tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53804432262394732302024-03-12T23:15:43.844-05:00Echoes From The HillsidesI remember the rural community in Tennessee, the café where we hung out, the unique
local characters, the easy flowing life for a kid growing up in that time but with the explosive world situation as a backdrop. Stories just waiting to be brought to life.
I was always a writer but I never wrote until now.
I am truly a misfit lost in the sixties. Not the hippie sixties but where Dick Clark and Elvis now reside.
I can’t think of a better place to be.
Relax and enjoy the journey.JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-14230937393586308892012-03-15T22:09:00.002-05:002012-03-15T22:40:20.972-05:00The Mountain ManThis story is based on a factual event that happened to me while deer hunting with my son on a Tennessee ridge. It still makes me wonder who the "Mountain Man" was but I took liberties with the event to make it into my first writing int the 'Fantasy' realm of writing. I submitted it to a couple of magazines and got favorable reviews but no writing contract.<br />Unexplained events have always fascinated me so I just had to write this one. I really enjoyed the process of building the story line(s). <br />Building a story line is a lot like solving a case for a client as a PI. Both processes are result driven have an ending. That's my goal as a writer and as a PI.<br /><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><br />What follows is a draft where all grammar has not been edited and corrected. This is about my fourth edit but I still see areas where I could improve with a better word here and there.<br />Hope you enjoy!!!<br /></span>------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br /><br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: bold;">The Mountain Man</span><br /><br />For most of his life Nick never believed or even considered the possibility of time travel or anything remotely resembling it. In all his life experiences nothing had ever happened to cause him to rethink his beliefs regarding strange happenings. If he was driving late nights he often amused himself listening to the “nut calls” on late night AM radio. Never would he have considered any of what he heard being possible before this particular hunting trip. Some of his long held ideas were about to require rethinking.<br />In the southern Appalachian Mountains hunting was a rite of passage used by young men to move to manhood. Hunting was lived and breathed from early childhood so outdoor skills were honed to a razors’ edge. This was who you were. Even though Nick’s corporate job kept him inside most of the time he still enjoyed being back in the wild. I guess you could say the corporate world was his living but out here was his life.<br />His son Jason was also a skilled hunter and a dead shot with a muzzleloader, bow, or a rifle. For a young man less than twenty years old his outdoor skills were second to none. He could track and follow blood trails as good as anyone who had ever grown up in the Tennessee hills.<br />Since Nick was not a kid anymore he preferred to hunt from either rock ledges or amid heavy brush while his son preferred a tree stand swaying high above the mountain trails.<br />This particular day as Jason was climbing to his lofty perch in his tree stand; Nick was looking for the best route up the ridge to where he planned to set up. As they gave each other the thumbs up sign he quietly started up the ridge in the pre- dawn darkness. It was a chilly, but not cold, winter morning as he carefully and methodically moved toward his destination. He could hear the distant low hum of large diesel trucks navigating the winding main highway artery in the valley below. As Nick glanced up at the moonless cobalt sky his eyes caught the flashing of a jet liners lights high above the mountain ridge. As he stopped for a moment to catch his breath he imagined the passengers comfortably resting as the “red eye” glided through the early morning blackness. <br />Nearing the halfway point of the trek he moved through an area that was strangely cold – in fact much colder than he had felt during the earlier part of the climb? This puzzled Nick as he thought that he had never felt anything like that in his entire outdoor experience? He also thought it was odd that during the balance of his climb up the ridge that no trucks were heard on the highway below nor were any more airliner lights noted on the normally active Atlanta/Nashville corridor?? Arriving at his rock ledge he set up and quietly waited for first light on this weirdly strange morning.<br />With maximum concentration focused on the surroundings he intently watched and listened for deer movement. As dawn broke he sensed a movement down ridge and through his riflescope a nice buck was noted in the distance through the leafless trees. After the monotony of waiting he was glad to finally have some activity. With senses coming to pinpoint edge Nick positioned himself quietly to wait for the right moment to squeeze the trigger and send the powerful projectile on the path toward his trophy buck. <br />As he timed his breathing for the shot another presence was immediately sensed off to his<br />right side. At the same instant the big buck bolted into the nearby underbrush. Nick quickly moved his vision to the right to see what had caused the buck to be spooked. <br />He was startled to see a strangely dressed man standing about twenty feet away. <br />They must have seen each other at the same instant and both appeared wild eyed and startled to see the other so close by! <br />Nick’s heart skipped several beats as he observed the man. Two thoughts immediately entered Nick’s mind, “How in the heck did someone get that close to my hunting spot without me knowing it and why was he dressed as he was?” <br />The intruder was outfitted in worn buckskin jacket and pants with leather moccasins on his feet. He was carrying what looked like an old 50 caliber muzzleloader. His beard and hair were long and unkempt. A floppy wide brimmed leather hat completed his wardrobe. He was truly authentic 1800’s. <br />He was also seriously checking Nick out at the same time. <br />As for Nick he was wearing present day woodland cameo with a .357 stainless steel Smith and Wesson in a shoulder holster plus his trusty scoped 30.06 bolt-action deer rifle.<br />After the initial shock of seeing each other Nick decided to try to break the ice and start a conversation. Nick felt more embarrassment than fear at that moment. Allowing someone to get that close, unnoticed, was something he would not want made public. He would never hear the end of it if that story got around. <br />They finally nodded to each other and Nick said to him, “Nice choice of outfits. It’s really authentic looking.”<br />Nick added, “You really caught me by surprise just now – I had no idea that anyone was around.”<br />The mountain man had breeched a major hunting etiquette rule so Nick spoke in a friendly tone because he knew how some hunters react if you accidentally walk through their kill zones when they are on stand. <br />He nodded but really didn’t seem to comprehend what Nick was saying. <br />“That’s a neat old antique muzzleloader you got there.”<br />Looking even more perplexed and confused, he fearfully stared at Nick’s rifle and sidearm.<br />As he inched closer to Nick he pointed a grubby finger at his stainless steel sidearm and said something regarding handgun that Nick found to be unintelligible. From his use of language Nick figured this guy was a “few bricks short of a load.” Nick just smiled at the questionable comment and did not even consider a reply. <br />Nick then asked him jokingly, “Are you up here with a film crew making a documentary or a pioneer movie? <br />This seemed to totally confuse the mountain man. He didn’t seem to comprehend anything that was being said to him? <br />Nick said under his breath, “Strange people are not just limited to the corporate world – I guess the woods are also full of them.” <br />After a few minutes of silence and mutual staring the mountain man gestured and grunted some mixed syllables to indicate that he was heading down the trail.<br />“Watch for my son in a tree stand down the ridge,” Nick said as the stranger started down the ridge.<br />Nick received another confused look as the man walked off down the mountain trail. <br />As Nick watched the mountain man skillfully move down the mountain trail he was wondering what Jason would think when he observed him moving virtually underneath his tree stand? <br />As Nick was gathering his gear after the encounter he noticed a small hand-made leather drawstring pouch lying in the area near where the man had been standing. <br />Nick picked up the drawstring pouch and noted that it contained some fresh homemade jerky and a small piece of bread. Evidently the mountain man was preparing to have a snack when they were startled by each others presence. He took the pouch and placed it in his jacket pocket so he could give it to the man if he saw him again on the trail.<br />On this note he decided to call it a day and started down the ridge to meet his son.<br />As he arrived at Jason’s location he expected to hear his son describe the mysterious mountain man but he surprisingly did not mention him. As they walked out of the<br />tree line to their truck Nick finally commented about the strange “mountain man” that he met up on the ridge. Nick told how the mountain man walked down the ridge just past his tree stand location less than an hour ago. <br />Jason looked at him with wonder and asked what he was talking about? <br />Nick related the story in detail and Jason firmly stated that, “No one came past me on the trail.” <br />Nick wondered, “How was this?” <br />“How could I plainly see someone when my son, who usually sees everything, could not?<br />They were a long way from the nearest homes and Nick knew most all of the people who lived in the area. This guy on the ridge was none of them. <br />The thought then occurred that this “mountain man” might not be a costumed modern day hunter. <br />Could he truly have been someone from a different era? <br />Even though Nick immediately discounted this possibility – it stayed in his mind. <br /><br />----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />Later that evening in his study beside a warm fire with a steaming cup of coffee Nick’s mind again was on the events earlier in the day on the ridge. <br />Now that he was warm and relaxed he would approach this mystery as he did problems in his day-to-day manager’s job. Shouldn’t logic cover the outdoors as well as in corporate life?<br />Nick’s mind started processing the data and as he always did – he conversed with himself about the problem or mystery in this case.<br />“Where had he come from?”<br />“Why was he dressed in early 1800’s attire?” <br />“Why did Jason not see him when he walked right past where he was on his tree stand?” “What was a logical explanation or, was there an explanation?”<br />“Maybe the mountain man was a person from another time?” <br />“Logical?”<br />“Who am I trying to kid?”<br />“Could time travel actually happen?”<br />“I believe it more than I did yesterday.” <br />His mind again wondered, “Why did Jason not see the man?” The man had to walk within a few yards of where Jason was on stand. If the mountain man had traveled to the<br />present time and Nick could see him – “Why could Jason not see him?” <br />This thought continued to nag him.<br />Then he left the questions and just let his mink wander a bit.<br />“If the mountain man was truly from another time - I wonder what he thought of me?”<br />Even though the mountain man’s 1820’s attire initially shocked Nick – at least he was familiar with that era’s clothing. Davy Crockett and Daniel Boone movies had made most everyone aware of frontier clothing.<br />For the mountain man it was an entirely different scene. If he had stepped through a time portal and the first person he saw was Nick – no wonder he appeared shocked and awed as he looked at Nick’s woodland attire, orange vest, cap, 30.06 bolt action rifle, .357 stainless revolver, and a strange accent and voice tone. He had probably never seen anything like Nick in his life! <br />“Did the mountain man feel fear as he hastily departed the ridge where we met? <br />Nick wondered what his thoughts were as he went down the ridge to where he expected to see another ‘foreigner.” Nick imagined that he was probably feeling totally perplexed by the whole episode.<br />As Nick again sipped his coffee and was hypnotized by the rippling flames on the burning wood – another thought literally slammed his mind!<br />“What if the reason Jason did not see the mountain man was because Jason was not on the ridge when the buckskin clad man walked down the mountain?” <br />“That was not possible – was it? <br />“Jason and I left the ridge together. How could he have not been there?” <br />Nick’s mind then raced back to this morning on the ridge. He remembered the eerie<br />silence that prevailed during the approximate three hours he was up there. <br />The sky above was normally alive with commercial jet activity. He didn’t remember seeing one plane or vapor trail after the climb? <br />The roar of large trucks in the valley below is normally audible – but he remembered hearing none?<br />As his mind again raced through the morning’s events he then realized that Jason was not on the ridge that morning!<br />“My encounter with the mountain man happened in the 1820’s.” <br />“Jason was not on the ridge until 2006!”<br />“Holy Crap!!”<br />Nick wondered how he could logically think this thought? As he continued his thinking the realization hit him! <br />“Am I losing it or what?”<br />“The mountain man did not pass through a time portal – I did!!”<br />Nick’s thoughts continued. “This could account for the eerily cold area I passed through on my climb up the ridge?” <br />“It would also explain why there were no vehicle sounds coming up from the valley.” “There were no vehicles in the 1820’s!” <br />“Same goes for the absence of airliner activity.”<br />“No wonder the mountain man was shocked to see me.” <br />“Probably no other people lived near the ridge at that time.”<br />“Who knows how long it had been since the mountain man last saw another person? You know he would be shocked to see anyone as alien appearing as I was.”<br />Nick then thankfully realized that as he backtracked his way down the ridge after the morning of hunting he must have somehow re-entered the present time.<br />The other possibility to this statement caused him to shiver in fear.<br />Moments passed as he stayed with this thought.<br />Then another revelation hit him!<br />“The Mountain Man’s Drawstring Pouch!!!!!” <br />He had entirely forgotten about it! His trembling hand dug into his jacket pocket and retrieved the small leather pouch. It should still have venison jerky inside. He clutched the small bag he picked up this morning - or was it over two hundred years ago?<br />The once smooth leather was now worn and cracked with the drawstring brittle to the touch. <br />Nick observed that the contents were now just dusty powder where the bread and jerky had previously been. <br />He again fearfully wondered what would have happened if he had taken a different route back to where he met his son? <br />“Would I also be dust or would I be lost and terrified back in the 1820’s?”<br />He then wondered how many times in the past this sort of thing had happened causing “travelers” to be stuck in another “time”? <br />What a frightening thought to be somewhere and not know how or why you are there?<br />As he finished his coffee and studied the tattered leather pouch he thought that he would be wise to keep this story to himself. <br />“People have been institutionalized for less outrageous stories?!”<br />As tiredness overtook him Nick blankly gazed into the fireplace. He could see that the fire was now only glowing embers. <br />He was thankful that he was here, or ------- Was he????JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-10066838643405003102010-08-06T08:03:00.003-05:002010-08-06T08:09:03.147-05:00THE CYPRESS TREEThis is sort of a change of pace... In most of my stories where I am 'pokin' fun at country people I am not using myself as an example... Not this time!!! Enjoy......<br /> <br /><br /> The Cypress Tree<br /><br />At the college I attended English composition (English 101) was a required freshman subject. As a historical fact during the early sixties colleges made an effort to weed out undergraduate students who were not serious about higher education. This was a simple time when higher education meant just that. Money was not yet the institutions primary motivator. Many colleges used English composition (theme writing) for this purpose. Failure was as common as average and I really feared this required course. Before college my high school English teacher had drilled us continuously on diagramming sentences and proper use of nouns, verbs, and other grammar rules. At the time I felt all these exercises were a waste of time. How would being able to diagram sentences help me to find a better job? Back at college I struggled through my first couple of themes that first semester with a “low C” and a “D”. One day my straight-laced professor with no visible sense of humor walked into the classroom and immediately wrote the numbers 1, 2, and 3 in descending order on the chalkboard. He was a dignified graying gentleman whose appearance and demeanor told me that he was a stickler for everything being in order. After writing the three numbers he stopped and without saying a work make eye contact with most everyone in the room. He then commanded each of us to take out our theme books and prepare to write a theme on one of the three subjects that he would write by the numbers already on the board. A dramatic way to start the school day and you could have heard a pin drop! I figured this would probably be the theme that finished me since I was off to such a poor start in his class anyway. By number one he wrote “Theory of Thermodynamics.” One down - I had no idea what that was about except that I thought it was an Engineering term. By number two he wrote “Works of Plato.” Strike two against me. Disney’s Pluto would have better suited my brain size. I did not have enough knowledge of Plato’s writings to write more than one line. Even though both of these subjects were quite general I did not have enough knowledge of either to be general. Neither of these subjects ever came up while I was doing my chores on the farm. By number three he wrote, “The Sex Life of a Cypress Tree.” Probably three down as he glared with disgust at the entire class. Many students got up shaking their heads and left the room after turning in a blank signed paper. A few nerdy brainchildren were writing away on one of the first two subjects. (Probably education and engineering majors - was my clenched teeth thought.) I sat in shock for about five minutes reflecting that I knew nothing of the first two subjects and the third one was probably only listed to let us “soon to be failures” know that we were on our way out. I started to think about the professor’s cruelty by listing subject number three. Everyone knows that a Cypress tree has no sex life. As my mind wandered to a happier place my humor kicked in and the little voice inside my head said that a Cypress trees’ sex life was a lot like mine. Nonexistent! I figured what the heck I would have some fun on my way to flunking out of college so I let my thoughts flow. I wrote for the remainder of the two-hour class using a comparison of the sex life of a Cypress tree to the sex life of a young hillbilly college freshman who had never been very far away from home in his life. I figured it would be an automatic “F” but I wrote on anyway. While I wrote I smiled to myself because I realized a powerfully strong feeling of accomplishment. The words flowed through my pen simply and with purpose as I wrote at a fevered pace. Upon completion I handed in my theme book and strolled out of the classroom with my head held high. I had given it my best shot regardless of the outcome.<br />The next day in my student mailbox was a notice to report to my professor’s office immediately. Well, I figured this meant the end of my short college career so I dropped what I was doing and went directly there. I announced myself to his secretary and waited, and then nervously waited some more. Finally I was called to enter his office and I noted that it was almost completely walled with bookshelves that were neat and orderly just like he was. He pointed to an uncomfortable looking chair and I sat down. I knew that the open theme book on his desk was probably mine. He thumbed slowly through it looking at every page without regard for my presence. The silence was deafening. He then looked up slowly and seriously asked me where I got the idea to write something of this nature in his class? As he asked this question he gestured at my theme book? I started to fumble through a weak explanation of my reasoning. I told him I had no knowledge of the first two subjects and wrote on number three because that was all I could muster from my memory bank. For lack of anything else to add I started to apologize to him but he held up his hands stopping me in mid sentence. To my surprise he started telling me about my easy transition from the Cypress tree to my own life and how my simple writing style reflected my honesty. I then realized that he appreciated my youthful attempt at humor! Evidently I had done something right! After we discussed my theme he handed me my book and it had a large “A” over the title on page one. I went on to make an “A” in his course. <br />How had I done this? The answer was by being myself and writing simply and honestly. It is hard to imagine the confidence and creative freedom you feel when you use your God given talents! Without conscious effort I had tied my ability for spontaneous humor into my writing and it had meshed perfectly. Heck, I even impressed what I thought to be a humorless professor.JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-17487251146769628192009-01-19T11:51:00.002-06:002009-01-19T12:04:27.529-06:00Cotton By The StalkI'm Back!!!!<br />Been a while since my last entry but here I am with another one. <br />This story is true with some added embelishments. Writers priviledge.......<br />Hope that you enjoy this entry......<br /><br /> Cotton By The Stalk<br />During your youth were you in contact with people from other parts of the country?<br />This may sound like a stupid question but in the late 1950’s growing up in the hills of southern middle Tennessee it was very probable that you would not have a lot of contact with other “cultures.” We had to face it – our area was not a favorite tourist destination.<br />Even thought I felt that I was well read and fairly knowledgeable of the world around me I now realize that I was probably just slightly more aware of my surroundings than the proverbial guy who “fell off the turnip truck” that was passing through.<br />One day I was in our cotton patch near the county road that bordered our farm. The cotton was getting white and I was checking to see if most of the bowls were opening which would indicate when we could soon start picking the cotton. The one-acre patch I was standing in was shared property with my older brother. Dad gave us this acre and the profits (or losses) were ours. Capitalism was taught early in the hills of Tennessee.<br />Anyway, as I was standing near the road in the cotton patch – a shiny new car stopped at the side of the road close to where I was standing. A young couple who were probably on their way to “LA” occupied the car. For outsiders “LA” was the local name for the “Lower Alabama” gulf coast or as others refer to this area as the “Redneck Rivera.” <br />On getting out of the car they just stood and looked over the cotton patch like they had never in their lives seen anything like it. They finally said that they were amazed at how the cotton just hung out of the bowls ready for picking. I guess that I was amazed by their actions. It was obvious that they were not from “around here” and I moved to where I could get a glimpse of their car plate and I saw that they were from Illinois.<br />They asked me a lot of questions about cotton - how it grows and how does a bowl become the fluffy cotton that was hanging on the burrs? Questions that no one in their right mind would ever even consider, was my opinion. Sort of like the old “which came first – the chicken or the egg” question. <br />After asking my permission to enter the patch they eagerly ran around touching the locks of cotton hanging down and were really looking pretty silly frolicking around the cotton patch. Looked a lot like the slow motion runs the lovers always take through the meadow in “B” grade movies. I was beginning to think that maybe they had stopped by the local “drug store” but you could not smell anything on their breath. The “Drug Store” was the name the local bootlegger used for his nearby establishment. I guess the name of the establishment reflected the purely medicinal purposes for the “hair of the beast” here in the Bible belt. <br />Finally after they had obviously used up all their pent up energy the man ran up to me and breathlessly asked me what I would charge them for some cotton? Another question that normally would never be asked. How could I answer a question like that? Could he not see that this was a cotton patch and not a retail outlet? While I was pondering the answer I would deliver to them – the man suddenly pulled out his wallet and took out a five-dollar bill. He waved the portrait of Abe Lincoln in front of me and asked me if I would sell him a stalk of cotton for five dollars? Since one of my dreams in life was to amass a large collection of “portraits of deceased presidents” – he had my full attention. I had trouble believing what he was saying but I nodded my head in agreement. I guess that I was too shocked to verbally respond. Heck, I did farm work for neighboring farmers for three dollars a day. It was obvious that this guy was not the sharpest knife in the drawer.<br />Well, I reached down and pulled up a stalk of cotton with about five open bowls plus leaves and a couple of unopened bowls. He gave me the five-dollar bill and happily placed the cotton stalk in the trunk of his shiny new car. <br />As they drove off I was left with my thoughts of past cultural history. My immigrant family had not yet arrived in this country during the Civil War but I was seriously questioning how in the world the North won that war if these people were a reflection of their population? On the other side, the South must have been in a pretty sad state to loose to people of this obvious mental deficit? I guess these were thoughts for professors who sit around tables smoking pipes and wearing suits?<br />Then my mind switched gears and I thought about the sale of one stalk of cotton for five dollars. As a young capitalist I began to calculate what our cotton patch was worth at a per stalk price of five dollars. I did not count the stalks but there could easily have been enough to make our little patch worth at least fifty thousand dollars. If we got Dad to put our whole 200-acre farm in cotton – truck the stalks up North - sell the stalks for five dollars each - we would be filthy rich. Wow, then we would be able to get on of those TV sets for our house! What a brilliant idea! If we would have had the Internet back then I would probably have made an infomercial and asked Kevin Trudeau to narrate it. That guy must really be super smart – he seems to be an authority on everything from hitting a golf ball to medical problems?<br />Sadly my brother cooled down my enthusiasm for the plan by telling me that everyone up North would not pay a price like that for our cotton. Try to convince a very young entrepreneur of that?<br />After a while I went back to thinking in more conventional terms about our cotton patch again. Like getting the cotton picked before bad weather and finding the time to do it after school.<br />We eventually made two bales of cotton, which gave us enough money to buy all our school clothes, get a TV set for our family, and have walking around money for the year.<br />But I never forgot the two folks passing through who made me ponder deeper thoughts regarding our nation’s history and even to think like a millionaire – if only for only a very short time.JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-53253941120566170502008-07-09T12:58:00.001-05:002008-07-09T13:00:25.608-05:00Eating Crow?One mark of being a man in the area of the Tennessee valley where I grew up was being a good woodsman. Reading signs, not getting lost, and living off the land were items for bragging rights. Several of us guys decided to go on an extended trip deep into the nearby mountains and live off the land. We each carried a rifle or shotgun depending on preference. We also each carried a small pack containing roughly a day’s rations and other seasoning and survival items. Since we planned to be gone for several days our abilities to live off the land would be tested. We were definitely Jeremiah Johnson “wannabes.”<br />The first couple of days were spent hiking deep into the mountains, using our rations, and enjoying roasted rabbit over a campfire. What a life!!!<br />The next couple of days our luck changed. We <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">did not</span> have any rations left and no small game was to be found. On the fourth day one of the guys “accidentally” shot down a crow in flight. After it was roasted over a campfire and seasoned we each took a piece and proceeded to “eat crow.”<br />Afterwards, as we hiked out of the mountains with less cockiness about our wilderness abilities we discussed our meal of crow.<br />The best description of all was from one tired and less confident woodsman who said simply, “Crow tastes like a skunk smells!”JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-24349439118238916662008-06-30T12:45:00.002-05:002008-06-30T12:49:00.536-05:00The FuneralMy mother told me this story and was sure that it really happened. I thought it was a touching but also had a light hearted approach to childhood. I hope that you enjoy it.<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">JoeB</span><br />----------------<br /><br />In the Tennessee hills during World War II military funerals were more than a common event. In this particular service the flag draped casket, the unseen bugler, and the armed color guard were a sadly beautiful sight.<br />The fallen soldier’s widowed mother was seated facing the flag draped casket. Her emotions were peaked as her daughter and grandson endured the heart wrenching ceremony. Her five-year-old grandson, not really understanding the ceremony, was standing at her side clasping her hand.<br />As the first volley of the twenty-one gun salute rang out over the countryside the grief stricken mother fainted dead away. <br />Her shocked young grandson hearing the rifle volley and seeing his Grandma slump into his mom’s arms jumped up and yelled, “My God, They’<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ve</span> Shot Grandma!”JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-39016890067036911152008-06-18T13:56:00.002-05:002008-06-18T13:57:14.937-05:00Field of Dreams?Have you ever wondered about a person who came into your life, helped you through a difficult situation, and then was never to be seen again?<br />As a sixteen-year-old high school baseball player I batted for a respectable average and felt that I had better years ahead of me in this great game. I also had enough ego to back up my ability. A certain amount of ego is necessary in athletics, but it should be kept under your cap as much as possible.<br />I figured when I signed to play independent baseball in the Mountain-Valley League that my success would be even greater than it had previously been in American Legion ball. I was in for a rude awakening. <br />One of the first games I played was against a team whose starting pitcher was, in my sixteen-year-old eyes, an old man. He had a weather beaten appearance with graying temples. As I watched him “lob” his warm up pitches I figured I should have an enjoyable game on this beautiful Sunday afternoon.<br />About three hours later I was sitting alone in the dugout with my head and confidence hanging low. I was wondering how I could go 0 for 4 against a 40-year-old pitcher who just threw strikes? All he threw was “junk”.<br />As I was staring at the dugout floor I heard a pleasant voice ask if he could join me. I looked up to see the pitcher who had humiliated me in my four batting appearances during the game. The field and dugouts were empty except for the two of us. In a voice that showed true interest he inquired to know my age and how much baseball I had played. After detailing my resume I asked about his experience and he modestly told me about his brief Major League career that was cut short by injuries. Evidently he had been a hot prospect when he was younger. Before injuries beset him he had good success in the Major Leagues when he was not much older than my age of sixteen.<br />At my request he then went into detail as to how he pitched against me. He told me the mistakes that I made that portrayed him to look like a better pitcher than he was. That was an understatement! With four strikeouts and not even a foul tip he had taken me to the cleaners! He also told me in a kind fatherly way that my cocky attitude needed some alteration. He said emotions and feeling should not be allowed to impact one’s play.<br />For about the next hour or so I was in a sort of Major League mini-camp with considerable emphasis on respecting others and their skills. He gave me tips and suggested changes I could make to greatly improve my game. He also threw full speed batting practice while showing me shortcuts that would make me a better baseball player. He gave me confidence and encouragement to be a much better player than I had ever been before. He also stressed the value of maintaining character to gain respect as a baseball player and more importantly as a human being.<br />I never saw him again after that day. When we next played his team again he was not there. What was odd was the fact that many of his teammates knew nothing about him. He just came to them and signed to play. None of the players I talked to knew him before he started playing for their team. It seemed that the only game he pitched for them was the shutout against our team. In fact none of his teammates I talked to had seen him since the Sunday they played us. Who was this kind, fatherly and very skilled person? I felt so badly that I never found out his name the day we played them. Regardless of whoever he was I felt that he was my guardian angel. In the many baseball seasons that have passed since that day I have never forgotten that magic afternoon and the life lessons I received.<br />Now as even more years have passed by and while watching “Field of Dreams” for the umpteenth time I still find myself wondering who, or what might fit better, gave me so many good tips about both baseball and life on that beautiful sunny summer afternoon so many long years ago?<br />You know what I’m thinking. Is this “Field of Dreams” scenario possible? Who knows? Everyone must pass his own judgment on that idea……JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-30780714335906550582008-06-18T11:07:00.001-05:002008-06-18T11:12:54.096-05:00Watermelon WarsWas I involved in this? I'll never tell!!!<br /><br />If you grew up in a rural part of the south then you probably knew about – maybe even participated in – a summer night raid on a farmer’s watermelon patch. It was a planned raid that would rival any of Stonewall Jackson’s charges. Distractions, flanking maneuvers, and stealthy attacks were all common. The farmer – on defense – used lights, shotgun blasts, dogs, fences, and just about any other non-lethal means available.<br />Looking back I really believe that the farmer’s enjoyed the “game” as much as the “raiders” did? One farmer commented years later said that the raiders were not “stealing” his good melons – they were “culling” his bad ones. His theory was that you couldn’t pick good melons in the dark. If he was right then the raiders were doing the farmers a favor. I’m not sure he wasn’t just covering his inability to deter the thievery?<br />Regardless it was a competition that was normally “friendly.” The “raiders” were careful not to damage the farmer’s livelihood - and the farmers normally were controlled in their defenses. <br />After saying that – there was one farmer who evidently decided he would up the ante to cease raids on his patch. He decided to change the rules. He knew that after the raid the raiders assembled in a recon area on the riverbank and consumed their spoils in a sort of celebration. Knowing this he decided on a defensive plan that would have been a crime if it had taken place in modern warfare. It was a form of “biological warfare.” During the daylight hours he posted signs all around his patch that said, “WARNING – ONE WATERMELON IN THIS PATCH HAS BEEN INJECTED WITH CATTLE LAXATIVE.” Now, whether or not you understand cattle laxatives - you can imagine if it would “loosen up” a cow it would really loosen up a 160-pound guy! Would it ever! <br />Now the raiders big question was whether or not the farmer really had injected a melon or was he just bluffing? If the signs were really true then this was a serious escalation that could not be ignored. Who knows, this defense might spread to other farmers and then what recreation would be available for country kids on warm summer nights other than to sit over at the lake with their favorite girl and watch the submarine races.<br />Since the raiders wanted to err on the side of safety they decided on a maneuver to counteract the farmers escalation. A quick plan was worked out to be implemented that very night. <br />The raiders did not want to stoop to the farmer’s level and use “biological warfare” so they did the next best thing – they used “psychological warfare.” With a small team and a stealthy approach the plan was carried out over night without ever entering the farmer’s patch.<br />The next morning the farmer was viewing his field and could tell that no one had entered his melon patch. He was beginning to feel really good about his “biological warfare” method when he glanced at the signs surrounding his patch and noticed that the “one” on each sign had been covered with an “X” and a “2” was written above where the “one” had been x’ed out. His heart sank as he thought about his dilemma. His signs now read :<br />“TWO MELONS IN THIS PATCH HAVE BEEN INJECTED WITH CATTLE LAXATIVE.”<br />Without ever entering the melon patch the raiders had won the battle by using “psychological warfare” to overcome “biological warfare.”JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-59281524197796587732008-06-09T11:19:00.002-05:002008-06-09T11:23:33.907-05:00Summer's Last RoseI wrote this poem a couple of years ago as summer came to an end. Even if I did write it, I still like it. I thought during this current June heat wave would be a good place to post it.<br />Joe<br /><br /><br />During the cold chill of winter for warm summer days I do pray<br />Knowing that God will again give us summer and the beauty of its day<br /><br />I remember summer from the youth of my life<br />When all days were golden and unknown to strife<br /><br />The endless summer days with heat to make the earth like toast<br />When the sun made the old swimming hole - a place desired most<br /><br />The nights are alive with nature’s symphony sound<br />While young lovers embrace under the glowing moon - silver and round<br /><br />From the fluffy white clouds in which we see various forms<br />To the power of God seen in glorious evening thunderstorms<br /><br />God gave us seasons so each a favorite could know<br />I thank Him especially for summer and the beauty it does show<br /><br />In September the signs of summer’s end come to be shown<br />And time is short before another summer soon will be gone<br /> <br />A sadness envelops me as summer’s days come to a close<br />I see my own life slowly passing like the wilting of<br /> Summer’s Last RoseJGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-11311283651265821782008-06-09T08:19:00.000-05:002008-06-09T08:25:06.153-05:00The IndianHave you ever decided how you think a person will act because of a stereotype?<br />I guess you could say that we misjudge people every day because of stereotypes.<br />As a young child growing up in the Tennessee Valley I remember hearing of an Indian who lived up near the edge of the mountain. I had him pictured as an angry red man with feathers, war paint, and the whole 1950’s Saturday western movie matinee stereotype. As young children we imagined that he was silently stalking us looking for a trophy scalp.<br />As I “survived” to my early teen years I finally got to know the “terror” of my childhood. He was a tall dark haired man with handsome Cherokee features who dressed in jeans and flannel shirts much like his neighbors wore. His name was “Tom” and I found him to be a friendly, quiet, and very perceptive man who pretty much minded his own business.<br /> We always wondered why his wife walked about five paces in front of him when they came down from their ridge cabin for supplies? My friends and I reasoned that it must be an ancient Indian tradition showing respect for his woman.<br />One day in a rare time that Tom would talk, one of the guys asked him why his wife always walked in front of him? We were all set for a detailed narrative of native Cherokee lore that would explain this mystery once and for all.<br />Tom, sensing a chance to have some fun, looked at each of us and with a wry smile and a wink he simply said, “snakes.”JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-1411529980280518852008-06-06T11:42:00.001-05:002008-06-06T11:54:13.195-05:00RamblingsDuring the late 50’s and early 60’s with Rock and Roll in its infancy was a time like none other. We were not part of the peace crowd – they came along after us. We were part of the “Happy Day’s” crowd where Do Wop music was the rage and cruising was our past time. After all gasoline was only around 25 cents a gallon. We were patriotic and family proud besides looking for a good time. The music, the emotions, and the feelings of my youth are just as alive now as they were over forty years ago. I guess that life is a lot like a movie in many regards. We can select rewind and our brain will let us view again excerpts from our past that give us pleasure. My youthful teen years are still fresh on my mind. What I thought and felt along with the sensory elements are all still easy to replay. Why so vivid? I’m sure a lot of the remembrance involves happy elements of our lives but everything was not rosy during this time either. Sure, life was less complicated then than now and it was a great and exciting era to be part of but with the constant threat of nuclear extermination over our heads this era also had its problems. <br />I remember my high school years pretty much like they only happened yesterday. I remember particular football games and exciting plays along with the feelings and aromas associated. I remember when our football team would leave the locker room for the approximately 200-yard trek to the playing field. I remember the lights and the crowd encouraging us as we entered the field – the young kids lined up to give a hand slap as we went past feeling like warriors going to battle. I remember on cool damp evenings a cloud of steam, cigar smoke, and the smells of popcorn, hot dogs, and cigars were in the air hanging just above the playing field. Friday night football games in small southern towns were a community event along with a sometimes-social occasion. Everyone came!<br />As for my education, I especially remember my high school English class taught by a very proper “old maid” teacher named “Miss Nell Baker.” Miss Nell was a stickler for grammar and took her teaching of English very seriously. I looked at English class as a necessary evil in my high school education but always wondered how knowing how to diagram a sentence properly would help me find a better job? Little did I know! Miss Nell knew that most of her students did not understand her class’s importance but she did not let that deter her in the least. She would not tolerate improper use of the language showed no tolerance for lack of interest. She constantly challenged us both in class and outside class to properly apply the English language. With our small community it was not uncommon to be corrected by Miss Nell at the grocery store or at church. She was able to teach in this manner because all of her students knew that her efforts were sincere and her motives pure. She genuinely cared for her students and was greatly concerned for our futures. She practiced what she preached and her dedication was never questioned. In her classes all was not work and grind – she always allowed time for discussion. Some would tease her about being an old maid and asking her if she ever dated anyone? I remember her sad smile at these comments and she would go on to relate that her youth was a lot like ours except for the differences in the music and transportation methods. We could not imagine that! We did not understand her comments at the time and never thought much about it. Now when I am around younger people and they ask me a similar question – I now understand her feelings. I wish I could thank her for her putting up with me for four years. She has passed on but her influence affected my life more than any other teacher in either high school or college. I remember in my senior year of high school when I made the decision to go to college she told me that I would probably fail because most colleges at that time used English Composition as a tool to weed out unproductive students. I was really upset by her comments and never forgot them. I worked my butt off that first semester with English Comp and made an “A” in the course where many others from large high schools throughout the state failed miserably. At that time I realized that my small town education from a country school was as good as anyone obtained from the more popular larger schools. On my first trip back to my little home community I remember driving by her house and seeing Miss Nell sitting on her patio reading. I walked up to her patio greeted her and immediately showed her my grade report. When she saw the “A” in English Comp she looked up at me and with a smile said, “I knew that you could do it.” I’m sure I appeared confused by her comment so she added with a smile, “I knew that you needed to be challenged.” She was a proper Southern lady who showed class in everything she did. Her approach to teaching could well serve education if it was closely followed today.<br />I never returned to my high school after that date. I’ m not sure why? I guess I just<br />wanted to leave these times in my memory bank as they were. Why spoil these “happy days” by reentering them? I suppose I took “you can’t go home again” to extremes.<br /> JoeJGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-48802358659318411432008-06-02T06:30:00.000-05:002008-06-02T06:31:01.523-05:00Pasteurized MilkWere you raised on “store bought” milk? Have you ever even tasted milk that came direct from the cow? <br />As a person raised on a family farm in Tennessee during the 1950’s I had never tasted “store bought” milk until I was eight years old. After that tasting I was convinced that the city folks had the right idea.<br />We got our milk from our cows that fed primarily from the pasture. Normally the milk was sweet and good but certain plants that grew in the pasture would make the milk bitter once the cows ate the plants. This was especially true with wild onions in the spring of the year. My Mother’s rule was that I still had to drink a glass of milk daily regardless of the taste or smell. For some reason my Mother felt that if I drank a glass of the foul smelling onion milk each day it would keep some kid in China from starving. I really never understood how the process of that theory worked?<br />Anyway, once I was spending the night with a school friend of mine when we were in about the third grade. He lived in a nice large home in town with his parents who were a good match for Ozzie and Harriet. He had his own room as opposed to my sleeping in a bed with my snoring brother in a corner of the dining room. As we cleaned up and put on fresh clothes for “dinner” which meant “lunch” to me but as he explained it his “dinner” was equal to my “supper.” I figured it didn’t really matter what he called supper as long as the food was good. His Mom served us food similar to today’s fast food that was a far cry from the “beans” and “taters” served almost daily on the farm. Sometimes Mother mixed it up and we had “taters and “beans” on alternate days. <br />To my amazement she brought a container and started to pour milk for us. Since it was onion season I immediately declined her offer. She urged me to try the milk and it was as sweet as any milk I had ever tasted. His Mom explained that the milk was pasteurized to make it better. It was written right on the carton. What an idea!<br />On returning home I gave my Dad my sales pitch I had rehearsed regarding pasteurized milk. He listened as I explained that if he sold all our milk to the milk company then we could buy pasteurized milk in cartons from the general store in town. That way he could sell more milk and we could all drink pasteurized milk. What I didn’t say was that I hated the thought of ever tasting, or smelling, onion milk again. For my part it could all be sent over to that starving kid in China who probably wouldn’t drink it either. After my sales delivery he looked at me and asked if I knew what “Pasteurized” meant? I tried to explain but finally gave up and confessed that I had no idea.<br />He just shook his head and with a tone that I now recognize as tongue-in-cheek stated that all it meant was that the old cow had stuck her foot into the milk bucket. That’s how it became “Pasture-ized.”JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-352338203737019692008-06-02T06:14:00.001-05:002008-06-02T06:18:24.424-05:00The TV SetHave you ever picked cotton? Do you remember the first TV set you ever saw? Unless you grew up during the 1940’s or 1950’s in the south you probably can’t answer “yes” to both questions. You may wonder how these two totally unrelated questions might mesh together in one short article? During the next few paragraphs I plan to show you how it’s done.<br />My early teen years were spent during the late 1950’s in southern middle Tennessee. A local joke was that we were so far back in the “sticks” that the Grand ole Opry, a Saturday night radio tradition, did not arrive in our area until Sunday morning.<br />The high school I attended took two weeks off each October for what today would be called “fall vacation.” At that time in history it was referred to simply as “cotton pickin’ vacation.” Before mechanical cotton pickers were in common use people picked cotton. There was a good-sized labor pool in the local school of both good and bad quality. If your family didn’t raise cotton then you could “hire out” to farmers who did.<br />Dad gave my brother and me an acre of land down by the creek to use for whatever cash<br />crop we wanted to grow on it. It was not a prize piece of farm property since it was normally underwater due to the creek flooding during heavy rains. We planted cotton and in the fall as we picked the cotton we stored it in a shed until we got enough for a bale to take to the cotton gin to sell. A bale was a minimum of 450 pounds of ginned cotton. We not only worked during fall vacation but after school and on Saturdays. One good year we made two bales and had money to burn. We bought all our school clothes, saved some, and purchased a TV set for our family. Our family had never had one before. It was great! It was a nice black and white Sylvania with probably at least a 13” screen. We also bought an antenna system. We got two stations from Nashville and one more from Chattanooga by simply moving the antenna. I think that if Lawrence Welk’s show had been on 24 hours a day my folks would have probably watched it.<br />For younger readers if a station needed to be changed the viewer had to get up and turn the knob to change the channel and sometimes go outside to redirect the antenna. This was an early form of aerobic exercise. I consider myself to have been an early wireless remote. Dad would tell me which channel he wanted to watch and I would get up and turn the knob. I guess you could also say that I was also a voice-activated wireless remote. A very ahead of its time item for 1960. It was probably a guy like me who invented the TV remote?<br />When color TV first hit the market I remember our family going to the hardware store to see the new color TV set in the store window. This was a major event in our area. Perry Como had a Saturday night variety show that was broadcast in color and that is what we were going to see. The sidewalk crowd was fairly heavy in front of the large display window as show time neared.<br />Looking through the large window as the show began I was shocked to see that Perry Como was a green person who had strange clothing taste since he was wearing a fuzzy purple suit. For some reason the colors would blend and change as you watched. Sort of a rainbow effect.<br />My thought on walking away from the hardware store window after the show was that color TV would probably never be a success. It would more than likely never be more than a status symbol.JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-61698604602456603432008-06-02T06:13:00.001-05:002008-06-02T06:14:20.906-05:00God?This is a true account that happened at a church we attended in Winchester, Tn. The gentleman who played the part of God laughingly related the story to me. Hope you enjoy.<br />----------------------------------------------------------------------------------<br /> God?<br />As Art Linkletter used to say, “Kids say the darndest’ things!” That saying was probably never more true that on the occasion of a young boy’s trip to church with his Grandmother.<br />It was fairly obvious that the little fellow had never attended church very often in his young life. He was extremely curious about every detail of what was going on and was constantly quizzing his Grandmother. <br />Just before the passing of the collection plate his grandmother handed the wide-eyed little guy a crisp, new, one-dollar bill. His eyes widened even more as he immediately took the dollar bill and shoved it deeply into his little pocket. Seeing what he did the Grandmother gently leaned over and told him to get the dollar from his pocket because that dollar was “for God.” She explained that she would give him one for himself after church. As he withdrew the dollar from his pocket the confused child raised his head. He was shocked to see a distinguished looking gray haired man holding a shiny plate covered with money in his hand standing next to his seat. The gentleman smiled as he held out the shiny plate. Not really knowing what to do next the astonished and confused little fellow did not take his eyes off the distinguished man with the snow white hair as he very slowly placed the dollar bill into the plate. After placing the dollar in the plate the distinguished man with the shiny white hair moved up to the next aisle. As the little fellow slowly looked up at his grandmother he said in a very timid quiet voice, “Grandma was that God?”JGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-23596835684944315372008-05-28T10:57:00.001-05:002008-05-28T10:58:54.710-05:00The IndianHave you ever decided how you think a person will act because of a stereotype?<br />I guess you could say that we misjudge people every day because of stereotypes.<br />As a young child growing up in the hills I remember hearing of an Indian who lived up near the edge of the mountain. I had him pictured as an angry red man with feathers, war paint, and the whole 1950’s Saturday western movie matinee stereotype. As young children we imagined that he was silently stalking us looking for a trophy scalp.<br />As I “survived” to my early teen years I finally got to know the “terror” of my childhood. He was a tall dark haired man with handsome Cherokee features who dressed in jeans and flannel shirts much like his neighbors wore. His name was “Tom” and I found him to be a friendly, quiet, and very perceptive man who pretty much minded his own business.<br /> We always wondered why his wife walked about five paces in front of him when they came down from their ridge cabin for supplies? My friends and I reasoned that it must be an ancient Indian tradition showing respect for his woman.<br />One day in a rare time that Tom would talk, one of the guys asked him why his wife always walked in front of him? We were all set for a detailed narrative of native Cherokee lore that would explain this mystery once and for all.<br />Tom, sensing a chance to have some fun, looked at each of us and with a wry smile and a wink he simply said, “snakes.”<br />JoeJGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-51948486693518144532008-05-27T11:05:00.000-05:002008-05-27T11:08:18.845-05:00The BootleggerIn my youth I was constantly looking for a way to earn extra money during summer vacation from school. RC colas and moon pies were not free.<br />My best friend and I were constantly riding the back roads on our bicycles looking for something to occupy our time.<br />One day we noticed that the ditches were heavily littered with fresh whiskey bottles. It must have been a busy weekend for the bootlegger since no legal liquor was sold anywhere near our community. My dad always said that the bootleggers and the preachers teamed up every time a vote came up on legal liquor. I always heard that politics makes for strange bedfellows.<br />Anyway, we decided to pick up attractively labeled bottles to see who could find the best-looking bottles. Sounds like we were pretty bored that day?<br />By chance the local bootlegger drove by and saw what we were doing. He stopped and told us that he would give us a nickel for each bottle that we delivered to his establishment. We knew where his place was down near Beans Creek. The ‘drug store”<br />was the local name for his place. This was before the illegal drug business was prevalent so the title reflected the medicinal use of alcohol only. Many people kept bootleg whiskey on hand as a “snake bite” cure. I guess the more they drank the fewer snakes they saw. Sounds logical to me. This was the Bible belt so no one drank for pleasure – consumption of bootleg whiskey was for medicinal purposes only – so they said?<br />So, we eventually removed many whiskey bottles from ditches in our area. The way things work today the community would probably have signs up stating that this one mile stretch of highway was kept clean compliments of “The local bootlegger.” My, how times have changed.<br />Our business was growing and we were enjoying our daily RC colas and moon pies thanks to our entrepreneurial spirit. We were making a killing (kid wise) with our Bootlegger Support Service Industry (BSSI). Try to find that job description listed in the state job bank computer today. <br />On one occasion we carried some bottles to him that were about one quarter full. He checked them and tilted the contents to check for a bead. He nodded ok and said that he would give us 25 cents extra for each non-empty bottle. We assumed that these bottles probably lowered his replenishment cost? We didn’t care – we were not drinking it anyway.<br />Thing were going great until my mom found out about our little enterprise. It seems that some nosy ladies had seen us frequenting the drug store on the occasions of our deliveries. Needless to say we were out of business once the bootlegger got called by a couple of irate moms. In those days bootleggers didn’t make waves! They had a code of conduct that went so far as to card suspected underage patrons of the drug store. I guess the main reason my mom was so upset was due to her affiliation with the Women’s Christian Temperance Union (WCTU) down at the Methodist Church. A few years earlier she had “volunteered” me to play the part of an evil whiskey bottle in a WCTU church skit. I don’t consider this experience to be a highlight of my childhood.<br />My dad respected his WCTU wife by keeping his “medicine” in his outside shop. It was obvious that he did not subscribe to the goals of the WCTU. He got a lot of aerobic exercise going back and forth to his shop at night. I guess that he could be classified as a “non-social drinker.” <br />Anyway I never again pursued this service business again although I did learn much from the experience. <br />My mom never found out that I could read the “bead” in a bottle of moonshine with the best of them. <br /><br />JoeJGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5380443226239473230.post-39221757518609671752008-05-26T16:35:00.000-05:002008-05-26T16:36:48.292-05:00Welcome<br /><br />I never kept a diary of story ideas but I do remember saying on many occasions that, “I should write a story about this.” <br />My memory was good enough that I could make a list of story ideas several years ago that I am presently writing.<br />I had dreams of publishing my own “The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Waltons</span>” type novel but that idea just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">doesn</span>’t seem practical at this time. <br />However I do want to leave these stories for future generations to read and enjoy so I feel that a blog is my best alternative. Who knows, my future agent may read some of my works and want to see more? It never hurts to dream does it?<br />Growing up in the rural southern middle Tennessee hills during the 1950’s and 1960’s may not appear to provide an abundance of story material but some of the characters I knew would make <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Mayberry</span> seem boring. My task is simply to present these stories in an entertaining light for your enjoyment.<br />Sounds easy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">doesn</span>’t it?<br />As a semi-retired person I am using my days I have left to document these “Echoes From the Hillsides.”<br />I really look forward to the task.<br />JoeJGlenBrodioihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13795386283487838332noreply@blogger.com0