The “Runt” (Mitsubishi Mirage) was straining all three cylinders as it putt-putt-putted up the steep mountain road and out of the Rio Grande Canyon. “Do you want me to get out and push?” asked my good friend (and sometimes red-head) Pat. Finally, we crested the mountain and the view that lay before us was breathtaking. Taos (elev. 7000), nestled against the towering Sangre de Cristo Mountains, sparkled in the afternoon sun. Across the valley, the Rio Grande River sliced 565 feet deep into the earth. Below us pearl gray smoke curled from squat, brown adobe houses. We followed a dirt road lined with ancient cottonwood trees and past a Hindu Ashram to our destination – a one bedroom casita. Our landlords, Tara and Jean (French for John) – greeted us. Like most everyone in Taos, Jean has an interesting story. Later, while tending his winter garden, he told me he was from Paris; that his father fought for the Loyalists in the Spanish Civil War in the late 1930’s and afterwards, was a member of the French Resistance and fought Germans.

Shortly, my daughter, Shannon, arrived rubbing her ear and complaining that she couldn’t hear. She had come to Taos 17 years earlier driving a pick-up with a dog and no job. She has prospered. Now she has two dogs, a cat and a dusty Subaru, a good job at the Bavarian in the Ski Valley and many fans of her band, Shannon and the Southern Souls. She was nearly deaf. “We’re going to a doc-in-a-box,” I said. She made excuses and promised she would stop by on the way home. Pat, who raised a daughter, has a nose for deceit. “I’m going with you, NOW!” she said. Shannon turned pale. She hasn’t changed one bit since childhood when I had to hold her down while her mother gave her medicine. A glob of wax was removed and amoxicillin prescribed. Problem solved.

Next morning, I rose at daybreak and looked out the window. Snow was accumulating on mountain peaks. I made strong coffee, sat near the stove and worked on a Christmas story set in Athens during the Civil War. It was very cold outside and the wind howled, and in my story it was cold and snowy and the wind howled between the chinks of the log house. I sipped coffee and was warm and well into the story, but getting tired when Pat got up and prepared a big country breakfast of eggs, biscuits, jam, gravy, bacon and brewed more coffee. Shannon joined us. In my story, the family had squirrel dumplings and cornbread for Christmas. Pat cooked chicken and dumplings for lunch and made johnny cakes. I was greatly restored.

The Taos News carried sad tidings for many locals. Trump won! He received only 17.92% of the vote in Taos County. “It’s a nightmare made real,” said a Democrat. “The sun still came up. My dogs were still glad to see me.” I figure her dogs were Trump supporters. It reminded me of my reaction to Goldwater’s landslide loss for the presidency in 1964, when I was an idealistic 23 year old university student. I wept that night. The world was doomed. But it never occurred to me to seek counseling, throw a temper tantrum and block a highway. I moved forward and made a noble contribution to mankind. I became a lawyer. Youthful idealism has long since vanished. The way I see it we have two gangs of thugs in Washington called Democrats and Republicans. They remind me of Al Capone and Bugs Moran’s Northside gang, each vying to control the rackets. They swap power, scratch each other’s back, and feed out of the same trough. Their major goal is to remain in power and live country club lives on the taxpayer’s largesse.

We drove the Runt down into the Rio Grande gorge to hike. Getting there proved to be dangerous on a narrow gravel road with no guard rails. A large Rocky Mountain ram stared at the Runt and shook his head. Uh oh! In a head butting contest, the Runt would lose. Finally, he wandered off to join his harem.

On the hike down, we kept a watchful eye for rattlers, saw numerous sheep clinging to the rocky walls, and inspected an ancient Indian Petroglyph – perhaps their version of men writing on a bathroom wall today. I was gasping for air and my tooth ached as we hiked out. I needed a slab of fat back bacon to tie to my jaw. The three cylinders of the Runt strained mightily as we climbed up the gravel road. Near the summit it choked down. I pressed the accelerator. “Come on little feller.” I remembered the Thrifty rental clerk telling me it wasn’t designed for mountain driving. Finally, we putt – putt – putted out.

Shannon and the Southern Souls were playing at the Tap Room of Taos Mesa Brewing and invited us to attend. We were running late. I missed the turn off, but being sharp of mind, saw a solution. I turned in at a nearby McDonalds with the intention of circling back. “I wouldn’t do that,” Pat said. I fell behind a long line of cars going through the drive-thru and was blocked. “I told you,” she said. Grrr. One of these days Alice. POW! Right in the kisser. Many of Shannon’s friends were present and greeted us with hugs. I was especially glad to see Brendan, who is a long-haired, head slinging, guitar playing rocker. He made a special visit to greet us. I won’t relate his history, but his life is now exemplary. Cleaner than a hound’s tooth, as we say down South. He was recently married, has a new baby, and doesn’t touch alcohol. “I’m proud of you Brendan,” I said.

The band is all acoustic. Dave Kinney, originally from Chicago plays anything that makes a sound. Willie Hunton plays Dobro and mandolin. Shannon sings mostly soul and blues with a little Hank and Patsy Cline thrown in to make it real music. Jamie, who Shannon calls “my sister,” arrived. She is Northern Cheyenne born and raised on the Lame Deer reservation 42 miles east of Custer Battlefield where her ancestors defeated Custer in 1776. When Shannon is down, Jamie is always there to lift her up. One evening while enjoying wine, Shannon decided to seal their friendship. They would become blood sisters. Jamie watched in amazement as Shannon sliced their palms with a butcher knife and then pressed them together to mix their blood. Jamie was puzzled. “I saw it in the movie,” Shannon said. Jamie had never heard of such a practice.

Next day, Pat and I went to Walmart and purchased diapers, baby clothes, and a Huggy Bear for Brendan’s new baby. Pat and Shannon delivered them, along with left over chicken and dumplings. Now, the kid is prepared to face life head on.
By: Jerry Barksdale

Ma And Pa Take Taos: Part 1

My good friend (and sometimes red-head) Pat and I were off on another adventure, this time across the purple sage to Taos, New Mexico. It has been described by one resident as “wacky and weird.” That’s where my daughter, Shannon lives. As usual everything started off going my way – downhill.

First, I had a toothache. Then, when I presented plastic at Huntsville Airport to pay a $25.00 baggage fee, it was rejected – and in front of many people. “There must be a mistake,” I said. She swiped it again. “No mistake.”

When we arrived in Atlanta I called Barclay Bank. Someone in North Dakota had charged $6.30 on my card. I’ve never been to North Dakota. My card was cancelled on the first day of our vacation. Perfect timing. And my tooth was about to jump out of my mouth.

On the flight to Albuquerque, we encountered 100 mph head winds. “Look!” Pat exclaimed. “The wing is flapping.” I needed tranquilizing. I ordered a scotch and handed the hostess a ten.

“Sir, we don’t accept cash,” she said. What kind of country rejects your credit card and doesn’t accept cash? And on the first day of vacation! It’s written on the face of a bill, “Legal tender for all debts.” And that includes scotch!

It was dark in Albuquerque when we went to pick up our Thrifty rental car. Pat had arranged for an economy car, knowing that I’m a thrifty kind of guy. The young clerk explained that we needed to upgrade. “It’s a Mitsubishi Mirage and has only three cylinders and isn’t suitable for mountain driving,” he said.

“Does it also have three wheels,” I asked. He frowned. No humor. We couldn’t find it in the parking lot. No wonder. It was parked between two VW beetles. It was aptly named Mirage. It sort of looked like a car, but it really wasn’t. Pat christened it, the “three wheel sewing machine.” I call it the “Runt.” We hummed up I-25 looking for a Best Western. Had to call Siri. That hussy kept yelling, “TURN AROUND NOW!” I didn’t like her tone of voice. She’s probably a red head. How could I turn around in six lanes of 75 mph traffic?

The next morning, we hummed northwest on State 550 into Indian country. Big blue skies, distant buttes and mesas, endless purple sage, pinon and juniper trees and chamisa, a gorgeous plant that hates my guts, filled the landscape. Everything was still going my way; sinuses in panic mode, nose stuffy and bleeding, and tooth aching. On the edge of the Jemez Reservation, we stopped at CWW Feed Store in tiny San Ysidro and asked directions. Several Indian children were out front near pens holding goats and the fattest hog I’ve ever seen. Nearby was a corral of horses. Chili riestas hung from the front porch of the old store building. That’s where I met Connie Collis, the proprietor, a friendly, late fortyish blonde. “I’m from Alabama,” I said. “I own a Bible, have a permit to pack heat – and I’m lost.” She grinned. “Sounds okay to me,” she said. Connie has been living in San Ysidro for 20 years. Her husband, a big game hunter, had died on a hunting trip in Mexico. Afterwards, she dedicated her life to rescuing critters. She cares for 51 rescue horses – some are wild mustangs – including others, for a total of 92; one fat hog, one cow, 7 goats and two dogs.

“Why do you do it?” I asked.

“It is my heart,” she said. “It gives me a reason to get up in the morning.”

The store name “CWW” stands for crazy white woman, a handle given her by local Jemez Indians. Working with Connie was Taylor Clark, a 24-year-old, attractive red head originally from Albuquerque, who is a rock climber. Taylor was working on a volunteer therapy horse ranch and studying for a masters’ degree when she went to work for Connie rescuing horses. Two thumbs up for these ladies. I yanked the crank cord on the Runt and we hummed up State 4 and across the beautiful Jemez Mountain, toward Los Alamos.

There we toured the museum, learned about splitting atoms and saw where some of the scientists had lived during WWII. “Fat Man,” the first atomic bomb, was developed at Los Alamos and dropped on Hiroshima to bring WWII to an end. From start to finish, it took only two years. When our backs are against the wall, Americans excel. Why can’t we discover a cure for cancer? If we can develop a blue pill to raise the dead, surely we can find a cure for cancer.

In old Santa Fe (elev. 7198 ft), we had a late lunch at La Fonda, a Pueblo style hotel on the plaza. That’s where, after eating a burrito smothered with red chili and black beans, I developed my new theory about atom splitting. That lunch also led to me to make a pact with the Lord that night. Why split uranium atoms and endanger the environment? Split the bean! A plate of black beans produces enough methane gas to power every taxi in New York City for a day.

That night, I woke in a miserable state. My tooth ached, my nose bled, I couldn’t breathe, and my stomach was about to explode. I was desperate. I reached for Mama’s favorite cure-all- Vicks Salve. Rub it on the chest for coughs, apply to hemorrhoids, and poke it up the nostrils for a stuffy nose. I figured if I could scare off a hemorrhoid, it could open a stuffy nose. The label warned: “DO NOT PLACE UP NOSTRILS,” but I figured that was meant for idiots who used the same finger. Anyway, up the nose it went. Ahh, thank you Mama.

It was around midnight when I asked the Lord to strike me dead if I ever ate another black bean. There ought to be a law requiring black beans be sold with this warning: “Consumption may result in loud praying, methane emissions, and global warming.”

We overnighted at El Rey Inn on Cerrillos Road. Very Santa Fe-ish. First constructed as a motor court in 1936, it reminded me of Melody Ranch, Gene Autry’s cowboy movie set. Next morning, we breakfasted nearby at the Pantry, opened in 1948. Nothing slick about it, simply the best. I ordered an egg white veggie omelet. Old Satan was up early, tempting me, having heard about my pact with the Lord. “Sir, do you want black beans with your omelet?” asked his servant, our dark eyed waitress.

I’ve since learned that a raw carrot cooked with black beans will absorb the methane gas. Don’t eat the carrot! He-he-he. Give it to your ex.

To be continued….
By: Jerry Barksdale

In 1987, I traded a pork’n bean and banana sandwich diet (along with my independence) for Pat, a firecracker gal from Arkansas who stood 5’1” and smoked Virginia Slims.

It was a good swap. I got a beautiful and intelligent wife, and also two step daughters, Harley and Lucy (names changed). Unfortunately, they were afflicted with a dreaded curse. They were teenagers!

I quickly learned that Pat’s stress level could be measured by the number of Virginia Slims she smoked in our house, and how fast she nervously twisted a tendril of her long black hair. It was a dead giveaway that “Little Mama,” as the girls called her, was about to take to the war path.

We made a pact. “I’ll discipline my girls and you won’t have to be involved,” she said. Great news! I’m an only child and my experience with young girls was limited to my daughter; precious little Shannon who was age 7 when her mom and I divorced. She was blonde and blue-eyed with a cute pony tail and would climb on my lap and say sweet things to me. “I love my Daddy” and “my Daddy can do anything.”I didn’t know honey from bee droppings when it came to girls. I didn’t know that sweet little girls grew up and became hellions. I was ignorant of teenager hell.

Harley was three years older than Lucy and didn’t want her in her room and, especially didn’t want her wearing her clothes. “Don’t touch my stuff!”

Otherwise, they appeared to be well mannered, sweet and courteous young girls; that is until one evening at dinner. I was enjoying a platter of pork chops, mashed potatoes, peas, and gravy when Harley accused Lucy of entering her room. Lucy denied it. “LIAR!” Faster than Ali could throw a right hook, Harley struck Lucy with a pork chop. POW – BAM – BANG Pork Chops were flying. Little Mama sent them to their room and fired up a Virginia Slim. “I’m soo embarrassed,” she said. “I don’t know what got in the girls. They are usually sweet girls.”Hmmm, I was beginning to doubt that.

Later, Pat and I arrived home to see the only tree in our front yard decorated in white. “Somebody’s rolled our yard!” she exclaimed and fired up a cigarette. A cursing investigation revealed that Lucy had been in Harley’s room again and borrowed a sweater. Harley retaliated by throwing all of Lucy’s underwear out a second story window where it landed in the tree.

Pat was proud of her blue LTD Ford that she got in the divorce settlement. It was the apple of her eye. She kept it washed, shined, and serviced and planned to drive it for many years to come. Harley asked to drive it to the beach during spring break and carry her high school buddies. Pat reluctantly agreed. “I don’t want one scratch on it,” she warned.

Several days later, Harley returned and the blue Ford looked like a speckled guinea, white spots dotted the lower half. Little Mama fired up a Virginia Slim, twisted her hair and interrogated Harley. “Uh-uh, I parked near a construction site where there was some sand blasting,” Harley said. “If that’s true, why aren’t white specks on the top?” asked Little Mama. It wasn’t until years later we learned the truth: they were driving in the salty surf. “YEE HAW! GIMME ANOTHER BEER.”

Not long afterwards, Pat slammed into a rock wall and buckled the hood where rain water collected and birds bathed. The Ford was tough, but not tough enough. Lucy was learning to drive. She begged to drive one block to visit her friend, Julie. Minutes later we were called. “Come quickly! There’s been an accident.” We arrived at a war zone scene.Lucy had taken out a basketball goal, plowed into the back of Julie’s car, and pushed it through the garage wall. The old Ford had finally come to a violent end.
It was during this period that Little Mama developed her immutable rule regarding teenagers – never give a kid an equal break.

Her teenage daughters sent Little Mama reaching for a Virginia Slim on many occasions, but it was nothing compared to what an upcoming Auburn Tigers game did to her psyche. By 6 p.m. on Friday evening, she was hot boxing cigarettes. By 9 p.m., she was racing to the bathroom with diarrhea.

But it was Lucy skipping classes that sorely tested Little Mama’s resolve. We had no idea until the school counselor called and informed us. Little Mama developed a plan. She decided to go atomic. Each morning, she drove Lucy to the front door of Grissom High, marched her down the hallway and into the classroom. “This is my daughter, Lucy,” she announced to snickering class. “She isn’t responsible enough to attend class.” Talk about embarrassing her! She picked up Lucy in the afternoon, using the same method. Lucy begged her mother to stop and promised to never miss class again. And she didn’t.

When a young high school thug drove up in front of our house with his thug buddies after being warned to stay away, Little Mama took action. She grabbed her grandpa’s old .32 revolver and charged out the front door, waving the pistol and swearing loudly. “GET OUTTA HERE, YOU LITTLE S.O.B.S!” They peeled rubber fleeing the scene.

I’m happy to report that both daughters graduated from college, Harley with a medical degree and Lucy with a Masters’. They are both married and have teenage girls, who are no doubt afflicted with the same dreaded curse their mothers had – teenage hell.

The law of Karma is also an immutable law – what goes around comes around. Good luck ladies.
By: Jerry Barksdale

11-4-2016-11-08-58-amIt was 1935, smack dab in the middle of the Great Depression, when she showed up in the East Limestone community and occupied an abandoned sharecropper’s shack near our house. I was 10 years old at the time, but I remember it well. No one knew her, nor any of her folks, nor where she came from. She just appeared one day with a pack of cur dogs. She didn’t attend church, didn’t associate with neighbors and didn’t appear to have a source of sustenance. She didn’t even have a name so far as anyone knew. Folks just called her “that old woman.”

Mama worried that she didn’t have enough to eat. Daddy was bent over the breakfast table sopping up “Hoover gravy” with a biscuit while Mama poured coffee. “I hate to see anybody go hungry,” she said.
“Lot of folks are hungry these days,” Daddy said. “I’ve eat so much Hoover gravy my socks slide down my legs.”
“Well, at least we have something to eat.”
“If it don’t hurry up and rain we’ll all starve to death,” Daddy said. “There won’t be enough cotton to plow under.”
Mama examined the calendar hanging on a nail on the wall and flipped the pages. “My word! It’s been two months since we’ve had a drop of rain.”
Daddy stirred molasses in his coffee to sweeten it and took a sip. “Didn’t that old woman show up about two months ago?” he asked.
After breakfast Daddy hitched up the mules to our wagon and headed off to cut firewood for the cook stove. Mama scooped cornmeal from the bin into a paper bag, then we went to the garden and picked a mess of peas, squash, okra and tomatoes.
“Com’on Punk’n let’s take this to that poor old woman up yonder,” she said.
It was July 3rd and scorching hot. The cotton plants were drooping in the heat and little clouds of dust rose from our footsteps. The sharecropper shack was tiny with a rusty tin roof and tar paper siding and sat on a foundation of stacked rocks. No one had lived there in years and weeds had grown waist high.
We walked up to the front porch and Mama called out: “YOO HOO! ANYBODY HOME?”
A pack of hounds scrambled from beneath the shack, barking and snarling. After sniffing us, they backed off. The old woman, wearing a ragged black dress, pushed open the torn screen door and looked us up and down. She was bent over with age like a crooked old tree. Her eyes were black as tar; curly hairs grew on her pointed chin and nose, and long gray hair fell past her hunched shoulders.
I moved closer to Mama and I clutched her arm.
“What’che want?” The old woman demanded.
Mama held out the sack of cornmeal and vegetables. “We’ve got plenty and I hate to see food go to waste,” she said. “Cornbread sure would taste good with fried okra and squash.”
The old woman eyed us with suspicion.
“Here, please take it,” Mama said.
The old woman inched out onto the front porch and snatched the sack and disappeared inside the house without a word.
The next day it came a gulley-washer rain. Mama rejoiced and said the Lord sent rain because we had been kind to the old woman. The same day, Bossy, for no apparent reason, didn’t give any milk. The cotton crop was saved, such as it was, but we had no milk to drink.
When the rain stopped, Army worms came marching across our cotton patch eating the squares that would eventually develop into cotton bolls. Bossy, didn’t give enough milk for Daddy’s coffee. Our neighbor’s cow also stopped giving milk. “It’s that old woman, I tell ya,” Daddy said. “Our problems started when she showed up.”
Later I was fishing in Johnson Branch when she appeared out of the woods and offered me a hunk of cornbread. “It’s mighty good,” she said. I refused it and ran home.
One of the Smith children, who lived nearby, went missing. The following month another child disappeared. They were never seen again.
Late one night I woke when I heard Bossy bawling at the barn. Daddy fumbled around in the dark, slipped on his overalls, and went out the back door holding a lantern. I snuck from my bed and peeped out the window where a quarter moon illuminated the landscape. When Daddy neared the barn, I saw a pack of hounds run off. Later that night I overhead Mama and Daddy whispering. “My word!” Mama exclaimed. “Don’t dare tell that young’n what you saw. It would scare ‘em to death.”
The following week the old woman was spotted near Fairmount School on Nick Davis Road talking to children walking home. She was seen giving a hunk of cornbread to Sally Turner. Sally was a beautiful child with blue eyes and red hair, but the other children made fun of her because she had a terrible limp. A kicking mule broke her femur which wasn’t properly set. Little Sally disappeared and was never seen again.
Later, Bossy woke me bawling. Daddy dressed and loaded his 22 rifle and slipped out the back door. The moon was full. I saw Daddy shoulder the 22. POW-POW-POW. Dogs scattered. One dragged off in the bushes and disappeared. Again, I overheard Mama and Daddy whispering. “Them dogs have been sucking Bossy dry,” Daddy said. “That’s why we don’t have any milk.”
“My word! I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mama whispered.
“Yeah, and there’s more dogs than before,” Daddy said.
“Where you reckon they come from?” Mama whispered.
“I don’t know, but there’s one less. I shot ‘em in the hind quarter.”
Several weeks later, hunters discovered the old woman’s body in the woods. The coroner determined that she died from “natural causes.” No family ever came forward and the investigation ended. Afterwards, Bossy began giving milk and no more children disappeared.
Years later, I stopped at Vinson’s store on Nick Davis Road to drink a Coke and catch up on local news from the “spit and whittle” club who were sitting on the front porch. They were discussing the drought – it hadn’t rained in over a month – and boll weevils were eating the cotton crop.
“It got just like this back in nineteen thirty-five,” a fellow said.
Abner Allen said his cow had quit giving milk.
“That’s odd, mine too,” another fellow said.
Shortly, a middle-aged, blue eyed, red headed woman, followed by a pack of cur dogs, limped up and went inside the store.
“I’ll swear,” Abner said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that’s Sally Turner who disappeared forty year ago.”
“Reckon who she is?” someone asked.
The woman emerged carrying a sack of cornmeal. An alarm went off in my head. Somewhere in my memory… yes – yes! Now, I remembered. Fear shot through me and the hair on the back of my neck extended like a wire brush. That old woman was back.
“For God’s sake,” I said, “Never – never take cornbread from her or you’ll end up on all fours and scratching fleas.”
I don’t accept cornbread from strangers. And neither should you.
By: Jerry Barksdale

10-7-2016-12-45-47-pmSix years of retirement doing nothing but sleeping late, reading, writing, and mowing grass had finally taken its toll. I was stressed. I needed a vacation. My good friend (and sometimes redhead) Pat and I decided to visit a foreign country – Seattle.

Alarm clocks are untrustworthy. I kept waking up and checking the clock and my cell phone to be sure they were working. Finally, I got up at 3 a.m. I was tired when we arrived at Huntsville International at 4:30 a.m. to catch our flight. At Houston, I purchased a dab of fried potatoes and toast for $17 and had just sat down to enjoy a leisurely breakfast when we were told we were at the wrong gate. We ran to board our flight just before the door closed. Anybody have Rolaids?

We were seated in the back row, just in front of the chicken coops. Pat was across the aisle near a sneezing and coughing guy. I was squeezed between a large, high- tech guy with ear phones, laptop and a nervous twitch. His elbow kept stabbing me in the ribs. A young woman in the window seat turned her butt to me and went to sleep. It was a five-hour flight to Seattle. I re-breakfasted on 14 pretzels and coffee. My butt went to sleep. I needed to pee. I reminded myself that I was happy, relaxed, and on vacation. Then, we encountered turbulence. “Holy crap!” We just hit a hog in the road,” I exclaimed. The woman turned around and smiled. I asked if she went to sleep. “Oh yeah, I’m retired Air Force. Did you sleep?” she asked.

“No way. I was on duty while everyone else slept, listening to every squeak,” I said. “There are over 100,000 screws in this plane and any one can break any second.”

She tried to reassure me and told about her flight from Iraq aboard a cargo plane loaded with equipment and soldiers. The Sergeant seated next to her was nervous. She patted him on the knee and said it would be okay.

“Lady, you don’t understand. I’m Crew Chief of this bird and it’s a piece of ……” I didn’t need to hear that. Then she pointed out snow-covered Mt Saint Helen’s, a volcano with the top blown off. “There are several volcanic mountains in the area that can blow at any time.” I again reminded myself that I was happy, relaxed, and on vacation. We exchanged histories. She was divorced with a 13-year-old boy. I told her about my past troubles and eventual divorce.

“Anything with a uterus is trouble,” she said. (I disassociate myself from that statement and demand that she apologize to all God’s creatures with a uterus).

In Seattle, we rode a shuttle a hundred yards to our hotel, checked in, ate lunch and slept. The next morning, we shuttled back to the terminal and rode another shuttle to Thrifty Car Rental where I had the deal of a lifetime. When all the add-ons were added up, I paid double. I told the clerk if I ever caught him in Alabama, I’d get my money back.

We departed in our upgrade Dodge SUV. Finally, our real vacation had begun. I missed the I-5 exit and wound up back at the Thrifty garage. It was noon on the second day of our vacation and we were still within 100 yards of where we had landed. Pat was sneezing and coughing. I gave her my handkerchief. (Memo to self: apply for a government grant and research why women won’t carry a handkerchief.)

In downtown Seattle, we searched for our hotel. Pat pulled out her iPhone and asked Siri for directions. In a moment Siri said, “You- have-arrived.” God Bless Siri. I parked in front of our hotel, walked inside, and informed the blonde that I had reservations. “I don’t think so. This is an apartment house.” I walked up the street. Wrong hotel. I blamed Siri for my troubles and wondered if she has a uterus. (I move to strike that thought and apologize to all women). Again, I reminded myself that I was happy, relaxed, and on vacation.

Finally, I walked into the Palladin and checked in. The following morning, I lost my wallet stuffed with cash and credit cards. We tore the room apart searching for it. That hussy Siri was harassing me again. Luckily, I found it in the lobby, undisturbed.

You know you are in Seattle when you see half of the Japanese nation; smell marijuana smoke (I didn’t inhale), and see young men and women dressed in black with eyes glued to a cell phone while clutching a $5.00 cup of Starbucks. There are over 200 Starbucks’ in Seattle. Marijuana is legal. I figured it out. Get people stoned, and they’ll pay five bucks for a dollar cup of joe and think they’re getting a steal.

We could have taken a cannabis tour and seen where pot is grown and sold, but instead decided to get high by going to the top of the Space Needle. Homeless people were occupying the nearby cafeteria. Pat gave her breakfast bagel to a young homeless boy (memo to self: but for the grace of God there go I).

I saw numerous “Bernie for President” signs. Bernie proposes to give away other people’s money. Great idea! As long as it isn’t my money. (Memo to self: What happens when Bernie runs out of other people’s money?)

We dined at Ivar’s on the waterfront. Verrrryyy expensive. Tips aren’t expected. Our waiter said that the minimum wage had been raised to $15.00 an hour. That’s over $31,000.00 annually, plus employees are paid 8% of the profits. Now I know why our meal was verrryyy expensive. Didn’t see a McDonald’s and 62? senior coffee anywhere.

We drove south to Vancouver on the Columbia River, checked into a hotel, then walked up town for a sandwich. We passed three young people at a bus stop passing around a joint. (Again, I didn’t inhale). Back at the hotel, the plastic swipe key wouldn’t open the door. That hussy Siri was back screwing me over again. I headed off to the front desk to give them a piece of my mind. Looked at the key holder. “Oops! Wrong floor.” I’m happy, relaxed, and on vacation.

Across the river in Portland, Oregon, an enlightened city, “known for its eco-friendliness, microbreweries and coffee houses,” cops were running off the homeless camped along the 15 mile walking and bike trail. The spandex-clad, Starbucks sipping yuppies, wearing ear phones and riding $1,000 bicycles had a bellyful of the homeless. After all, poor folks are unsightly and often smell bad. Pat was incensed and said the Mayor should be arrested. (Memo to self: I prefer people-friendly over eco-friendly).

It’s against the law to pump your gas in Oregon. At a Chevron station, I paid $2.49 for regular. The attendant said he was paid $9.75 an hour to pump gas. I suppose that’s the reason the gas was expensive.

We drove to picturesque Cannon Beach on the Oregon coast where the surf crashed against rocky cliffs and seagulls squawked. Mother Nature was putting on a show. Then, I saw a disturbing sign: “TSUNAMI HAZARD AREA.” Evacuation instructions were in our room. Mother Nature would just as soon kill us as entertain us. I didn’t sleep well that night.

To paraphrase the comedic actor, W.E. Field, all things being equal I’d just as soon be in Athens drinking a 62? cup of McDonald’s coffee.
By: Jerry Barksdale


9-2-2016 3-02-20 PMLast Independence Day brought back many fond memories. After retiring and moving to Elk River in 2010, I began the custom of ringing my dinner bell to celebrate Independence from England. Being a “passive-aggressive personality with redneck undertones,” I would’ve preferred marching on Washington with fellow citizens armed with pitch forks and driving the privileged scoundrels from our beautiful marble buildings. However, that would get me time in Federal prison. I don’t have time to serve; I’m too busy scratching to pay taxes to keep the scoundrels up there. Anyway, passive-aggressive personalities never take action – they only make threats. The latter part of my diagnosis is because I “allegedly” (a weasely lawyer word meaning guilty as sin) own a Bible and a Colt .38. I figure if reading scripture to an intruder won’t dissuade him, the .38 will.

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The previous Fourth I decided to trim tree limbs. The chainsaw wouldn’t start. “Dadblame, no account, good for nothing, foreign built piece of ….” I gave up and drank coffee until my nerves were squirrely. At 8:30 a.m. I walked outside and rang my dinner bell replicating what our Founding Fathers did at Philadelphia in 1776. The bell pealed loud and clear in the morning stillness. Shortly, a pick-up rattled down my driveway. It was my neighbor Bob, coming to check on me. He got out, looked around for smoke and asked, “Is something wrong?”

“Nah, man it’s the Fourth! I’m ringing for freedom,” I said. “It’s about the only thing a citizen can do without violating some darn law or regulation.” Of course, making noise is unlawful too, but I didn’t care. I drank more coffee and thought about previous Independence Days. The first one I remember was in 1946, when I was 5 years old. Mama went to Cud’n Walthar Thomas’s (that’s what Daddy called his cousins) on Nick Davis Road and helped shred barbecued pork. I’d never heard of barbecue. Cud’n Walthar was the granddaddy of all barbecue cookers in Limestone County. Mama’s compensation was a pan of meat. I ate until I was sick.

In 1949, Mama and I rode Joiner Brother’s bus to Anderson and attended the Burch family reunion at Aunt Dixie’s house. A No. 3 washtub was filled with ice and “dopes” – that’s what Granddaddy Robert Holt called soft drinks. Roger Burch and I competed to see who could drink the most Double Colas. I won, and again, got sick.
When we farmed at Madison Crossroads in the mid-1950’s, I attended the annual barbecue held at the school. I tried to persuade a silly girl to give me a kiss, but she just giggled. Who cared? We played hide and seek and I ate barbecue, until I was sick.

In 1985, I spent the Fourth at a lovely adobe hacienda overlooking Santa Fe, New Mexico. Sam (not real name), a well-known Indian artist who crafted beautiful knives drove up in his wealthy Texan wife’s Rolls Royce. We were sitting on the patio watching the sun lower into the desert. “I’ve seen some of your knives and they are beautiful,” I said trying to make conversation. “How did you learn to make them?”

“In prison,” he said. “Oh… well… that’s nice,” I stammered.
“Not nice.”
“I didn’t mean the prison…uh, I meant learning how to make knives.” I had to be careful not to rile Sam, who was known for regularly shotgunning his TV.
“I was innocent,” he said.
“Of course!” I exclaimed.
“I was sitting in my car minding my own business when a bank was robbed. Cops claimed I was driving the get-away car.”
“Yeah, just like the cops, always accusing folks,” I said, trying to be agreeable.

Another memorable Fourth was when I attended a Boston Pops concert on the banks of the Charles River. When the 1812 Overture was played, cannons fired. Scared all the dogs and babies half to death. One fellow fell out of a tree.

In 2006 I was sitting on the “green” in Philadelphia in front of Independence Hall, along with thousands of other folks listening to Pete Fountain’s Orchestra. Fireworks followed. Wow!
But, my most memorable Independence Day was shortly after divorcing. I worked out daily, lifting weights, doing push-ups and sit-ups. Chicks like a hard body. I was attending a pool party at the home of Huntsville physician, Dr. Smith (not real name) parading my buffed and tan body when Dr. Smith walked over and pointed at my chest. “Do you know what that is?” he asked.

“Yeah, a mole.”
“It’s a third breast,” he said.
“No way!”
“Yeah, it’s a breast all right,” Dr. Smith said.
“Shhh, not so loud.”
A chick standing nearby overheard him. “Freaky man, freaky!”
Mama had birthed a mutant. I felt like a two-headed calf at the County Fair, and that made me sick too.

I can’t wait to see what Independence Day, 2017 brings. If we are still a free people, I’m going to ring my bell louder and longer than ever before – and with my shirt on.
By: Jerry Barksdale

It Never Rains In Hell

8-5-2016 12-20-17 PMThere are many reasons why I don’t want to go to hell. Not being able to see my loving mother, family, and friends are major ones, not to mention bumping into a couple of judges and a bunch of lawyers who disrupted my bio-rhythm for 43 years. Of course, I would get to see some old girlfriends, perhaps my ex- mother-in-law, and meet big shot Washington politicians who, no doubt, will compose the largest delegation there. Moreover, it never rains in hell, and that’s a deal breaker for me. I love rain.

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I hope there are seasons in Heaven, just like on earth, and plenty of rain and little houses with tin roofs. For me, Heaven on earth is snuggling in a warm bed on a cold winter night with plenty of Mama’s quilts spread over me, and listening to the roar of rain on a tin roof.

In 1947, we lived on Bean Road in an old farm house with a tin roof. I remember waking early on a Saturday morning in a cold room and hearing rain pecking on the window and dancing on the tin roof. Hallelujah! No school and no picking cotton. I snuggled deep under the quilts and was soon asleep. That same year I found several pieces of tin and constructed a secret hide-out. A cotton sack stuffed with hay was my only furnishing. When it rained, I crawled into my hide-out and listened to rain on tin. Sometimes when it rained, I climbed in the barn loft and snuggled in the hay where I was soon warm and asleep once again. Rain and tin go together like cornbread and milk. Sadly, times changed. People grew ashamed of living in tin roof houses and wanted asphalt shingles like their neighbors. In 1976, Carol and I remodeled an old two-story farm house at Leggtown. Tin was out and metal roofs hadn’t yet made the scene. Our bedroom was in a single story wing with asphalt shingles, and I couldn’t hear the wind howl through the ancient cedar trees outside, much less rain. A window air conditioner was located in the wall near our bed. I wired a sheet of tin on top of the outside portion of the unit, and when it rained, I heard that wonderful music—raindrops on tin.

According to psychologists, the sound of rain triggers a primitive part of our brain. When our Stone Age ancestors were supper for saber tooth tigers and wooly mammoths, they hid in caves. When it rained, predators weren’t hunting, which meant that our ancient ancestors could relax and sleep.

I don’t have a tin roof where I currently reside, but I once devised an alternative that rain lovers may want to copy. I placed upturned tin buckets under the eaves of my roof. When it rained, I opened the bedroom window and listened to the patter of drops on tin. I realized that some subdivisions have restrictions regarding what can be placed in the yard. A friend once lived at Canebrake and was told it violated restrictions to place a small plastic bunny in her yard on Easter. But fertile minds can always find a solution. I suggest purchasing several tin buckets, paint them to resemble low growing shrubs, and turn them upside down near your window. If that doesn’t work, complain loudly, hire a lawyer, and sue someone—anyone.

I’ll admit that in January, 1968, I was praying it would stop raining. My young brother-in-law, Jack O’Conner and I were paddling a boat up a creek in Jackson County near twilight, when we were caught in a torrential downpour. We had no tent and no camping equipment. We turned the boat upside down and spent a cold and wet night sleeping on soggy ground. Afterwards, I was sick in bed for three days.

When I was a child, preachers scared the devil out of me talking about dying and burning in hell for eternity. Nowadays, preachers no longer scare folks; they might not return and help pay off the fat mortgage on the new building addition.

Recently a preacher told me, “I don’t ever mention that four-letter word, hell.” Folks don’t want to hear about hell. Some don’t believe in it. Young folks figure by the time they die, an air conditioner app will be available on I-Phones. I think the best way to get rid of hell is to call in the ACLU and ask the U.S. Supreme Court to declare it unconstitutional on the grounds that it discriminates against sinners. And, why not? The Supreme Court makes up law as they go, anyway. If I were a preacher, I’d speak plainly to folks. To men, I’d say, “If you want to spend eternity with your mother-in-law, in a place where it never rains, with no water to brew coffee and beer; where there are no rivers, no fish, and no bass boats, no Iron Bowl, no deer hunting, and you’ll never hear rain on a tin roof, then keep purchasing big pick-ups and deer rifles while neglecting your wife, and refusing to budget for her hairdos, pedicures, and new tattoos. One day she’ll throw a fit so bad you’ll wish you were in hell.”

Preaching to women would be simple: “There ain’t no shoe stores in hell. Period!”
There would be pushing and shoving at the altar call.
By: Jerry Barksdale

7-1-2016 3-21-14 PMThe epic Southern novel, Gone with the Wind, describes Scarlett O’Hara with “skin so prized by southern women and so carefully guarded with bonnets, veils and mittens against hot Georgia sun…” A perfect description of Mama. Her skin looked like buttermilk and was beautiful and unblemished until the day she died at age 82.

Skin is our largest organ. It protects us against invading pathogens that seek to attack our bodies as well as insulating and regulating our temperature. It can be a thing of beauty. Mama was born in 1916, long before folks in America began defacing their skin with graffiti, piercing, and cooking in frying beds. Piercing was unheard of, except for putting rings in hogs noses to keep them from rooting out of their pen.

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Mama didn’t go to the cotton field at daybreak with the rest of us. First, she first had chores to do. There was well water to draw and fill the black iron kettle in the backyard where she washed our clothes. After wringing and hanging them on the line to dry, she cleaned house, cooked dinner and finally dressed in her work outfit. She arrived at the cotton patch around 9 a.m. clothed from head to toe and looking like an Arab sheik. Her bonnet, made from a Martha White flour sack and snuggly tied beneath her chin, enclosed her head. She wore one of Daddy’s work shirts buttoned to the top; loose fitting jeans and gloves made from old socks with the ends cut out allowing her fingers to poke through. No ray of direct sunlight touched her white skin. At bed time, she plastered her face with Avon cold cream. Back then, women took great pride in their skin – like Scarlett O’Hara did. Tattooing, piercing, and frying would have been unthinkable.

When I was a kid I saved my cotton picking money so I could attend the County Fair and see what we called the “freak show:” a two headed calf, bearded woman, and the tattooed lady. That kind of entertainment has “gone with the wind.” Nowadays, you can go to Walmart and see tattooed ladies all day long for free.

The first time I saw a tattooed lady outside the County Fair was in court many years ago. Her name was Rebel, and she had a garland of flowers tattooed around her ankle. I mentioned to my client that it was strange to me. “Heck, that ain’t nothing,” he said. “I know a guy who has a gopher rat tattooed on his privates.” Ouch! How drunk was he, and how many men did it take to hold him down?

In 1995, while interviewing a WWII Veteran, I noticed an American Flag tattooed on his forearm. It was upside down. “Aww, I was drunk,” he said embarrassed “and so was the tattoo artist.” It’s a rite of passage for servicemen to get a tattoo. I got mine in Juarez, Mexico when I was 16. It seemed the cool thing to do, along with smoking.

When I was young, tattoos were simple like: “I love Mom” on a man’s shoulder or perhaps a girlfriend’s name over an arrow piercing a heart. Now, I see what looks like chicken scratching tattooed on arms and necks. It must be “I love mom” written in a Chinese dialect, I don’t know.

Why do people get tattoos? To paraphrase Henry David Thoreau, a monkey in Hollywood gets a tattoo and all the other monkeys want one too. Monkey-see-monkey-do. Young people – called millennials– have a need to express themselves. It’s normal. My generation wore Mohawk haircuts before moving on to long, scraggly hair. A classmate dyed one half of his hair orange and peroxided the other half. Nothing much changes in life, just names and locations. Brittany Howard, lead singer of the Alabama Shakes, of whom we are immensely proud, has the shape of Alabama tattooed on her right shoulder and a red heart designating Limestone County. Pretty smart. It promotes her band and her business.

It gave me an idea. Unfortunately, millennials are saddled with college debt, can’t get a job and many have to live with their parents, eat Mama’s cooking and sleep all day. I have a solution for them. Express your inner self and earn money – lots of money. Turn your skin into a walking billboard! NASCAR drivers sell space on their race car and coveralls to STP, Good Year, Coors Light and Pennzoil. They earn big money. So why can’t you?

Since retiring, I live on a fixed income while the cost of Viagra, Dulcolax and prune juice is rising. My medical co-pay shot up from $15.00 to $40.00 per office visit. Pretty soon I’ll be back drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon. I need more income. I propose to sell tattoo space on my chest to Pfizer Pharmaceutical that says “BODY POWERED BY VIAGRA.” On my arms, “WANT TO SUE? CALL ALEXANDER SHUNNARAH, NOW.” Tattooed across my forehead will be “BRAIN FUELED WITH DEWAR’S SCOTCH,” and on my rump, “PROTECTED WITH PREPARATION H.” I figure I’ll soon be picking up seashells at Gulf Shores and sipping Mint Juleps.

Millennials, you can cash in too! Guys, a gopher tattooed on your privates would be an excellent D-Con ad, but I wouldn’t advise it. Women are afraid of rats, even dead ones. Women are creative and clever. A notable local and classy lady told me she is having “MOM” tattooed on her rump. I can just hear people on the beach oohing and ahhing, “How sweet.” When she stands on her head, it says “WOW.” Clever, huh?

Full figure folks can really cash in. They have more skin available to sell more ad space. Unfortunately, the wormy-looking runner types will miss out on this financial opportunity. They won’t have enough skin for a beef jerky ad. Times have changed for sure. I bet if Scarlett O’Hara were alive today and you saw her on the beach at Gulf Shores, sipping a Mint Julep, she’d be wearing a string bikini, her skin cooked to a crisp, “I love Rhett” tattooed on her rump, and a hog ring in her nose.

Yes, the wind has changed.

Tattooing is a 2-3 billion a year industry. Artists earn $100,000 plus annually. An even more profitable business is outpacing tattooing: a multi-billiion dollar industry removing tattoos.

The wind always shifts.
By: Jerry Barksdale

6-6-2016 12-45-37 PMDoggone it! It finally happened. The country has gone to the dogs.

I’m not talking about the lying, corrupt, political class in Washington who take and squander our money and impose laws on us and exempt themselves. No, I’m referring to tail-flapping, loafing, car chasing biscuit eaters. Since the beginning of time, dogs have mooched on the generosity of humans. Now, they want to go to Heaven. Not Dog Heaven, mind you, but Baptist and Church of Christ Heaven.

Recently, I was listening to talk radio host, Matt Murphy, when a woman called and said God put dogs on Earth to teach us to love. (I thought Jesus came to do that, but I won’t be picky.) She said that dogs will go to heaven with their masters, and quoted scripture to back it up.

I like dogs as well as the next fellow, as long as they don’t chase me when I walk, or come over and poop in my yard. But I don’t want to spend eternity stepping over dog poop and listening to a pack of hounds barking all night long. That sounds more like hell to me. Heaven is supposed to be a place of tranquility and peace where a soul can escape that kind of annoyance.

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I don’t dislike dogs – only those owned by others. When I was a kid, we owned 17 foxhounds, two bird dogs and a yard dog. The hounds lived inside a wire pen attached to the side of the barn that resembled a Japanese labor camp. The bird dogs slept under the house, and the yard dog slept on the front porch. They were fed cornbread every day-just like Mama fed us. That tasty Southern power food that makes our women smart, our men handsome, and our dogs fat.

The only good dog I know is Marley, my only granddoggy. She lives in Taos, New Mexico, with my daughter Shannon, and is the apple of my eye.

Okay, I admit I’m jealous of dogs. I’ve dated women who would rather stroke their dogs than me. How would that make you feel? I don’t approve of dogs’ well-known laziness (“he’s lazy every day”). They don’t work or pay taxes or join ObamaCare. I say, sic the IRS on them. Elvis took notice too. “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog and you ain’t no friend of mine.” If Elvis said it, it’s gotta be true.

The radio caller’s statement raises many questions in my mind. If the master goes to hell, will the dog automatically follow? Or, what if the master has led a saintly life and his dog has spent his days chasing cars and biting joggers? Will the bad dog get a free ride to Heaven on the master’s good record?

Will there be cars and cats to chase in Heaven? What about a leash law and dog pound? Who will pick up dog poop on the streets of gold? Unitarians would do it happily, but I doubt any of them will be present. I suggest Baptists. They are always doing good works, and no doubt would volunteer, provided they are fed plenty of fried chicken and potato salad.

Will dogs have to attend church on Earth in order to qualify for Heaven? If so, will they have to tithe and attend Sunday School too? Instead of St. Peter, will dogs be met at the Pearly Gates by a St. Bernard? Humans are the only form on Earth held to a strict moral code set forth in the Bible and similar writings. Why is that? Why can dogs fornicate with impunity, and humans be sent to hell for the same behavior? There has been a double standard for too long. If dogs are going to Heaven, they should have to stop fornicating, get a job, and walk the chalk line like the rest of us.

What about Muslim dogs? Will they get 72 whelps on arrival in Heaven? Hindus believe when they die, they will be reincarnated and come back in a different life form. Wouldn’t it be justice if a dog came back as a cat and is chased by a dog every day for eternity?

I hope to go to heaven when I die, but doggone it, I don’t want to be there with a pack of dogs scratching, licking their privates, and humping my leg. Anyway, I’m allergic to dog hair. I’m no Bible scholar, but I do know that dogs ate Jezebel. That’s enough evidence for me. There are exceptions. My sweet granddoggy, Marley deserves to go to Heaven, along with seeing eye dogs, drug sniffers, bomb dogs, and K-9s.

I’ll stay tuned to Talk Radio. No telling what I can learn. No doubt cats will soon be meowing for a place in Heaven pretty soon.
By: Jerry Barksdale

5-20-2016 3-04-27 PMRetirement gives me time to think about matters of great consequence. Recently, while kicked back in my Lazy Boy knock-off and admiring my big toe, I experienced an epiphany – a great moment of truth: I have solved the answer to the age-old question of why the chicken crossed the road.

It’s all about timing. If your timing is off, either good or bad consequences will follow. For instance, if Grandma Ada Isom had refused to marry Grandpa Ed Barksdale in 1896 because she was offended by him spitting tobacco juice in the fireplace, nine children, 29 grandchildren and more than a hundred direct descendants wouldn’t exist – including me. Four generations wiped out because of a “chaw” of Red Man.

Thank the Lord, Grandma was in a good humor when Grandpa proposed and let his bad manners slide. That’s how close my family came to not being here. What if, instead, she had married a Yankee Carpetbagger from New Jersey? I could be walking around with a funny sounding name ending in “ski” and saying “youse guys” instead of “ya’ll.” Distressing! Another thought, and even more disturbing, what if Daddy had been “too tired” or Mama had a “headache” back in early February, 1941? I wouldn’t have been born at 9:05 a.m. on November 3rd. It would have been just another ordinary morning of breakfasting on biscuits and sawmill gravy for them. Instead, I was born on the kitchen table.

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Or what if the tiny tadpole-looking critters that dwelled in my parents plumbing system hadn’t come out to play, got acquainted and hooked up? What if, instead of them swimming upstream like salmon to spawn, they had mistakenly swam to the exit? I wouldn’t have been conceived. Timing! I could have been born someone else. Or, I could have been born a girl and wore pigtails and cut out paper dolls instead of climbing trees looking for Blue Jay nests. Carried a step further, what if Mama had been born a man and Daddy a woman? Boy! I’d really be screwed up. I could’ve ended up being Catilyn’s half twin sister. The more I think about timing, the more I worry about what could have been. Timing can change the world.

What if the chicken on the way to Noah’s Ark had paused to scratch for a bug and missed boarding? She would’ve drowned in the Great Flood and the species become extinct. The age old question of why the chicken crossed the road would never have been asked by pointy-head and pony-tail college professors; nor, which came first, the chicken or the egg? There would no eggs for breakfast and no Easter egg hunts for little children. What a sad world it could have been. And all because of timing – pausing to scratch for a bug.

I can’t do anything about the past, but I worry about the present and the future. My every act has consequences. For instance, I usually drive to Athens on Fridays and eat fried catfish at LuVici’s. Would it make any difference what time I depart home, how fast I drive and what route I take? Suppose I depart at 10:45 a.m. I usually drive east on Highway 72, but on a whim, (or perhaps it’s preordained) I turn left on New Cut Road. A chicken darts across the road, I swerve to miss it and collide head on with an oncoming car. The driver, a single father of four children, is killed. He was in a jealous rage and on his way to shoot his girlfriend, a no good drug dealer and robber, who had jilted him for another man. She was planning to rob a drug store that afternoon. What will happen to the poor orphaned children? Will the woman rob the drug store? Not if he had killed her! What if I had departed home a minute later? Am I responsible for the terrible consequences?

More importantly, why did that darn chicken cross the road? Did she see a June Bug on the other side and run to catch it? Did she overhear a rooster in the chicken house crowing about climate change and rising sea levels, then panic and run looking for Noah’s Ark? I can’t say. However, a witness stated he saw a Rhode Island Red Rooster chasing the hen across the road. A father was killed, four orphaned children and a no-account criminal on the loose, all because of a darn rooster. Now, we know why the chicken crossed the road. Problem solved.
Over the years I have chased a few chicks myself. And more than a few times my timing was off – way off.
By: Jerry Barksdale