Category Archives: story

Carl, The Killer

Carl, the cat, did again.

A mama sparrow built a nest in the most unlikely place, in a flower arrangement hanging on our front door.  We didn’t even know a nest was there until I was going in the front door and the mama sparrow flew right at my face. That’ll make your ticker skip a beat!

I watched it several days and when the eggs hatched, she had a half a dozen naked chicks.  A few nights later, two of the grandkids spent the night with us and saw the now lightly feathered baby birds in the nest by porch light.

Carl, our big, orange, worthless cat must have been watching Mama fly back and forth. Or maybe he heard the chicks chirping, or figured out from the grandkid’s interest that there was something in that flower arrangement on the front door.

Regardless, the next morning my wife, Janet, heard the Mama sparrow feverishly chirping over and over.  She opened the front door with one of the grandsons in tow and the flowers were all on the porch by Carl.  All that was left of the baby birds was a little pile of bird feet and feathers while Carl scarfed down the last baby bird innards!  The grandson was horrified!! Continue reading Carl, The Killer

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Little Bitty Human

I posted Little Bitty Gator several days ago and, as crazy as it sounds, it’s an absolutely true post! A blogging friend, Judy at (theprojectbyjudy.wordpress.com) suggested a fictional follow-up story from the alligator’s point of view! Thanks Judy! This post is fictional…just in case you wonder…  Here goes:

Weird things happened to Buck. He’s an 8 foot long, adult alligator that lives on the Texas Gulf Coast near the Louisiana border.

When he first popped out of the egg, Papa Gator immediately noticed his teeth were all messed up. All the other hatchlings had nice, straight teeth. In a fit of anger he told Mama Gator, “That buck toothed, crooked smile, cross-eyed thing can’t be my son!”  Papa called him Buck from then on.

Papa and Mama Gator had it out more than once over Buck! Papa Gator accused her of going several miles over and visiting one of the Louisiana riff raff gators when Papa and some of his buddies were on vacation one week trolling for house cats in golf course ponds. Continue reading Little Bitty Human

Little Bitty Gator

He’s says it was on his bucket list, but most people don’t have jumping on the back a wild alligator in water over their head on their bucket list.  Yet, he did.

Two of my sons, Blake, who was 24 at the time, and Todd, who was 21, were night fishing in a Gulf Coast bayou. They noticed the red glare of eyes near their 15 foot flat bottom boat. The fish weren’t biting, so they started trolling up to and around the glaring eyes that belonged to different sizes of alligators.

Todd, we call him Einstein for short, decided he needed to bare handed catch and release an alligator, but not a ten foot or bigger one, because that would be foolish, right? And not a four foot or smaller one, because that would be too easy.  Uh huh, yeah. Continue reading Little Bitty Gator

What’s That Smell?

“What’s da smell?”, the truck driver asked.

Our shipping guy was making a copy for the driver about to deliver an 18 wheeler load of lumber to Tulsa and answered, “It’s Scentsy! Vanilla Bean Buttercream with a bit of French Lavender!”

Amused, I looked up and commented how it smelled more like a Hallmark store than a sawmill shipping office.

“I know!! My wife is selling this stuff. I’m advertising for her! You need to buy a little bit for your Mrs. so when you come home all smellin’ and stinky like, it’ll take your bad smell away.”  Winking he added, “It’ll give some class where you stay at!”

The big truck driver looked really uncomfortable. He started shifting side to side, looped one thumb through a strap of his blue jean overalls, and started rubbing his head with his other hand.   Continue reading What’s That Smell?

The 55 Plus Club

I turned 55 a few days ago. It’s the speed limit birthday, the double nickel, the best domino on the table!

They say 60 is the new 40, but it was an aging Baby Boomer who came up with that malarkey!

They also say you’re only as old as you feel! That’s no comfort!  I feel like a Model T!!

A redeeming factor about turning 55 is a “senior discount”!  Can I get an amen, or oh me!?

Busy as a Bee

Each year a couple of bee swarms show up at work.  Local beekeepers wanted to start charging to catch a swarm. Forget that.

Yet, employees and bees don’t mix well.  In fact, a couple of folks are deadly allergic to bee stings.  Besides, honey bees are nature’s Cupid and pollinate 75% of plant life, so instead of killing them, I decided to move them myself.  The beekeepers had white suits, mesh hats, gloves and smokers.  I didn’t have any of that, but I’d watched them before, so I’m an “expert”…

The swarm was about eye level on a beam right above a hydraulic unit.

Since I didn’t have beekeeper equipment, I buttoned my collar, cinched down jacket sleeves and put on gloves.  Armed with a cardboard box and a lid, I started toward the clingy, hanging wad of live honey bees. After the first bee accidentally flew into my neck a good ways from the swarm, I pondered the consequences and wished for a meshed beekeeper hood. Continue reading Busy as a Bee

Where Your Story Starts


I told four of the grandsons, ages 3 to 5, a story before bed time.

I learned a long time ago, the hard way, you don’t tell a scary story to small boys, UNLESS you’re camping and you have to sleep in the same tent with them.  Then, any old ghost, alien or crazy wild flesh-eating bear story will scare the living bejeebers out of them.  Afterwards, you can go soundly to sleep in the tent while in silent terror they stare wide-eyed listening intently for any ghostly rattles, spaceships or bears creeping through the woods.

This wasn’t such a time, so story time was about four boys with names that rhymed with their own. They were just amazed how the names seemed so much like their own. 😉

The story was about a submarine adventure in the Gulf of Mexico. The four boys were looking for sunken pirate treasure.

Instead, they found a sunken K-Mart cargo ship full of copper forks, tambourines and a miniature cannon. Continue reading Where Your Story Starts

CPR Trauma

I sat through a First Aid/CPR class with fifteen men I work with.  The instructor asked if anyone had used CPR before.

From the back of the room, I slowly slipped my hand up.  She wheeled on me like a Doberman Pinscher staring at an Oscar Meyer hot dog and commanded, “Tell us about it.”

Suddenly thrust into the limelight in front of co-workers, I started. “Well”, shrugging my shoulders, “Twenty-five years ago I was sitting in a little cafe minding my own business.  It was 3:00 in the afternoon so there was hardly anyone else there except an old man and two elderly ladies.  All of the sudden I heard a commotion and one of the old ladies was trying to hold up the man who had slumped over the table.  She was shaking him yelling, ‘Don’t you die on me! Don’t you die on me!’”

“I ran over and pulled the man out of the chair onto the floor. His eyes were rolled back in his head and he wasn’t breathing, but he had a feint, irregular pulse.  I figured he’d had a heart attack.” Continue reading CPR Trauma

I Hate You, But Not Really

(This is based on a true story told to me by a Chief Juvenile Probation Officer.)

~~He knelt down on his knees, looked up at Jesus on the cross, and shook his fist. “I hate you”, he said loudly, “I hate you.”  He said it over and over.  Soon he was screaming with every fiber of his being. Louder and louder, with more and more pent-up emotions streaming out of his voice. “I hate you! I HATE you!  I HATE YOU!”~~

The boy had suffered emotional and verbal abuse from his mother since his birth. When his father was around, which wasn’t a lot, it was always the same song, second verse.  He could count on one hand the times a physical beating for some slight or imagined offense hadn’t followed a visit with his father. Continue reading I Hate You, But Not Really

Hermit House

It was sad, really. She has no one. Maybe it was a conscience choice a long time ago. Maybe it was a forced decision that she didn’t want. Either way, the results are the same.

She lives alone in a nice neighborhood that we’ve driven through a thousand times. Her hedges are rarely trimmed and there are plants growing in the gutters. The yard is always green, but the grass always looks like it’s half grown, half mowed, somehow suspended in animation just enough to give the yard sort of a kept, but not maintained look.

She has a big sprawling house that is dark and uninviting, almost like where a horror movie could be filmed. In the four plus years of driving through that neighborhood, I’ve never once seen anyone outside, and the garage door is always closed. Occasionally, but not very often, there may be a light on at night somewhere in the house, but it would only be one, if any.

We were driving home through that neighborhood coming home from a symphony at 10:30 PM at night.  Janet, my wife, told me we had just passed an old woman sitting in the grass by a mailbox waving for help. I turned around and there she sat. I left the car running with the headlights on to light the area as we checked on her. Continue reading Hermit House