My First High School Experience

I don’t remember the day of the week (probably a Monday), or the day of the month, but I shall never forget that day.  I can’t describe to you how nervous I was just walking toward the school building.  I felt like what a country boy must feel like walking into New York City for the first time–overwhelmed and scared to death.  Little did I know that it was the beginning for four of the best years of my life.  Back then, we all wanted to get it over with.  Now, what I’d give to go back and do it all over again (with the obvious changes of course).

She was sitting by herself as I walked toward her.  I didn’t know why she was there, but I knew it must be her first time there too.  She looked almost as scared as me.  Her name was Charlotte.  She was the first person I spoke to in high school.  As we talked we learned that we were there for the same reason–drum camp.   As I recall, we did discuss how we had anticipated drum line, but really didn’t know what to expect.  Having met each other was probably a good thing because we were able to understand that neither of us were alone in our fright.  It was a good first encounter and from there we became very good friends.

Drum camp always started two weeks before band camp.  By the time the band got to camp, we had already learned how to march and could play the cadence to which the band marched into the stadium.  I remember it being very hot and difficult.  As freshmen, we got to march all the instruments that no one else wanted to.  We carried bass drum, cymbals, and sometimes the tri-toms, all of which were heavy.  Our drum instructors were upper classmen who already knew the music and how to march.  They were, at times, very hard on us.  They taught me a lot about discipline and working hard to achieve something good.  I remember once  learning the bass drum part to the cadence and thinking I would never get through it.  One of the guys told me that we were going to practice until we learned it or until we could not straighten our arms.  We paid our dues alright, but it was all worth it on Friday night when we got to march the show.

Charlotte and I went on to make it all four years in band.  I stayed in the drum line battery, playing bass, tri-toms, and snare.  She played mallet percussion and went on to be the drum major her senior year.  That was an incredible growth for her.  I saw her last year at a band competition where her child was playing.  I too had all of mine go through band at some point in their school years.  That was pretty cool to hear us talk about our kids playing.

Were it not for band and chorus, school would have been completely miserable.  (Lunch was pretty cool too.)  Band was my reason for going through the whole process.  I wish now that I had had enough sense to know that if I applied myself, I could have done both quite well.  It’s too late to worry about that now.

In the past week, I’ve played in an orchestra for the local drama group’s version of Guys and Dolls with my chorus teacher from high school and went to a concert where my high school band director was actually still playing.  He is in the Shoals Area Community Concert Band.  They did a gig at our church building in honor of Handy week.  It was a blast to see them.  They all look great.  It’s pretty cool to get to see the people who had such an impact on my life so long ago.

Choosing A High School

Choosing a high school in our town in 1978 was a big deal.  Basically, you were choosing sides, claiming territory, and placing loyalties that would never be changed.  It was either Bradshaw or Coffee.  This rivalry was fierce.  In our day, the rivalry between Bradshaw and Coffee was worse than that of Alabama Auburn. 

Everything from vandalism to bad jokes were hurled back and forth.  There were jokes about the school in the cow pasture (Bradshaw) and the school on goat hill (Coffee).  One tradition that happened was the painting of various things on one another’s property.  This happened so much that Bradshaw actually placed a large rock in front of the school that could be painted called the “graffiti rock.”  During rival week, one could expect any number of “events” to take place. 

In my junior high school, Weeden, the majority of people chose Coffee.  It was actually closer to the people in our community is the biggest reason I’m guessing.  However, my family leaned toward Bradshaw.  My cousins went there and back then I did just about anything my cousin Donnie did.  I had heard, too, that their band program was a bit stronger.  Also there were important things like which school had the best colors.  I did not like the colors black and gold together and there was something just not too appealing to me about being a “Yellowjacket.”  Bradshaw had the colors orange and brown.  They were unique.  No one looked like that.  They had a Bruin (large bear) as a mascot too–much stronger than bees a buzzin!

It was such a rare thing to choose Bradshaw over Coffee from our school that only one other student (my good friend Fonda Fletcher) and myself from our junior high school band chose that school.  Both of us chose it because of the band. 

Even though it was rare to choose this school, I’m so glad I  did.  I made friends that will always be in my heart and some with whom I still hang out.  The class I graduated with in 1982 were very close.  We had 292 students in that class and I certainly did not know them all, but many I did know and still have fond memories of most of them. 

The rivalry between these schools no longer exists.  The city decided a few years ago to combine the schools and make “Florence High School.”  It was a decision that I have not liked since the day it came to pass.  It seemed for many of us to take away a special tradition that will never be able to happen again. 

School Days 1st Through 8th

My earliest remembrances of school were either kindergarten or first grade.  I know that sounds strange and I really think it was kindergarten, but I’m just not sure.  I remember my class was in a basement.  I remember my teacher as a little old woman, but don’t recall one thing that was taught or her name.  I do think she was a nice lady though.

The name of the school was Brandon Elementary.  After my first year there, we were moved into a brand new school building.  It was state of the art.  The school was made up of two pods.  Each pod was round in shape and contained all of the classrooms side by side–without walls!  If you took a picture of it from the sky, it looked like 2 fried eggs.  Each classroom area had desks which contains “trays”.  They were more like tubs.  Each tray contained all of our books for the day.  Instead of lockers, we carried our books from class to class.  They had little roads set up for us to walk on.  That might have been fine, but none of us knew how to stay on our side of the road.  Trays were continually falling to the floor spilling our books.  It was an experiment in chaos.  As I remember, the school only went to the third grade.

Graduating to the fourth grade was scary because we had to go to a new place.  Weeden school went all the way through the 8th grade.  I was in “big” school now.  We had real lockers and a lunch room.  This is the school where I first started learning to play the drums.  I remember lots about my time at Weeden.  It was the first time I remember making things for my mom for Christmas.  We made stained glass figures of the star over Bethlehem (try that in today’s schools).  I made a sand candle for my mom too.  It was in the shape of a star.  That was all due to Mrs. Ricketts.  She taught fourth grade and was a master teacher and a great person.

Fifth grade brought me into contact with my favorite teacher to that moment in school–Mrs. Pardue.  She was gentle, funny, and a disciplinarian all rolled into one.  I remember that was the year I fell and broke my right arm.  I was right-handed and had to learn to write with my left for about six weeks.  She once told me that instead of an “A” she was going to give me an “E” for effort.  I got her a box of Lifesavers for Christmas that were in the shape of a book.  There were several different flavors.  I played what I thought was a funny trick on her one day.  I pretended to fall and hurt myself.  She did think it was too funny.

Sixth grade was taught by a new teacher, Mrs. Spencer.  She was the prettiest teacher I had ever seen.  I nearly got a paddling from her once, though, because I faked hitting a wall and falling to the ground.  She thought I was hurt, but I was really laughing.  Not funny to her.

Junior High (7-8) was the first time I ever felt some kind of superiority to other people.  To be in the junior high was just a skip from the really big school-high school.  There were really two teachers I remember in junior high.

Mrs. Price was the first.  She was our science teacher.  She had a mannequin in our class room that had all of the insides of a human body.  It was kind of creepy at first, but as we learned about the body, we could actually hold that part of it in our hand.  She said she didn’t know if it was a “her” or a “man,” so she called it “Herman.”  I thought that was cool.

Mr. Dawson was a crazy fun teacher.  I never had him in an actual class, but he was famous.  His claim to fame was eraser tossing.  That’s right!  If any of the students were ever caught talking or misbehaving, he would throw chalk erasers at them.  Kids would come out of class with big white chalk marks on their clothes.  It was funny.  Another form of punishment was hugging the telephone pole outside the junior high sing of the school.  He would send students outside to hug the pole as a way of embarrassing them.  The whole junior high would watch and laugh.  Doubt that would work today without a lawsuit.

This blog has gotten very lengthy so I’ll save high school for another time.

Musical Beginnings

Somehow, I started the fifth grade with the thoughts of beginning band.  I was somewhat athletic in the summer sports, but never felt compelled to be on a school team. I did not have a very good self esteem when it came to trying out for sports teams.  Yet, I felt like I could play music of some kind.  After all, I had grown up hearing my dad’s band, “Richard Davis and the Country Classics.”  My grandfather on my mom’s side played guitar, mandolin, and banjo.  My dad’s brothers played bass and guitar.  My uncle Ronnie was an exceptional picker.

Beginning band was awkward as I remember it.  They basically sat us down and asked us what we were interested in playing.  My first choice was drums, but I had determined that if they did not allow me to play drums, I’d try the trumpet.  If I remember correctly, we all had the opportunity to try any instrument we wanted to.  The teacher said that they really had enough drummers and asked if I’d try trumpet.  I told her that my first choice was drums and without any argument, she said that was ok.

I don’t know what it is about drummers and band directors, but when they get together (and the band director was not a former drummer) they mix like oil and water.  I learned very young that the drummers were, many times, left to themselves to learn due to the inability of the directors to put up with the “crazies” in the back.

But learn we did.  When I reached high school, I learned just how much I didn’t know.  When the music was issued for the marching band cadence, I had not a clue!  We met usually two weeks before the band did and started working on marching and music.  Our section leaders did the teaching–not the band director.  We would march and play so much that by sheer repetition, we memorized the cadence.  When the band got there two weeks later, we were ready to play.

I’m so thankful for those days.  They were the basis for a huge part of my life.  I go back there often in my memory.  I will write more later on musical parts of my life.

Church as a Child

My earliest remembrances of church were vague.  I remember going to events like homecomings, hearing preachers at gospel meetings, and attending “pew-packers” classes.

Homecomings were always filled with people, food, preaching (lots of it), and family.  The food would be placed on tables outside (weather permitting), even though it was called “dinner on the ground.”  There would be seemingly miles of food.  Chicken, beef, casseroles, veggies, dessert, drinks and more!  The church building would be bursting at the seams with people.  Chairs were brought out and placed in the aisles and sometimes even on the stage.  Preaching would last for hours!  Not really, but it did seem that way for a kid.

The greatest thing about homecoming was family.  It was the one time of the year when we would get together and most of my mom’s side of the family would be there.  We would get to meet people we were kin to and didn’t even know it.  Many of them are gone now.  It seems that these times don’t get to happen much any more.  It’s really sad that we can’t find the time to gather like we used to.

As far s church on a regular basis, I have fond memories of the people in those places.  I can remember going to class with all my friends.  We didn’t act like we were listening all the time, but from the knowledge of King James Bible verses still in my head, I must have been listening better than I thought.  I am grateful to many men and women for this time and energy put upon my learning of God’s word.

I remember the night I was baptized into Christ.  We had heard a powerful message from a traveling preacher of the day named Haskell Sparks.  As a youngster, he was always my favorite preacher.  He was one of only a few men who would preach and I would have literally sat for hours if  to listen to him.  he had a passion that was unlike any of his day.  He would loosen his tie (totally taboo for that day for most guys), wipe the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief and hold the Bible high in the air as he convicted people of their need for Jesus.  The Spirit was strong with him, although we would not have expressed it that way then.

After the lesson on that night, several of us guys were in the parking lot talking about it.  About 3-4 of us decided that it was time!  I remember two names, and I think there was a third one besides me, but I don’t recall who it was.  Howard Broadfoot, David Collier and myself I recall for sure.  I remember like it was yesterday going down into that water and coming up seeing David, one of my buddies, still wet from his baptism.  He said, “Don’t you feel good!”  And I really did.  I know I didn’t fully understand all the ramifications of that moment as a young man of 14, but I knew that I had a clean start because Jesus had saved me from my sins.

The monotony of church lead us kids to do some crazy stuff.  We played all kinds of games with it.  We would play, “guess what the prayer leader will say next.”  We also played games like counting the ceiling tiles and light fixtures.  I remember one time getting in trouble for carving the back of the church pew.  What did I carve, you might ask?  My name!!  How stupid is that!!??

Before being baptized, we used to get to “do the trays.”  This meant standing in the back and taking the communion trays from the servers to the room where the cups would get washed or thrown away, depending upon plastic or glass.  We would put all the “crackers” in the boxes and empty all the cups into the sink.  We really thought we were breaking some sacred law by sometimes drinking the juice out of those cups.  We would have someone stand guard at the door while we would down the juice!

Though church itself was seemingly always the same thing over and over, and to be honest, it was very boring a lot of the time, I am grateful that I was there and that this is a part of the story of me.  I received a basis for my faith from so many without which I would not be as strong spiritually as I am.

Special kudos to my mom.  I can’t tell you how many times she literally “made” me go to church.  We had countless arguments about it and I regret that.  I wished I had seen more value in it at the time, but God bless her for her persistence.  My dad wasn’t that interested in spiritual things at that time in his life.  He would later get very involved in church life.  My mom, however, was very much into being at church.

I could write more, but its late and I’m tired.  Thanks for reading!!

Vacant Lots and Back Yards

As a child, we spent lots of time thinking about what we would like to be when we would grow up.  Living in America slants our dreams somewhat.  We are expected to grow up, go to college, get a good job and make a good living.  The American dream , as it were, nearly always involved financial freedom and getting that can become the goal of life from a young child.  We were no different.

There were some kids who seemed to always do well in school who everyone thought would be instant successes.  There were kids who were great at sports and everyone thought they’d become great stars on a field or a court (and some did).  Then there were kids like us who had the dreams and that’s as far as it went.  Somewhere in the back of our minds was the truth that we were just average and probably would end up that way.

Our dreams came true in the annuls of great plays in the vacant lot next to our house and in our back yards.  In those places, we were the stars.  Baseball and football were the normal sports.  Basketball always came in third.  Mostly because none of us had goals in our yard, but nearly all of us owned and football and baseball equipment.

The games would always begin with the very awkward choosing of teams process.  Two unlucky guys would be chosen to take turns picking the kids in the group.  Most of the time, someone would get their feelings hurt.  Many times the last kid to be picked would find himself being argued over–not to be picked, but to try to get the other team to pick him.  What a self-esteem boost that was!!  The team who picked first, usually had to be the visiting team, or receive the ball last.

Our playbook existed in our heads and were always drawn out on our hands in the huddle as we made up the play–right then and there.  You could hear the quarterback’s strategy, “You go down the line ten steps and cross.”  “I’ll fake the hand off, and throw the ball to the guy going long.”  We were the greatest of all time–in our own minds.  When someone would make a great catch or tackle the guy, or hit the home run, that play would be the talk of the week.

It’s strange how I can remember actual plays we ran.  I can remember times when I got hurt.   I remember taking an elbow in the eye and it swelled so much, I could not see out of that eye.  I remember us doing things like sliding toward the street when cars were coming just to try and get the driver to swerve to miss us.  It’s a wonder we are still alive today.  I can remember making a throw to win games.  We practiced this stuff and got pretty good at it.  We coached ourselves, made up our own rules, and I believe that much of what we learned helped prepare us for a few decisions later in life.  We had no parents involved, so we had to learn on our own to get along and participate with one  another in a good way.

One specific event happened in our back yard that I will never forget.  We were playing football one day and one of the guys punted the ball.  It was a pretty good punt too, because it was high enough to hit the power lines.  When it did, there was a loud BOOM!  You’ve never seen a bunch of boys run any faster.  The kid who did it thought he had blown up the neighborhood.  Neighbors were coming out to see what had happened.  As you can imagine, we did not play there for a while!

These are just a few of my childhood memories about sports and dreams of a very young man.  I was very blessed to have had this kind of childhood.  We stay out till mom called us home from the vacant lot and the back yards of fame.  What a great life!!  That vacant lot still exists today.  My mom lives in the same house we did then.  The lot is much smaller now than it was then.  The cars still zoom by.  And sometimes when I drive by, I think of those days when we were so young.  It seems like yesterday.  I’d better quit now before I begin to get teary-eyed.

Thanks for reading.

The Woods!

Life in my neighborhood was always an adventure of some kind.  Counting six or eight blocks in any direction, it seemed as though the space was endless.  By foot, bicycle, or go-cart, we could lose ourselves and lose all track of time.  It has really grown in population now and what exists in houses in houses and businesses today was “the woods” back then.  There was hardly a day that went by that we didn’t spend time in the woods.

Across the road in front of my house was totally forbidden when we were younger.  Living on Huntsville Road was like living on the Indy 500 track.  Cars were numerous and speedy and crossing by any means was not allowed.  We would beg mom to go “over there” and play.  We didn’t really know what was over there, but it sure seemed cool.  I don’t remember the age that my mom finally said, “Yes” to riding my bike across the road, but I do remember the feeling of excitement.

We immediately found the wooded area to explore.  What we discovered was there were people who had gone before us.  There were walking trails, probably made by people on foot, bikes, and motorcycles.  We found all sorts of things in those woods.  Old cars, junked and just left to rust.  We found old washing machines.  We found old bottles (which back then you could take to the store and redeem for cash).  We found old magazines (some of questionable nature), books and the suchlike.  We even found bicycles parts that were old and rusted. 

One of our favorite things to do was to create our own trails.  We stayed there so much that we knew every trail by heart.  The speed with which we used to ride through those woods was a testimony to how well we knew them.  In one area, we would have neighborhood bike races.  We called it the “Eight Track.”  It was complete with ramps, cools curves, and some of the dustiest dust in the world.  Mom always knew when we were there because of the “red” dirt that would be in our clothes when we returned home.  That track still exists today to some degree.  A few years ago, I took my kids there to see it.  That was interesting.  They rode their bikes on a trail that I rode on as a kid. By the way, I was on a bike with them too.

The woods also connected, in another direction, with TVA (Tennessee Valley Authority).  On their property, which I think we were not technically supposed to be on, we found an area which was totally covered in smooth asphalt.  It was perfect for us.  We carried enough building materials through the woods to this place to build our very own skateboard park.  We had slalom, small ramps, and even built our very own seven-foot vertical ramp.  It was going great till one day we showed up and all of our stuff had been removed.  We took that as a hint and decided that we would not rebuild.   

One of the most fun thing to do in the woods was to build tree houses.  We once built a three-story tree house.  The top-level was the “look out.”  I don’t have a clue as to what we were to “look out” for, but it was there if we needed it.  n the lower levels, it was big enough for the gang.  We could even eat lunch there if we wanted to.  It was the coolest tree house in the world.  We built it out of some very good lumber that we “borrowed” from some of the new houses being constructed in  the neighborhood.  They even provided the nails for the job.  It was the “hottest” treehouse ever built in our neighborhood.

The thing that writing all of this brings to my mind is the kind of imagination we had as kids.  Going through all of this with my young friends was a basis for thinking and creating.  We could be anything we wanted to be in our own minds.  Many times, we actually made our imaginations come true.  Whether it be a motorcycle racer, to an army defending the forts, to a spy hiding out from the enemy, we felt like the world was all ours. 

Sometimes I think about it and get teary-eyed.  I think that those days of imagination are gone.  Then I think of the God I serve and understand that I can still imagine great things and work to see them come to fruition.  He is still the God who says He is “…able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us….”

Early Childhood

It’s amazing how much I don’t remember about my childhood.  My memory can check back to images, but ages and dates are really fuzzy.  I can remember places, faces, some names, events, and some very specific things, but most of what I remember about early childhood is unclear.  (It must have been the 70′s that did that to me).

Most of what I remember of my childhood are images of a positive nature.  I remember playing in our neighborhood with my good buddies Jeff and Danny.  One of our favorite things to do in the summer (which used to be at least three months long) was to camp in the back yard.  We would set up one of their tents (my family didn’t camp so they had the supplies) in a back yard of our choice and spend the night outside. 

Usually, we spent the night sneaking around to find what we could get into.  There were apple trees in many of the yards in our neighborhoods.  Ready for the picking, we helped ourselves.  One would climb the tree, shake the limbs, and the other two would collect the apples.  There were many times that we would eat so many apples that we would get stomach aches the next day. 

Another of our favorite neighborhood things was to take broom handles (or any old stick that was straight would do) and make rubber band guns.  A nail in the tip of the stick or just a groove cut in order to wrap the band around was the first step in making the gun.  Then a clothes pin would be mounted on the other end to hold  the rubber band ready for firing.  Releasing the rubber band would send it flying through the air toward the intended target.  The target was usually one of the other “friends.”  It was a blast!!

We lived on a very busy road in Florence.  It was called Huntsville Road.  It connected us with Huntsville Alabama about 70 miles away.  At that time it took an hour and a half to travel there.  Now it takes about 45 minutes.  Anyway, next to this road was a “sweet gum” tree.  We didn’t really know what kind of tree it was.  That’s  just what everyone called it.  On this tree were these prickly round pine cone-like balls.  They were perfect for throwing at passing cars. I couldn’t believe that my friends would actually do that.  That’s all I have to say about that.

I will never forget the day that Jeff fell out of one of those trees and broke his arm.  He fell right on top of my dog.  Needless to say, neither he nor my dog were too happy about it.  He jumped up and ran and so did the dog.  I think that dog’s name was Rover.  I know that’s not to original, but oh well.

One things I remember about my friends at that age.  We could be fighting like crazy one day and best friends the next.  We would get into it for the smallest thing, scrap a while, and the next day it was like it never happened.  Part of the reason that was true I think was that the parents hardly ever got involved.  Mom would just say, “Ya’ll  just work it out.”  And most of the time we did.

More later…

The Beginning of Me 2

I know what you are thinking.  “At this rate, how long will it take Keith to write this story?”  I said that with my schedule, it might take a while!

On August 16, 1964, I came into this world.  Born into an average middle-aged family, I was very blessed.  My mom and dad were two of the hardest working people on the planet. They were married at a very young age.  Dad was nineteen and mom was only fifteen.  My mom’s dad was very much against them dating.  Can you imagine your fifteen year old getting married?  I don’t much blame granddaddy.  But, in that day and time it was not as unusual for teens to marry.

They would tell stories of how dad would do things to “work out” a way to see mom in spite of my granddaddy’s wishes.  He once ran his car through some water to “drown out” the motor so that he would have to go to mom’s dad and borrow tools to fix it.  That gave him a “reason” to see her.

Dad’s dad, papa Davis, died before I ever got to know him.  He was a carpenter.  My dad followed in his footsteps.  Dad was a master builder.  He learned it at a young age.  he could take wood from scratch and literally build masterpieces.  I was always amazed at his abilities to draw out on a piece of paper from his mind and then translate that into a cabinet or a desk or a house!

Aside from being a carpenter, just before I was born, dad spent time in the army as a post commander driver.  He was responsible for driving the commander anywhere he was asked to take him.  It was a sweet job for the army.  Dad told stories about how cool the commander was to him.  He told once how the commander would say, “Let’s see what this thing will do Davis!”  He loved being given permission to drive as fast as he wanted.  In the one picture to the right he is receiving an award for his service from the commander.  Both of the pictures seen here of him were taken less than a year before I was born.

Dad was a quiet man.  He was one of those people who when he was in the room you would hardly notice him.  Many times dad would try to say something only to have someone else but in.  He would never say anything about it.  He would just quietly wait his turn to return to the conversation.

I will always remember that my dad was a man of generosity.  It did not matter what it was that we needed, he always found a way to get it for us.  Times were really tough for us for many years because of the economy.  Work was slow lots of times, but I don’t ever remember missing a meal or not having a place over our heads at night.

Mom was quite the opposite from dad in many ways.  She never has had a loss for words.  She has always been the kind of person who will take the bull by the horns and do what it takes to make things happen.  She is a resourceful, smart lady who has one of the biggest servant hearts I know.

Part of the reason for her resourcefulness stems from the fact that she was one of four children.  She is pictured here in the top right hand corner.  When she was younger, she had many responsibilities.  My grandmother worked outside of the home in the “knitting mill.”  That left mom to take care of her siblings.  She tells of having to run the cow down in order to get milk for the family.  While taking care of the household chores, she had to take care of her siblings.  That was a recipe for growing up way too fast, but I guess it did teach her how to be responsible.

I credit mom for helping me shape my faith.  She was committed to going to church and making sure that we boys did the same thing.  There were many fights at my house on Sundays about going to church.  I’m so thankful that she made me do it.  It really help me shape my future even though I didn’t know it at the time.

There are so many more things I can and probably will say about my mom and dad and our lives together.  I’m just really tired and it’s really late.  I’ll write more later.

The Beginning of Me

One would think that writing the story of one’s life would simply start at the beginning.  But thinking about my beginning has been a difficult thing.  After all, I was just a little one.  Thinking back then was not something I–well–thought about!  Besides, when is the beginning of someone?   I could say it was when I was born,  August 16, 1964.  However, my mom tells me that I began to be thought about much earlier than that.

She tells me that they began trying to have a baby and for many years it just did not happen.  They were beginning to think it would never happen and seven years into that process, they got pregnant with moi!  How awesome is that?  To think that I was seven years in the making makes me feel very special.  Not that I am, it just makes me feel that way.

When I really give that some deeper thought, it is mind-boggling!  Imagine what would be different for me if they had birthed me seven years earlier.   I would have been born in 1957.  I would have graduated high school in 1975.  When I turned sixteen I could have gotten a “classic” car for my birthday!  I would be 52 years old now and qualify for AARP! But I digress!

Another side of this is, how many things I would have missed.  I would not have met Ellen and I would not have the absolutely most awesomest family in the world!  In this regard, I’m glad it took them the time that it did.  This teaches me a lesson.  God allows things at just the right time. He has used me in ways that I would have never imagined and could not have happened had I not been born at just the right time for Him.  So, whether for good or bad, I am glad I was placed here for such a time as this!  Thank you God for using mom and dad to get me here.

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I have for a long time been wanting to write my story.  The story of “me.”  I don’t yet know what to call it, but I’m still thinking about it and hope that someday I can put it in book form for my kids.  My friend Greg did this some years back and I thought at that time it would be really cool to do this.  I’m going to try.

So, I hope that my kids appreciate it.  It’s kind of cool to that, if anyone wants to, they can read along. Of course, if you choose to do that, it probably means don’t have much to do, but you are so welcome here.  I will change the subject from time to time I’m sure, but I will come back to the story.  I’m also not going to put a lot of pressure on myself to write so it will be a long process.

Maybe I can learn some things by doing this.  Maybe along the way I can discover things about myself that will help me live this life in a more productive way.  We shall see.

Thanks for reading.