I'm typically laid back; a southern thang. Oddly when I moved to the beach in 2005 and got my physical before starting work at new job, the doc put me on a pill a day blood pressure medicine. Move to beach = high blood pressure, go figure. Not to worry, slight elevated blood pressure would not be of much concern, laid back, not going to let it.

2014, Friday, laid back week begins. Smoke detectors, necessary evil...life savers right? Only when working properly. We've been in house for almost a year. The beeping began last night. I removed the culprits and placed them in the laundry room, would purchase 9 volt batteries today and did. Ex-owners, sneaky and underhanded, had disconnected five of eight detectors and removed batteries. I replaced and hook all of them up. Beeping persisted. I unplugged the five figuring these were defective, the other three beeped on. I trouble shot those three up and down the ladder more times than I dare count. Beeping still, blood pressure testing the power of the single pill.

I'm pounding on the keys to the none stop peeping. Enough is enough. Going to go get the ladder and remove all of them and place them in the garage until I can figure this thing out. Heck, I grew up without them, I can sure do without them for a while. Nothing is ever easy in the world of modern technological wonders; wonder who thought these pieces of crap up...probably an insomniac or an idiot with a peeping fetish.

Next book, Smoke Detector Rage...murder and mayhem, room by room, with a baseball bat...smoking them, one peep at a time...

Insanity creeps closer, must go get the ladder now...if I don't return...%#&@&

ALL SMOKE DETECTORS HAVE BEEN REMOVED AND PLACED IN THE GARAGE. PEEPING CONTINUES FROM THE HOLE IN THE WALL...HOW IS THIS POSSIBLE? I'M A TAD PISSED NOW. NO, I'M A LOT PISSED!!!

author T. Allen Winn: Okay, I admit it. I've been taking a blogging nap ...

author T. Allen Winn: Okay, I admit it. I've been taking a blogging nap ...: Okay, I admit it. I've been taking a blogging nap so sue me. Sometimes life comes at you so blogging fast and furious. I'm juggling ...

Okay, I admit it. I've been taking a blogging nap so sue me. Sometimes life comes at you so blogging fast and furious. I'm juggling a tad too many projects possibly. I leap frog from one to the other, progressing all forward. Here's my writing life in a nut shell.

1. I've completed a non fiction novel; well the content from start to finish. It has been by far my toughest writing project. True stories take focus; especially those that are tragic and just a tad too close to home, literally. There are still many more details to iron out before this will be ready for the real world but the main part is history.
2. I've stumbled into another potentially major project. A classmate and I are entertaining the idea of collaborating and merging our self taught talents. We'll announce this one as it develops.
3. Beach Author Network has their first major event coming up June 1st, Books to the Beat, to benefit Jason's House. Check out my Face Book page for details.
4. I'm currently over 160 pages into another novel based on actual events in Bucksport, S.C., tentatively titled The Hardwood Walker of Ports Harrelson Road.
5. Two books are currently being proof read: The Perfect Spook House, and Buttermilk and Cornbread, Good Ole Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense.  
6. Somewhere along the way I completed two other books (1) Bully on Board, short stories about bullying (2) Fostering Four: my memoir on being a foster parent. That brings my total of completed books to 18, 4 of which have been published
7. Others books in various stages of completion are"
• Just Who the Heck are the Joneses (mystery)
• Raw Ride (zombies take over the wild west)
• Love Stories from the Man Cave (four stories)
• Whomping the Golf Ball (short stories as experienced by the Original Whomper)
• Second memoir to follow Buttermilk and Cornbread (Pass the Hash Please, More Nostalgic Nonsense in a Pot)
• Drum Stick and Jack-O-Lantern ( a kid's book)   

As Paul Harvey would say, and now you know the rest of the story.

Views from the 10th floor balcony @ Garden City Beach:

1. Surfers wait patiently to ride three and four foot waves. Watching them offered up a redo intro to my novel, Last Stand on the Grand Strand.
2. Big dogs love to walk on the beach, pulling their human counter parts along. Little canines have to be dragged along, not embracing the experience.
3. Pelicans, geese, ducks, crows, seagulls and everything feathered, flies below us.
4. The South Carolina State Bird, the dreaded mosquito, apparently doesn't like heights or can't fly ten stories upward. Same goes for flies...
5. There are two types of beach goers right now; old farts or very young poots, not much in between.
6. Elevators work better this time of year; no people, no waiting.
7. Golf carts exist year round and are there to ruin my life...inspired my novel Road Rage, just check the cover
8. Beach solitude offers opportunities to recharge the creative juices...150 pages completed of a new novel, The Hardwood Walker of Ports Harrelson Road, based on true events of a haunting in Bucksports, S.C.
9. My live in proofer is working her way through Buttermilk and Cornbread, Good Ole Home Cooked Nostalgic Nonsense.
10. The ocean waves are just as noisy and soothing from ten floors up.
11. People with metal detectors will spend hours waving that thing around.
12. Jellyfish are the possums of the beach.
13. Not having expanded cable doesn't make me appreciate regular programming.
14. I'm thinking less about work, more about retirement.
15. Fridays are shorter when they aren't workdays.
16. People are still mesmerized by any sort of shell washed up on the beach
17. It's a far peace to the other side of the ocean.
18. We didn't order new condo den furniture soon enough. It won't be delivered for another three to four weeks. Try getting out of furniture.
19. It's a one person kitchen at best in the condo.
20. Breakfast tastes better on a beach balcony; even blackened cheese toast.
21. We sure can junk up a place.
22. A two mile walk on the beach beats anytime spent on an elliptical or treadmill.
23. I'm one of those old farts; just saying.
24. A VCR for DVR is not an even swap.
25. VCR's are like using a television without a remote by comparison.
26. One week is not nearly long enough.
27. Thank goodness we have internet.
28. I'll need a DVD with recordings of ocean waves to play during my morning commutes to work.
29. Getting my footsies wet in the ocean is just as satisfying as body surfing at my age
30. We should do this more often. After all we live less than ten minutes from the beach.

Being Papa's Shadow

 

Toothless, slick headed, barrel chested, illiterate and wearing faded denim Camel overalls, these would not be the traits of a typical roll model. In the eyes of an only grandson, perfection comes in all shapes and sizes and so did Papa.

     John Bowie, born in the second month of 1900, his age always coincided with the year. All I had to do was omit those first two digits and like magic, his age materialized before my very eyes.

The year, 1959, me, a mere six year old, it sure is funny how certain memories stick in my brain. My first fond recollection of Papa had to be him taking me to his favorite dollar a day fishing spot. That man loved to fish!

I remember spending the night so we could be up at the break of dawn. After all, we had at least an hour drive on the back roads of the South Carolina country side at speeds toping forty five miles an hour, before arriving at our final destination.

The pine four room mill village house heated by a cast iron pot bellied stove smelled of smoke, but was cozy and comfy just the same. I remember they had an oil burning stove in the front room, what uppity city folks called a living room, but they only fired it up for very special occasions like Christmas or New Years. The room remained shut off the remainder of the time.

Granny and Papa slept on their Mahogany bed while I made mine on a make shift cot. Papa always slipped on his overalls before dawn, taking the metal pale to retrieve a load of coal and some extra kindling. I’d wake to him replenishing the stove and stoking the fire. Sometimes he would let me accompany him and carry the kindling, the coal bucket still too heavy for a scrawny six year old boy.

He had an old hickory stump in the backyard for splitting the kindling. Hickory when aged is almost impossible to split so it makes the perfect anvil for splitting wood with an ax. He used this same stump and ax to hack off the heads of hens from his little chicken yard for the main course for Sunday dinner. I left that chore to him.   

That Papa smell, always of smoke and some musty manly odor, comforted me when he gave me that morning hug. Granny would be busy in the kitchen making cathead biscuits and brown sopping gravy for breakfast. She would butter up extra biscuits and top them with melted cheese for us to partake of by the fishing hole. 

The Saturday morning would be crispy cold when we started but would soon warm up making a glorious day for fishing. We had one stop near the end of the back alley behind Papa’s house and that would be to pick up his fishing buddy, Mister Jim Creswell. He too would be wearing those trademark overalls. I would too if they had made them in my size.

In the cab of the truck, bookended by the two elders in denim, I listened as they swapped yarns of fishing, hunting and vegetable gardening. Soon we arrived at the Shoals Junction Fishing Ponds and after paying the three dollar fee, Papa and Mister Jim strategically picked out a prime spot.

Papa, equipped with a rod and reel, armed me with a cane fishing pole, sensing me too young and uncoordinated for the art of casting. The ten foot cane pole posed enough of a challenge for an undersized six year old. What else could I possibly need? It had an affixed line, a sinker, a cork and a hook. Add a red worm and I was fishing. 

Sometimes waiting for a fish bite is worse than watching paint dry. This was one of those mornings. While Papa and Mister Jim towed in fish after fish, my cork remained idle on the water’s surface. Soon I drifted into a boy’s la-la land bored with the aspect of landing the big one. I had never caught a fish before so I didn’t share the thrill of the hunt with my protégé’s.    

My little cat nap, short lived; I was awakened by the tug of something in the murky waters. My cork bobbed a couple of times then submerged with vengeance. Realizing I was rapidly being overpowered by what lied beneath, I yelled to Papa for help.

He just laughed, slapped his knee and told me I was on my own. Unable to keep the pole erect with the added weight of the whale on the other end, I quickly developed my own technique for landing my quarry. Walking backwards I began my version of tug and war dragging the pole and the line toward the bank. With as much exertion as a six year old can muster, I finally pulled my very first fish onto land.

I now stood face to whiskers with a five pound blue cat. It flopped and thrashed, mouth opening and closing making those peculiar fish lip motions wondering where the water had gone. You should have seen the pride on Papa’s face. I had just become a fisherman in his eyes. The black and white photographs later would depict my manly hood unable to hold the blue cat high enough to lift its tail off the ground.

Rewarding me, we ventured to the snack shack where he allowed me my pick from the treats that waited in the little one room tin building. I chose a Push-up, an orange sherbet captured in a cylindrical chamber mounted on a stick. The trick, remove the cap from the cylinder and push the ingredients toward your mouth with the wood plunging stick on the other end. An uncle had nick named me Puss-up because with two missing front teeth, it just didn’t quite come out right. 

Papa and I topped off our snack shack visit with a glass bottle of Coca Cola and pack of salted peanuts. An art, Papa had taught me to take a swig of Coke first then pour the packet of peanuts into the bottle. The salty and sweat mixture that tantalized the taste buds was indescribable. With each gulp, the peanuts shared the liquid nectar and crunching them was the nearest form of ecstasy for a young boy if I had known then the meaning of ecstasy. Today’s plastic bottles just don’t do it justice.

I had earned my right of passage that day, a fisherman among fishermen. If only I had had a pair of overalls, the circle would have been complete. I recounted my story until I ran out people who were interested.

Often when Papa and I ventured off for a day of fishing or hunting, he would leave Granny a note to explain our where-abouts. She still worked in the cotton mill and would arrive home from her shift in the afternoons before we returned from our excursion.

Neither Papa nor Granny could read or write which seemed strange to a grammar school scholar like me. Schooling during their day wasn’t required, working and making a living was. I was probably eight or nine years old when I started noticing these little notes they left for each other.

Actually, there were very few words. They communicated by drawing pictures. Papa would draw a clock with the time on the face to indicate when he would be home. If he was going fishing, he’d draw a fish. For hunting he would draw a shotgun.

Grocery list were a series of drawings of bread, a milk carton, a can of lard or eggs. I thought their ability to get their point across this way just way too funny but it worked. I now appreciate how they overcame their handicap.

Once, during Wednesday night prayer meeting services, the preacher told the congregation that they were going to go to Hell if they didn’t read their bibles. Papa spoke up, “Then Preacher, I reckon I’m heading for Hell because I can’t read.”

My parents both worked the second shift in the same cotton mill as did Granny. Self employed, when Papa wasn’t painting someone’s house or doing an odd job, I shadowed him and can say to this day, it was my honor to do so. He passed on in 1990; I taught you how do the math.

I was his only grandchild and he was the only Papa I ever knew. The life and times of Papa John live on forever in my heart and in my mind. A true southerner, larger than life, I miss trailing in his foot steps and being mesmerized by his story telling. I have many more stories I could share with you about the shadow maker but I’ll save those for another time.   



Here's a teaser, the opening for my novel, No Mulligan. Read it and tell me if it reeled you in.

“So tell me Chance, how does it feel to have just won your unprecedented ninth tournament of the year and forth consecutive,” asked sports reporter Cal Mitchell.

            “I’m disappointed in my putting. I’m pulling too many to the right,” replied Chance Roberts, 24 years old and already a mega millionaire on the tour.

            “Chance, you set a course record in your final round today and were the sole leader all four rounds, and you played bogey free for the entire tournament. Your nearest competitor trailed you by thirteen strokes. You must be pleased with your performance.”

            “I missed the fairways on three and seven today. I should have left the driver in the bag and opted for my hybrid instead,” he replied, glaring at his caddy, Scooter Mac Grubber, obviously holding him accountable for the poor club selection.

            “Hilton Head is next. How do you see your chances for a three-peat for this tournament in your young career?”

            “I’m excited to be heading home and plan to spend time with my family in Charleston. I’ve got some work to do before Thursday, so if you’ll please excuse me, Cal, my pilot is burning fuel, waiting my arrival.” Scooter eyed Cal, just shrugged and then followed Chance towards the locker room.

            Cal Mitchell pressed the pause button and sat in front of the monitor, starring at Chance Roberts in freeze frame. It had been only a month ago since that interview. Boy how things had changed in the young gun’s life. Talk about the shot heard around the world, the sport of golf had reached a new viewing audience, only rivaled by those obsessed with the O.J. Simpson debacle. Cal, while excited, he mournfully dreaded his assignment. He had followed young Chance’s career from college prodigy until now, and like everyone else, he had envisioned him taking the sport to new heights. Hell he already had; the ratings and sponsorships were out the roof since he arrived on the tour professionally at age eighteen.

Ratings would peak to an even higher plateau, but sponsorships could take a direct hit. This could drastically impact the gentleman’s game forever. Time would tell how the public viewed the unfolding saga, but Cal’s gut told him that the sport of golf would never be viewed the same again, and this time for all the wrong reasons. Right now, he hated his job, but if he didn’t do it, someone else would, so why not make the best of it he figured.

Every sport had its dark secrets, too many eventually unfolded before the very eyes of those cheering on their favorite teams or players. Baseball had its Black Sox scandal of years gone by, and the steroid controversies which had impacted almost every sports venue, had tarnished many a sports figure and their accomplishments. Cal wanted to yell ‘Say it ain’t so, Chance’, but the ever growing evidence couldn’t be swept under a rug. It seemed more twists and turns leapt out at the news media every passing hour; almost too fast and furious to digest.

The tabloids were making a fortune, as were every major network. Unfortunately bad news captivates the audience much better than those warm and fuzzy stories. There certainly wasn’t anything warm and fuzzy about this one. Cal sighed at the irony in that thought; envisioning Warm and Fuzzy captioned over a tabloid article. 

The phone rang. Answering it Cal remarked, “You’ve got to be kidding me? Right, I’ll head over there immediately.” Hanging up, he jotted down the caption for his next story. DNA evidence reportedly links Chance Roberts to the scene of the alleged crime. Besides reporting sports for the recently launched new cable show, Sport’s Facts, Myths or Rumors, he also posted golf stories daily on his Cal Knows Golf Blog. Right now he dreaded doing both.

Upcoming event on Sunday, June 1 at Oceanside Village Community Center in Surfside Beach! Books to the Beat!! The Paul Grimshaw Band, Beach Author Network local authors & their books, dinner, music, show. 4:00 pm to 7:00 pm. Benefits Jason's House, which gives kids with cancer a week's vacation in Myrtle Beach with their families. Authors donating percentage of proceeds to this worthy cause & event tickets are only $10.00. Raffles, prizes, and fun!!! Call Pat David at 843-650-2244 for tickets. Bring the family, eat, be entertained, meet the authors, buy a new book & help Jason's House!

Join me and a slew of my fellow authors. Buy books from local authors for a worthy cause. You'll be fed, wined and dined all for the mere price of $10. Eat, drink, dance and buy signed copies from the local crop of authors, all for a good cause.