Course Corrections

It's time to get serious for a bit...

After high school—and a brief stint living in Georgia—I went to work at Builders Manufacturing Company in their stock warehouse. I started out pulling customer orders, palletizing materials, restocking shelves, and doing whatever else I was told to do. Later, I spent time welding steel door frames and even worked for a while as the painter on the door production line.

But I always wanted more.

I’d always had an interest in engineering and drafting, so I started asking for a promotion to the engineering department. I even volunteered to stay after hours, off the clock, just to learn how to detail doors and frames. At Builders, “detailing” referred to creating detailed shop orders that included cut lists, punch prep information for hardware, and instructions on how to bend and fabricate the raw materials into doors and frames.

In early 1975, I finally got the promotion I’d been chasing. I started in the engineering department as a draftsman and detailer. It felt like a real step forward.

At the same time, I was still straddling the fence when it came to my faith and lifestyle. I was in church every Sunday morning, Sunday evening, and Wednesday night. But outside of church, I was smoking pot almost every evening. It was a different time back then, and a lot more people were lighting up than you might realize. Still, I was living a double life—active in church, dating Melissa (who would later become my wife), and yet secretly using pot almost daily. Melissa had no idea and wouldn’t have approved if she had.

Then came a turning point.

Builders Manufacturing was sold to the Jim Walter Corporation, and with the change in ownership came a new general manager and sales manager. The new GM, Dewayne, was laid-back and “cool,” the kind of guy who had weekend get-togethers on his houseboat when he didn’t head home to Georgia. The sales manager, Lee, was a bit more intense. At first, he came off as stern and demanding, but over time he proved to be someone who genuinely cared and expected the best from the people around him.

One day, Lee pulled me aside for a little talk. I don’t remember his exact words, but it was something like this:

“You know, you’re pretty smart. If you’d get your head straight and stop partying every night, you could really go places. Quit the dope smoking, get yourself together, and you’ll go far.”

That talk hit me hard—because I didn’t think anyone had noticed. I thought I was doing a good job of hiding my habits. But clearly, I wasn’t. Lee’s words stayed with me. I took them seriously. That conversation was course correction number one in my life.

Soon after, I got another promotion and started traveling for the company as a “Technical Field Manager.” Now, that title sounded a whole lot fancier than the actual job—but it was a big step. I visited job sites where customers were having issues with our products. My job was to figure out what went wrong, who was at fault, and how to fix it.

Later, I was promoted again to Engineering Manager, taking on even more responsibilities and travel opportunities. One memorable trip was to Chicago with Lee. Even though we were there on business, we carved out time to visit an art exhibition and enjoy a nice dinner—complete with a bottle of cabernet sauvignon. On that trip, I discovered Lee’s deep appreciation for art and music, and realized we shared many of the same tastes.

On the way home, we stopped at a little family-owned bakery where the owner, who lived upstairs, sold us warm loaves of freshly baked potato bread. After Melissa and I got married, we even attended art auctions with Lee and his wife Sharon. They gave us theater tickets for our first anniversary—something we never would have done for ourselves. Though I’ve only spoken with Lee a couple of times in the decades since, I will always consider him both a mentor and a friend. He played a huge part in shaping my career and, through his passions, opened my eyes to the wider world. So thank you, Lee—for course correction number one.

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Course correction number two was of a spiritual nature.

My family was the textbook example of a southern, small-town family—deeply rooted in the Southern Baptist Church. We were regulars at Leeds First Baptist, attending at least three times a week. I was around six or seven when we went to Vacation Bible School one summer. Most of my friends went too. We listened to Bible stories, made crafts, and at the end of the week had a big potluck. I remember building a balsa wood model airplane with tissue paper wings. One of the highlights of the week was a visit from local TV personality Cousin Cliff Holman.

That Sunday, during the altar call, I walked down the aisle and asked to be baptized. It made my parents happy. But in truth, it didn’t mark any deep spiritual awakening for me. I was baptized, yes—but not truly saved.

That realization didn’t come until 1976, when I attended a Bible study at Valley View Baptist Church, led by Robert Hitt. Robert had a real passion for the Lord and taught Scripture in a way that made everything clear—no fire and brimstone, no fluff, just truth. It was in that group that I came to understand my need for salvation. I saw clearly that I was a sinner in need of grace, and during one of those studies, I asked Christ into my life as Lord and Savior.

That was course correction number two.

Now don’t get me wrong—I’m not perfect. I still mess up. I still drift. I am, after all, only human—imperfect and flawed. But I am redeemed, and in the end, that’s what matters most.

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There are many people who have made an impact on my life. I’ll try to acknowledge more of them in future chapters of this journal. For now, I’ll simply say this:

Thank you, Lee—for seeing potential in me, challenging me, and being a true friend.

And thank you, Robert Hitt—for your spiritual guidance when I needed it most.

Treehouses, Cows, Swisher Sweets, and Playboy

 My adolescent and teenage years were spent in the Rew Development. When we first moved in, our street didn’t even have a real name—it was just called County Road. No number, no directional suffix, just County Road. It sounds odd now, but that’s how it was. Eventually, someone decided that wasn’t good enough and renamed it President Street, which sounds much more official, even if it didn’t change anything for us kids.

Right across from our house was a wide-open pasture with a small herd of cows. That field became one of our favorite places to fly kites. The cows usually stayed out of our way, meandering off to the far side of the pasture like we were more trouble than we were worth. Most of the time, anyway. I say that because one day I was cutting through the field on my way to my best friend’s house when I must’ve done something to offend the herd. Maybe it was the way I walked, or the sound of my lunchbox, but whatever it was, those cows suddenly took notice—and then took off after me.

There were maybe eight or ten of them, and when they started charging, I dropped everything and ran like my life depended on it. And maybe it did. I barely cleared the fence before they caught up. That little stampede kept me out of that pasture for quite a while. Eventually the cows were sold off, and the field became “ours” again. It was filled with broom sedge—some folks call it broom straw—a tall, rust-colored grass that grew about three feet high. It was perfect for playing hide and seek. You could drop flat on your stomach and disappear from sight in an instant. On the rare occasions when it snowed, that pasture turned into a snowy battlefield, the site of epic snowball fights that left us soaked, frozen, and grinning like idiots.

In time, the family that owned the land sold it off, and someone built a log cabin directly across the street from our house. One by one, more houses went up on that side of the road. For most people, that kind of development might seem like the end of the fun—but for us kids, it was just the beginning of a new kind of playground.

We made a daily habit of pestering the construction workers for scrap wood. Most of the time they were good-natured about it and would toss us whatever odds and ends they had lying around. We used every board, nail, and piece of plywood to build treehouses in the woods. When the workers left for the day, we’d sneak into the unfinished houses to explore. We’d climb through the rafters, crawl around under the foundations, and scavenge for anything useful to add to our forts. I swear we knew more about those houses than the people who eventually moved into them.

When I was in seventh or eighth grade, the Nelms brothers—who were a few years older than me, built the ultimate treehouse in a big oak tree right near the Leeds water treatment plant. That’s where the Leeds Memorial Park is now. Their treehouse was legendary. It sat high in that tree, just off the road that led to the sewage plant, and we knew it was off-limits. But that didn’t stop us from sneaking in when they weren’t around.

Me and a couple of my buddies would keep an eye on that treehouse like it was a military outpost. As soon as the Nelms boys rode off on their bikes or disappeared for the day, we’d make our move. We weren’t interested in the treehouse itself—we were after their stash. Swisher Sweet cigars and Playboy magazines. The holy grail of pre-teen rebellion. We thought we were living large: puffing on cheap cigars, flipping through glossy pages we barely understood, and laughing like fools.

One of my buddies even brought a bottle of English Leather cologne with him every time. After our little smoke session, we’d splash that stuff on like we were getting ready for a date with Raquel Welch. We genuinely believed the cologne would mask the smell of cigar smoke. It didn’t. But our parents never said anything, so either it worked—or they just figured there were bigger battles to fight.

Superman, Magnolia Trees, and Concussions

 ...I’ll get back to the bullies a little later, but for now, I need to touch on something I mentioned earlier—concussions. Seems like I was born to test the limits of how much damage a small boy could do to himself without actually dying. Looking back, it’s a wonder I made it out of childhood at all.

The first big scare came when we were still living in Midland City. We had this big ol’ magnolia tree in the yard, with low-hanging branches perfect for a five-year-old with no sense of self-preservation. This was during the golden age of Superman on TV, and I was absolutely obsessed. I wanted to fly so bad I could taste it. One day while Mama was in the kitchen cooking, I tied a beach towel around my neck like a cape and ran around the yard pretending to be the Man of Steel. But just running wasn’t cutting it—I needed to take flight.

So, up the magnolia tree I went, all full of courage and bad ideas. I don’t remember exactly what I thought would happen next, but the next thing I do remember is waking up in my bed, my mom and dad staring down at me like I’d just come back from the dead. Turns out I’d slipped and fallen from the tree. That towel I’d tied around my neck got snagged on a branch, and I was literally hanging there by my neck, limp and silent. By some miracle, Mama happened to glance out the kitchen window and saw me dangling there like a rag doll. She sprinted out, got me down, and somehow I lived to tell the tale.

But that wasn’t even the first time I got knocked out in that tree. Nope. That magnolia and I had a complicated relationship. I loved to climb, and I wasn’t afraid of heights—not then, anyway. One day I was way up in the branches again, probably higher than I had any business being, when the limb I was standing on just gave out. I came crashing down, limb to limb, like a pinball in a wooden machine. My head caught more than its fair share of branches on the way down, and I finally landed in the dirt, out cold.

Again, Mama was at the kitchen sink—our house must’ve been built so that she could keep one eye on dinner and the other on the backyard mayhem. She saw me fall and ran screaming out of the house, thinking I was dead for sure. Same scene: I woke up in bed with no memory of what happened, a goose egg on my head, and the worst case of nausea I’d ever had. Daddy had come home from work early and rushed me to the little hospital in town, where I spent most of the day in la-la land. That was my first real concussion.

The second one came years later when we were back in Leeds, living in the Rew Development. Our street was more like a shortcut for big rigs and delivery trucks than a quiet neighborhood road. We saw everything from poultry haulers to soft drink trucks rumbling past the house on a daily basis. It wasn’t unusual to find crates of live chickens spilled out on the roadside after a sharp turn or sudden stop. One time, my sister Lisa actually caught one and kept it as a pet for a while. That chicken lived in our yard like it belonged there.

Anyway, one summer afternoon, me and my sisters Janet and Lisa were out front when a Coca-Cola delivery truck rolled by and somehow dropped a large metal canister—one of those big compressed CO₂ tanks they use to carbonate soda. It just rolled off the truck and landed in the ditch like it was nothing. Well, it didn’t take long for us to drag it into our yard. The thing looked kind of like a scuba tank, with a heavy metal lid on top held in place by a big threaded collar.

Now, you’d think there’d be some kind of warning label on it, but if there was, I sure didn’t see it—or didn’t care. I stood it up, started turning that collar, and gas began to hiss out. No big deal, I figured. I kept unscrewing, and then—BAM—the lid blew off like a cannonball and smacked me right between the eyes. I flew backward and hit the ground like a sack of potatoes.

I wasn’t out for too long that time, but long enough to wake up to the sound of my sisters screaming and crying and talking about how much trouble we were all gonna be in. And they weren’t wrong. Daddy didn’t yell, but he gave me a long talk that stung worse than a spanking. Told me I “should’ve known better,” asked, “what were you thinking?” and reminded me just how easily I could’ve been killed—or worse, hurt one of my sisters.

Of course, that wasn’t the last time I did something stupid that ended with a hospital visit or a lecture about using my head. But those stories are for another day.

More Good Ole Days

 

Our time in Midland City didn’t last long, but before we packed up and left, there was one story that’s just too good not to tell.

Out on Highway 231, there was this old curb market—one of those roadside stops with fresh fruits, vegetables, boiled peanuts, and the kind of Southern charm that pulled folks in like flies to molasses. It was always busy, especially in the spring and summer, with travelers heading down to Panama City Beach. And to catch their eye, the market had one peculiar mascot: a big ol’ stuffed kangaroo parked right there at the edge of the road. Now, this kangaroo had seen better days—patched up with duct tape around the snout like some sad, silent rodeo clown. I’ll come back to that in a second.

You’d think that us kids would be thrilled about stopping at a place like that. Fruit, peanuts, and a big weird kangaroo? What’s not to like? But that market had a dark side too—something way more terrifying than a worn-out marsupial. They had a turkey. Not just any turkey either, but a big, mean, battle-hardened turkey that roamed the lot like it owned the joint. No pen, no leash—just free to roam and ruin a kid’s day.

From the first time we stopped there to the last, that turkey had it out for me. I’d step out of the car and that sucker would lock eyes and charge like a feathered freight train. If I didn’t make it to shelter in time, it’d jump on my back and start flogging me, wings beating like war drums, pecking the back of my head like it was digging for gold. After that first encounter, I stayed put in the car, thank you very much. Let Mama deal with the produce—I had no interest in another turkey brawl.

Now about that kangaroo... it was kind of a mystery. No sign, no story, no explanation. Just this out-of-place, duct-taped oddity standing sentinel by the roadside. The first time we saw it, we stared at it like it was some kind of roadside god. My sister Janet, with all the confidence of a four-year-old expert, said, “It’s alive. They’ve got its mouth taped shut so it can’t scream for help.” Honestly, that didn’t seem too far-fetched to us back then. We could come up with some wild stuff.

In 1960, we moved back to Leeds again and lived in a little garage apartment just a block from my grandmother’s shotgun house—the kind that rattled every time a train went by. Her place was right next to the tracks, and you could feel the floor tremble when the locomotives rolled past. There was a huge Great Dane that roamed the neighborhood—nobody knew who it belonged to, but it was gentle enough and so big we used to ride it around the yard like a horse. So, naturally, we called it “Horse.” Not very creative, but it fit.

One odd memory from that time: there was a family that lived around the block, and one of their kids had Down syndrome. Whenever he saw Janet, he’d point and laugh and shout, “Ha-ha! Old girl! Ha-ha!” We never knew his real name, but from then on, we just called him “Ha-Ha.” Even now, when we talk about that time in our lives, Janet and I always say, “Remember Ha-Ha?”

Next door to our little garage apartment was a small grocery store with a soda machine out front. Janet and I would go over there and shake the thing until it coughed up a Coke or two. Sometimes we’d jiggle the coin return and score a dime or maybe even two—jackpot. Back then, a dime bought you a cold bottle of pop, so when two dimes came out, we each got our own. Felt like hitting the lottery.

After a few months in that little apartment, my folks bought a house in a new area called the Rew Development. I had just started first grade, and that move kicked off a whole new chapter of life. Janet and I started exploring more on our own, going off in different directions. That’s a story for another time, but I will tell you about one moment from early on that’s seared into my memory.

The new house had a narrow brick ledge running around the front. Just wide enough for one foot, if you were brave—or stupid—enough. One day, with all the wisdom of a six-year-old, I climbed up there, pressed my back against the wall, and started shuffling along like I was Superman scaling a skyscraper. When I got to the corner, I stood up a little too proud and slammed my head right into a wasp nest. Those angry little suckers came at me like I'd declared war. I flailed, panicked, swatted, and in the process, fell off the ledge.

I didn’t break anything, but I did get a concussion—one of many I racked up during my childhood. That incident marked the true beginning of my life in the Rew Development. It was a wild, wonderful, and sometimes rough place to grow up. I had plenty of adventures there, did a whole lot of dumb stuff, and somehow managed to become a favorite target for the local bullies.

The Good Ole Days

"You don’t remember a damn thing!" That’s what my oldest sister Janet is always telling me. She’s got one of those minds like a steel trap—nothing gets past her, and nothing ever seems to rust. I don’t know how she keeps it all straight. Me? Not so much. My memories come and go like stray cats—sometimes they show up, sometimes they don’t. She acts like I oughta be able to remember every little thing like she does, but my brain just doesn’t work that way. Maybe the result of one too many concussions when I was a kid

My first real memory is burned into me, plain as day. I was three years and nine months old. Not exactly the warm-and-fuzzy kind either. We were at my grandparents’ house—me, Mom, and one of my cousins. There was a knock at the door, and when my grandmother opened it, I stood behind her, peeking around to see who it was. Two police officers were standing there. They came to tell us that my grandfather—Pappy—was dead.

Pappy had been a coal miner, but when the mines dried up, he started selling life insurance, going door to door in the evenings. That night, he’d just left a client’s house and was sitting in his car when he had a heart attack. Gone, just like that. You’d think I’d remember crying or feeling something big, but I don’t. What I do remember is the way Mom and my Grandmother and my cousin grieved. That’s what stuck. That whole night is locked in tight. Funny thing is, I don’t remember anything before that night. Is that normal? I don’t know. Janet seems to remember everything from the womb on.

The next couple years are kind of a blur. If I had to tell you the order of where we lived and when, I’d probably mix it all up. But I do remember moving to St. Augustine, Florida, when I was about five. Daddy had been laid off from Hayes Aircraft in Birmingham and took a job down there to keep the bills paid. His buddy, Jimmy Roy Johnson, moved his family down too, and we ended up living next door to each other. That’s where I first recall knowing Jenny Johnson—been friends ever since.

We were just regular kids, playing in the sand, chasing seagulls, flying little balsa wood airplanes. It was the 1950s—simple times. We didn’t have tablets or TikTok. We had dirt and sunlight and imaginations.

We didn’t stay in Florida long before we were back in Leeds. I couldn’t tell you for how long, but the next big move was to Midland City, Alabama. Now that, I do remember. Midland City was a kid’s paradise back then. The world was a different place—moms weren’t hovering like helicopters, and dads weren’t tracking us on their phones. As long as you didn’t get hurt, end up in jail, or miss supper, you were pretty much free to roam.

And roam we did. Me and Janet—me five, her four—had little bikes and a whole town to explore. We’d start out in the backyard and before you knew it, we were climbing into the hayloft at the feed store or sneaking into the Baptist church to splash around in the baptismal. We’d ride what felt like miles. Mom never quite believed us when we told her all the places we’d been. I think she thought we just had wild imaginations. Truth is, we were just living the kind of childhood that barely exists anymore.

GOOD FRIDAY

Wishing you a peaceful Good Friday

Good Friday is a solemn day when Christians around the world remember Jesus Christ’s crucifixion and death. Finding the right words to mark such a weighty observance can be difficult—“Happy Good Friday” never feels quite right, and even “Blessed Good Friday” seems to miss the gravity of the moment. As I grow older and realize that my days on earth are numbered, I’m ever more aware of how undeserved God’s grace has been in my life—and how deeply I need it.

I’d like to share an experience that brought this home for me. On November 5, 2024, I was touring Rome as a casual visitor, snapping photos and ticking off famous landmarks. Yet something drew me again and again into its churches and basilicas. When I entered San Marcello al Corso and stood before the Crucifix of San Marcello—widely regarded as the most realistic depiction of Christ’s suffering—I felt a sudden, crushing weight of guilt.
I studied every detail: the nails driven through his hands, the crown of thorns pressing into his brow, his gaunt body stretched on the cross. And in that moment, I imagined myself as the one who had executed those blows. I was overwhelmed by shame—surely I had driven those nails, surely I had thrust that spear. Tears came, uncontrollable and unabashed, for my part in what felt like an ancient atrocity.

No one approached me; I suspect I was just one among many quietly moved in that sanctuary. But then my tears shifted—they became tears of gratitude. Because even as I stood there overwhelmed by my own unworthiness, I remembered that Christ’s sacrifice was given freely. He took every lash and nail for all of us, offering himself as the perfect Lamb of God so that our sins might be forgiven.

I’m no preacher, and I’ve often found it hard to speak about my faith. But that chilly November morning in Rome changed me: it brought me closer to God and gave me a new peace in sharing what I believe.

On this Good Friday, may you, too, feel the gentle power of Christ’s love. May you reflect on His sacrifice, take comfort in His forgiveness, and find your soul renewed by the promise of resurrection.

CONTOURS

 Contours are everywhere—the graceful curve of a river, the rolling silhouette of distant hills, and even the sweeping arcs of a row of bicycles waiting patiently in Chattanooga. In this photograph, symmetry and structure come to life, a perfect reminder that beauty isn’t just found in nature but in the thoughtful design of the world around us. As springtime breathes warmth into the air, these bicycles whisper of adventures to come, of open roads and the sheer joy of motion. Contours guide us forward, shaping our journeys in ways both seen and unseen.

Photo Friday

#photofriday #contours