I can, hopeful that one day my imaginary book mobile will crash through the zillion best seller barrier.

Life was much easier when the only reader of my work was me. But then again, what I have experienced has been priceless thus far; the friends I have made, fellowship experienced among authors, sharing our stories like worn and weathered road warriors. Where else would I have had the opportunity to appear on radio and television shows, not once, but numerous times so far? I’ve spoken at Lion’s Club meetings, local colleges and schools; not bad from one who used to be introverted. I’ve participated in more festivals and events than I ever visited just for fun. Some have been successful, others have been quite agonizing, but all have been bonding and life changing experiences, good, bad and ugly alike. Such is the life of the not so famous book peddler, hungering to land on a best list somewhere.

Shameless plug: Go to Amazon or any site where books are sold on line and type in T. Allen Winn to make your selection and purchase. But wait…visit Clock Tower Books in Georgetown, S.C. if you’re shy about internet perusing and buying. There’s more. Simply contact me via Facebook or Email and I’m sure ole T. Allen can work out a deal and ship you a sighed copy.

It’s Howdy Doody Time

I am frequently accused of holding onto things way too long. For the record, in my humble opinion, I’m not a pack rat and I’m certainly not a hoarder, but I do have a sentimental spot, worse so than most possibly. Lessons learned have landed me where I am. There is a rhyme to my reason. Nostalgia isn’t necessarily limited to one’s memory. The past can accompany us throughout the present and into the future. My direct blood line is no more. My mama, daddy and grandparents have passed on. I am an only child as was my mama. Losing the last of my immediate bloodline (mama, daddy and granny) in an eleven month span in 2004-2005 further pushed me to where I am today. Holding onto items, pieces of my past, is important to me and I don’t give them up easily. Let’s dive head first into to my alleged addiction, shall we.

My Granny Bowie collected salt and pepper shakers. Yes I have that collection, boxed up, not displayed, some quite unique, but that’s in the eye of the beholder. I inherited them. I have my Papa Bowie’s daddy’s tool chest with an assortment of my great grandfather’s tools inside. I never knew Papa’s daddy but I can tell by the assortment of tools that he was quite the carpenter. I have a mahogany bedroom suit, mama and granny having identical ones, and I kept the best between them, bed, bedside tables, chest and a dressing table. I slept on this bed most of my childhood life. At the foot of the bed is a huge metal and leather traveling chest belonging to them. I still have most of granny’s handmade quilts. The huge pink glass lamp on the dresser came from my mama and daddy’s living room. It’s older than me and I remember it forever being in our living room. I have granny’s original hoe, a papa custom made garden hoe with longer handle for her. I have papa’s hand crafted iron fire poker. Many a chunk of coal and kindling has been poked with it.

The original hand grinder used to make that traditional hash, yep, I still have it; and the special table papa made specifically to clamp in on with surface area to set the meat waiting to be hand ground into mush. I have an assortment of other do-dads, what-knots, trinkets, gadgets, dishes, cooking utensils from my past and theirs; much of it boxed up and in the attic. Someday, I might sell it, maybe after I retire and can muster up the courage to turn it loose. If you were to ask my wife, she would say it all needs to go. Do me a favor, don’t ask her.

Some items go beyond my immediate bloodline. Aunt Shug, papa’s only sister was quite artistic. She painted pictures, dishes and other various items. I have many of her works of art. Was she famous? Nope, but she was the family resident artist. I can’t leave out daddy. He had this large Tupperware container filled with a life time’s assortment of screws, bolts, nuts, pins, brackets, odds and ins, left over this and that, never knowing when you might need one of what was in that magical container. I cannot count the times I’ve deep dived, looking for that special something I needed, and more times than not I found it or something close enough to do the job. 

Television shows like American Pickers, Toy Hunter and the Antique Road Show have struck a vein so to speak. Nostalgic possessions can be treasure troves in the eyes of seekers, appreciative of their value and associated history. How does the Sinatra song go…regrets, I’ve had a few. In the end I did it my way, too sadly to say. How I have let them slip through my fingers let me count the ways. Toys, I’m talking toys with defining moments, those one of a kind, wish I still had them, collectables. Howdy Doody, I grew up watching the Howdy Doody Show. I’ve fallen backwards into time and am reliving it as if yesterday. A distinctive feature was the Peanut Gallery, on-stage bleachers seating about 40 kids. Each show began with Buffalo Bob's asking, "Say kids, what time is it?" and the kids' yelling in unison, "Howdy Doody Time!" Then the kids all sang the show's theme song set to the tune of Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.

It’s Howdy Doody time

It’s Howdy Doody time

Bob Smith and Howdy too

Say “Howdy do” to you

Let’s give a rousing cheer

’Cause Howdy Doody’s here

It’s time to start the show

So kids, let’s go!

Sorry, I forgot; some of you have no clue who Howdy actually was, do you? He was a marionette ventriloquist doll, freckled face, dressed in a plaid shirt, denim jeans and cowboy boots. He appeared on a kid’s television show with host, Buffalo Bob. The red haired Howdy had 48 freckles, one for each state at the time. There were other characters, Clarabell the Clown, Princess Summerfallwinterspring, J. Cornelius Cobb, Sir Archibald the Explorer, The Featherman, and Chief Thunderthud, head of the Ooragnak tribe of Native Americans (kangaroo spelled backwards). Originally it was an hour show on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays at 5 pm, but the show eventually moved to Monday through Friday, 5:30–6:00. In June 1956, it began to be shown on Saturdays only, in a morning timeslot (10-10:30), continuing until its final broadcast on September 24, 1960.

The final broadcasted episode was September 24^th 1960 and was titled Clarabell's Big Surprise. It was an hour-long episode looking back at highlights of the show's past. During the show there was an ongoing mystery in the midst of it, supposedly Clarabell the Clown had a big surprise. The rest of the cast attempted to find out what the surprise was throughout the show. Mayor Phineas T. Bluster finally succeeded but promised to keep it a secret. Finally, in the closing moments, the surprise was disclosed through pantomime to Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody.  Clarabell who had never spoke before and used horns and hand signs could actually talk. Buffalo Bob called him out and challenged him to prove it, because it would his last chance with the show ending. Clarabell faced the camera and the camera zoomed in for an extreme close-up. His lips quivered as the drum roll began and simply said softly, "Goodbye, kids." A tear could be seen in Clarabell's right eye as the picture faded to black. I probably cried too.

I do have a point after all this but I have to tell it my way and I do eventually get to it. At that snapshot in time, I had my very own Howdy Doody ventriloquist doll, a life sized duplicate of the original, down to every little detail. He was my best bed buddy. I don’t remember what happened to my Howdy. I probably outgrew it and it was either given away or tossed away. Looking back now, boy, I wish I still had that little ditty of a collector’s item. He’s long ago gone to Howdy heaven I suppose. Back in the day, we got stuff, we played with it, outgrew or broke it, and we moved on to the next greatest thing and didn’t give it much thought. Who would have figured just how valuable old toys might someday be. Unfortunately there are no childhood do-overs; only kick yourself in the butt regrets. I look back now and mentally recap the potential collector’s item toys I have allowed to slip through my fingers, not realizing that I should have ‘hoarded’ them instead.

For Christmas Santa once brought me a real handcrafted metal and plastic Roy Roger’s pistol and holster, boots and western hat. Included was the Roger Roger’s kid size authentic guitar. Roy was one of those singing cowboys of my time, like Gene Audrey. I have those rare photos of me seeing what Santa brought me, dressed out in my one piece pajama jump suit, footed and flapped. Yes, I have one with me holding my guitar. Santa even provided me with a Palomino colored rocking horse, reminiscent of Trigger, Roy’s horse. The accessories are long gone but guess what; but over fifty five years later, I still have that rocking horse. It is in excellent shape, no chips or cracks, slightly faded but with the original stand and springs, perfectly workable. It has been loaned to Santa for cousins and even used with foster children over the years. Sometimes I just get lucky.

Yaba-daba-do…yes, I once possessed all the characters from the Flintstones and the town of Bedrock. An original Flintstones play set was released in the early 1960s and it came complete with
the town of Bedrock including cars, critters and other iconic symbols of the television series. Poof, outgrew and gone too. Cereal boxes of my day came with incredible toys inside, each brand trying to outdo the other. I retrieved my Sky King figure from one box. Sky King was one of my favorite TV series. It was sort of a modern western story, a horse replaced with an airplane, the Songbird. King usually captured criminals and spies, and found lost hikers with the use of his airplane. King and his niece, Penny, lived on the Flying Crown Ranch, near the fictitious town of Grover, Arizona. I don’t have my Sky King toy either…dog gone it.

I can go on but it is painful. I swapped my entire 500 count comic book collection to Darrel Tolbert for a weigh bench set that I obviously hardly used. Luckily I didn’t collect baseball cards or I might have bartered them away too. I once owned vintage 1959 set of Mickey Mouse Ears from Disney Land but poof, long gone. I’m sure there were many potentially collectable toys that have gone down the same path.

So what have I learned? I did begin a baseball card collection in the 1980’s. I’m sure there is no small fortune in them, even forty some odd years later. I have a couple of dozen of the Teenage Ninja Turtle characters, all four turtles, April and all the bad guys and a few good guys, still in the original packages, vintage 1980’s. I don’t have Howdy but I do have a Pee Wee Herman ventriloquist doll, also vintage 1980’s. Shogun Red and Miss Daisy dolls are still in my possession, Muppet type characters from the now defunct Nashville Network and Buckmasters shows. I’m still hording 45’s, 33’s and even older style vinyl albums. Up until about five years ago I still had an 8 track player that worked and about a hundred 8 track tapes. Yep, I feel victim to one of those record club scams in the seventies. The player crashed and burned but I still have a handful of what I consider collectable 8 track tapes, if there is such a thing. Oh yeah I have plenty of old and original board and card games. I’ll save those for another story.

It’s Howdy Hoarder Time, yall.