I can only speak from the standpoint of what I was taught and my experiences of the Easter observance. As a child, the TRUE meaning of the holiday was known. As a young child, the explanation of The Father, The Son, and The Holy Spirit can become very confusing. Trust me, sometimes, it can be confusing to adults as well. The days leading up to Easter Sunday were happy days. I knew what was coming in the sense that I was ready to open up that package of egg dye and “color some eggs.” Filling those cups with vinegar and water and then dropping those little pills in was literally some of the best entertainment. Hush, I was a bored little child.

My mother, at some point in the morning, would boil eggs and then take them outside and hide them around the base of bushes or where limbs branched out from the trunk. My job w to get them back into the house without breaking them. Tough job for a boy who was just waiting for the water to change color. Who cared about the egg?!

After the eggs were colored and breakfast was eaten, Dad would take the eggs outside, may ten or eleven in all, and hide them again. He would give parameters of the yard in which they lay. Dad was a tad more creative in his hiding. In trees. Under buckets. Inside the fenders or bumpers of the cars and trunks. It didn’t matter as long as we found them all. And find them we did!

Later in the day, my cousins would all converge on my grandparents’ house. With uncles and older male cousins there, more minds were put together to find better, creative places to hide eggs. There was a good sized pasture behind the house where we could run around and be crazy. It was good for many different things, like hiding eggs at Easter and flying kites. It was also where they cows grazed. So, where there are cows, there will also be cow patties. My older cousins would lift. Up patties that had been there for days or weeks and laughingly place and egg underneath. We learned that when you go hunting for eggs up there, you carried around a stick for patty flipping.
Those were the days!

After we all grew up, things of course changed. The egg hiding stopped and the family stopped getting together as much. We became teenagers and things just weren’t as cool anymore. Not only that, we had to start learning the true meaning of the holiday. Good Friday no longer was a day we got out of school. Something happened on that day that changed our lives in a much deeper way than anything else possibly could. Personally, that made the day not just great, but also holy in all senses of the word. Easter Sunday became more than just a childish event of hiding colored eggs. It became a day of life. It became a day when all my family and friends meant even more to me than they ever had. It became a day of thankfulness that my life was being lived because someone else had given theirs.

No matter what you think of this post, that’s the way it was. No, that’s the way it is and will continue to be. After seeing the joy in the face of our neighbor’s child, I can look back on the wonders of childhood and the soon to come learning of the greatest and most meaningful event in history. And, the candy was really good too!

This week in 1812, Clarke County, Alabama was established by the Mississippi Territory.  It was pretty important during the Civil War as salt was produced there.  A small area in the county is known as Rockville where there was a large salt works where salt was mined.  The salt was mined around 1816-1820, but of course, the Indians had obtained it from there much much prior to that.  If only we could go back and live as they did, I would be a really happy person.  And so would many in my family.  The county is located between the Alabama and the Tombigbee Rivers as they join at the bottom tip of the county at the beginning of the Mobile River.  The area is pretty much dirt roads and swampy area.

The country was named after General John Clarke who was from, and later became governor of, Georgia.  I've seen the name before as now I live in Georgia and I love history.  Everything ties together in some way.  You can count on that.  The first county seat was in Clarkesville and was later moved to a more central location (as people wanted things in those days...hence Montgomery being the state capital after the others burned down or whatever other reason).  The name of that town was Macon and would later be changed to Grove Hill.

One of the important things to remember was that around the beginnings of the county, there was still a large number of Native Americans in the area.  There were numorous forts in the area including Fort Sinquefield which is in the general area of Whatley on Hwy 84 East on the way to Monroeville, the birthplace of Harper Lee (To Kill A Mockingbird) and home to her friend, Truman Capote (In Cold Blood).

As a child in the state of Alabama, one is required to take Alabama History for at least two years.  Schools may be different, but I took it both in the 4th grade and in the 9th grade, along with Geography.  We learned that in its much earlier days, the county was covered in a shallow body of water.  Skeletal remains have been found in the area to support the hypothesis.  When the Native American tribes came into the area, long after the water receeded, they made shelters in caves and set up settlements.  They fed on the large amount of wildlife that roams the county.  With the rivers and streams covering that southwestern part of the state, it created the perfect breeding ground for deer, squirrels, beavers, and other animals used for food and clothing.  Trade was the word in those days.

My great-great-great-grandmother on my granddad's side of the family was said to be Choctaw, but when research was conducted, her maiden name ended up being Moncreif.  That is a French name and her lineage has been traced back to France.  She could have had dark skin, but I'm not thinking she was a native.  It is said that my great-grandmother on my grandmother's side was Cherokee, but I'm thinking that is not correct either because the Cherokee indian nation was predominantly in the northeast corner of the state including Fort Payne and Gadsden.  I haven't been able to get as much research done as I had wished, but whatever happened, it ended up in Clarke County.

I could write for days on the history of Clarke County.  From The Creek War to The Mitchem Beat War, battles have been fought for centuries and that's what has made the county and its people.  I wouldn't have changed a thing as it is what made us who we are.  River dwellers, creek stompers, corn and cotton farmers, and deer hunters all go hand in hand.  They are a wonderful people and many would give you the shirts off their backs with nothing asked in return.  Many people in this world could learn a lot from them and could learn a lot from their history.

From 1984-1986, Airwolf aired on CBS and was the favorite of many people.  Every night it came on, our television was tuned in.  Granted, I didn’t get the full benefit of the show as our house had only one television…a black and white, aerial only, knob tuned wooden box on four legs.  Trust me when I say that I was blown away when seeing this show on a color set…and 61” flat screen!  What I saw as a child could not compare.

The story involves Stringfellow Hawke (Jan-Michael Vincent), a guy that lived out in the woods in a cabin with his dog.  He was a musician (he played the cello) and was also a test pilot of the ultra fast, super sonic helicopter called Airwolf.  He worked closely with Dominic Santini (Earnest Borgnine) who owned Santini Air.  As the pilot of Airwolf, Hawke worked alongside a secret agency to help with top secret missions around the world.  While he was working, Hawke was also on a hunt for his brother Saint John who has been missing since his tour in Vietnam.  For some reason, his name was pronounced Sin-Jin.  I haven’t the slightest how they got that from something like Saint John.  But, that’s Hollywood.

There were quite a few things going on in this series.  Not only was Hawke a musician and loved to be alone in the woods, he loved art and had a collection he received from his grandfather.  The FIRM, the agency that designed Airwolf, stole his collection because they thought he wouldn’t want to be the pilot.  In return, they placed a lady in action to be the one briefing him on his missions.  Well, Hawke, in return for the FIRM’s actions, stole Airwolf and hid it in the desert in a washed out cave and refused to hand it over until the FIRM helped him find his brother.

About a year after it went off air, there was a temporary revival of the show by the same name on the USA network.  There was an all new cast and this time, the pilot of Airwolf was Hawke’s brother.  There was a new contact at the agency and the girl at Santini Air was supposed to be Santini’s niece.  I don’t know about that show as we did not have the ability to have cable and my Dad wasn’t about to get a satellite.  Everyone we knew with one of those huge white or black metal dishes ended up with a bad dish after lightening struck it.  Oh well, they eventually became large bird baths or flower gardens.

I watched two or three episodes this morning.  I do that every now and then since I have the series on Netflix.  It’s my way of stepping back into the past.  I’ve tried to watch other shows I watched as a teenager, like Silk Stalkings that used to come on CBS as part of “Crimetime after Primetime.”  I couldn’t sit through it.  It had lost its luster as I became an adult.  Dynasty still holds a special place, so I can watch it anytime.  Maybe later, I’ll try to watch Tour of Duty and see if it still does something for me.  It was filmed in the 80s!

When I was a small child, I of course, wore the regular tighty-whitey briefs.  I distinctly remember the Fruit of the Loom boys briefs with the double blue lines on the waistband.  They were good until they tattered and then the fly never functioned correctly again and the legs became stretched out.  When you’re that young, they don’t have to be stretched out much to become uncomfortable.

After much begging and pleading, my mother bought me a pack of Underoos featuring Woodstock from Charlie Brown.  I wore those things out!  They were such a wonderful thing for my burgeoning tastes and interests.

After those faded out of existence, I was left with my plain old drawers.  Yay me!  So, as you can surmise, I went back to my begging and pleading that lasted years on end.

One day while helping with the laundry, some men’s briefs were found with my Dad’s clothes.  They were stacked neatly and hadn’t been touched in a very long time.  I was in the sixth grade and was rather chubby.  Short and chubby with a love of underwear.  I did get those briefs…all in color…and couldn’t have been a happier child.

Middle school ended with me owning a pair of black and blue leopard bikinis.  I loved those.  They fit perfectly and helped out some nights when the dreams started.  Oh what nights!

High school saw me coming of age and having the money to buy my own clothes.  A trip to Mobile gave me the chance to buy a great package of bikini briefs that once again, were worn to the point of threads.  We had harsh water and no dryer.  Line dried made them seem so much rougher when slid on.

For a few years, I wore boxers.  Thinking back, I really didn’t understand why I ever started wearing them.  I think it was because while on the bus, I could sit with a leg in the seat, giving room for things to sway back and forth inside my pants.  Anything for a rise when you’re a teenager with hormones.  The boxer phase only lasted shortly into my college years and I went back to briefs.  Everything felt right again.

What was it that made me interested in underwear?  Imagination.  Pure and simple imagination.  Raging hormone imagination.  What was inside those briefs?  What was Mr. Sears Catalog Model hiding from me that was so important?  Since becoming an adult, I have learned that one important part of many guys’ lives was the Sears catalog.  I would spend hours looking at the models, figuring out the mysteries in the briefs….and those mysteries inside my mind.  I would take pictures like this one in red Ristefsky Macheda briefs and study it, scanning for imprints in the fabric.  Stretching.  Creases.  Oh, and the body hair around the briefs.  That was important as well.  The hair meant manliness.

You can imagine what it is like now that I am a grown man.  I have the money to occasionally buy the underwear I couldn’t before.  The underwear market is much larger now than in the 1980s.  And taking a leap…fetishes aren’t as passé as they once were.  So I love seeing myself and other men in underwear.  Do you like seeing Nike or Kenneth Cole shoes?  It’s about the same.

In my opinion, there is nothing hotter than seeing a man slip-on a brand new pair of underwear and witnessing that look of pure satisfaction develop on his face as his equipment finds it’s perfect spot inside.  That, of course, is followed by the look of even greater satisfaction as you pull them back down.

Born to two country people, I was bound to follow in their footsteps. And gladly so. I was named after my dad, my cousin, my doctor, and my doctor’s dad. Wesley NEAL.

Even though my birth was surrounded by some drama, I made my way home to my sister and my grandparents. I’ve seen pictures and I was a fatty, fatty, fatty! I hold the place as the heaviest of the three children by .5 ounces and I believe I was the shortest.

It wasn’t easy growing up but, looking back, it was that raising that made me stronger. And no, the raising didn’t make me gay. That was already in the wiring. But it did teach me not to be ashamed of who I am. It taught me to appreciate what I have and not want things I don’t need. That’s selfish. It taught me to respect others, even when those I respect don’t respect me. It taught me that other people aren’t strangers unless you make them so. Lastly, it taught me to be thankful. More kids need to be taught that these days. If that were so, then maybe we would have some decent, respectful, and possibly smart young adults.

Bringing it to a close, my birthdays may just be regular days, 365 other days apart. They are reminders to me that I was given a life by a much higher power than any human, using my parents as instruments. And they’ve created three sweet sounds. I’m very proud to say I have come from good stock and I’ve had thirty-three years to prove it. I hope they’re proud.

Happy birthday to me.

Thanks to Trucker Alex, I began thinking about something I pondered while at The University of West Alabama.  Two of my jobs I had during those three years were at truck stops…the first at the AL-MS state line in York, AL and the second no longer in business in Livingston called Noble Truck Stop.  They were both really good experiences (the second more memorable and liked) and I was able to meet some really nice people…some more interesting than nice!

One of the guys I met while at Noble was a great friend.  Before the other half and I left that area, we decided to go to Gulf Shores for the weekend.  He had no plans and went along with us.  It was a great trip and one I will remember for the rest of my life.  It was great in the sense that we could all take a relaxing trip and have great conversation.  And a trip to Gulf Shores is never a bad one.  You can always bring something back with you.  On one of my trips, I left something down there that hasn’t really been missed.  But I do digress.  Sorry!  Oooo, shiny bubble!

The types of people I met were hard workers, especially those that hauled logs and other loads needing binding.  Some definitely harder working than others.  I worked the overnight shift, so I wasn’t able to meet the ones during the day.  They were more of the regulars.  I met many new ones who were simply needing a place to sleep and grab a bite to eat on the way.  There were one or two guys that liked the electronic slot machines a bit too much.  One night in particular, this guy spent at least $300 on a machine.  And he lost it all!  I just sat there at the counter and wondered what I could do with $300!  I could buy food, and at the time, cigarettes.  It was absolutely ridiculous!

One of the more memorable guys to come in was this guy from Louisiana.  He was great looking, well spoken, and carried himself very nicely.  Good clothes and never, ever smelled like he hadn’t taken a shower in days.  We became friends and he seemed to come in on the shifts I worked.  I asked him one night how he found himself being a transfer truck driver.  His answer blew my mind and had me thinking about my own career path.  He had gone to college and had a degree in Psychology.  He looked around for a job opportunity in that field and came up short.  He found the job he had then and found that over the year, he made as much…if not more…than he would in the career he had studied.  I knew a few drivers that were very happy about the money they made and were not too proud to show it.  That is, they had new shiny cowboy boots, the new brushed hats, the neat pressed shirts, and the pretty Peterbuilt or Mack trucks.  Not to put Kenworth trucks down, but those were the main ones.  My friend from LA was not that type.  He was very down to earth and new that his earnings had come from dedicated work.  I do miss being able to have conversations with him and hearing his tales from the road.

One other reason I thought about becoming a trucker was the fact that it runs in the family.   For years, my father drove a log truck for the local timber company.  I used to love going over to the truck yard and helping him clean his Mack truck; the little shiny bulldog as the hood ornament.  Not only did he drive, but also all three of my mother’s brothers and a few great uncles.  It was hiding there in my blood.  The only think that stopped me was that I had no clue how to drive stick….or a standard shift vehicle.  I am sure I could have gone to a driving school, but where would I have gotten the money?  I was a poor college kid that was failing in all his classes because he couldn’t think.  Straight, that is.  I was all messed up in the head trying to figure out who I was, much less where I was going.  A few months later, I found myself on the road to Atlanta.  I think I’m happy!

To those out there that drive…long or short hauls…you all are appreciated.  I know what that profession can do to people if they allow it to.  Get enough sleep.  Don’t take the uppers.  They are bad, Mmmm-k!  If you do that, there really isn’t a reason to get another book.  You got me?  Keep your dick in your pants when you’re away from home and all you have at home will still be there when you return.  Even if it’s some trashy lot lizard you picked up at the Red Hot Truck Stop.  (I’ll keep that location to myself!)  Be careful and get where you’re going safely.

Whether it be from eating beans and peas and collards or rather from drinking your favorite beverage, burps are a sound of pressure releasing from the stomach.  This audible sound is looked at differently in various cultures.  I have always been told that in some cultures, the sound of a burp is kinda like a redneck shouting to the cook…”Weeehooo! Damn, those were some good fixin’s, Mama!”  In my neck of the woods, we would just scream the previously mentioned phrase through the house.  That is, because you well know, Mama cooks the best food around.  I would have to say that is very true of my Mama.  She learned to cook at an early age since her Mama obviously didn’t care too much about cooking for her own family.  In her case, to be able to eat meant to cook.

I will never forget a story my Grandmo used to tell us growing up.  The first time my Mama cooked turnip greens fresh from the garden was quite an adventure for the partakers.  It was shortly after my parents were married that my Dad wanted a mess of turnips….like his Mama used to make them.  My Grandmo got my Mama and they went out into the field to gather some of the great looking vegetables.  She gathered a heap of greens and off to the well they went.  With a large metal foot tub available, they raised enough water from the well to cover the greens.  They sloshed those greens around and placed them into a bucket.  After emptying the water from the tub, the greens were once again washed in the tub in some fresh water.  You would think this would have stuck in my Mama’s mind.  No sir!  When my Mama washed the greens for my Daddy’s supper, she washed them ONCE.  Any true southern woman will advise you to wash those things off at least THREE times for thorough cleaning.  My Mama was so happy to have her greens ready for cooking.  She put those things into her pot and started the wilting process.  Good turnips take a while to cook, especially those with bacon thrown in for some extra flavor.

Those turnips were taken out of the pot when done and placed into a serving bowl, because as you may also know, a true southern woman NEVER places her meals onto the table in her cookware.  It is placed into a serving bowl so that if all is not eaten, the bowl can be covered and placed into the fridge.  I digress.  Mama placed those turnips onto the table for them to enjoy.  In Daddy’s words, “I got a spoon full of them turnips and put ‘em in my mouth.  I think I sanded all my teeth down.  Those turnips were as full of dirt as they were when they came out of the garden.”  I’m sure he at least thought the gesture was a good one, but those turnips were later chunked into the woods.  Daddy proceeded to go across the road and eat supper at my Grandmo’s house.  After that night, it was a custom to wash the greens the normal three times before placing them into the pot for cooking.

If you wonder what the burping picture and the beginning of this article has to do with turnip greens, well…it has nothing to do with turnips! LMAO! I am the worlds worst about going off onto tangents.  I was listening to the Big Fatty podcast and Terminally Single Tim has placed in a request for Big Fatty to stop announcing what he ate that day to make him burp.  I, for one, am thankful for Big Fatty doing his burp announcements!  Since I have problems with my own digestion, I learn what could give me gas.  OH, BIG FATTY!  You just keep telling everyone what you eat so that I know what not to eat!

Now, you go get you some turnip greens and enjoy burping!

What we are doing now should prove to anyone that living inside city limits does not mean you cannot have a vegetable garden.  The other half found a site a while back that told of a way to grow vegetables in a planter box.  I do love a little gardening every now and then.  It’s another thing that takes me back home.

During the summer of 1992, my dad decided it would be a great idea to plant 36 fairly long rows of peas.  There were crowder peas, purple hull peas, and some other kind.  There were also two rows of butter beans.  I thought the man had lost his last little bit of mind.  I understood the need…I didn’t understand the motivation.  It was as if he went pea crazy that year.  Of course, we filled up two deep freezers and had some to give away to others, because you know, you are supposed to share the first crop with someone else in the hopes that your future reaping will be bountiful.  Just a little bit of neighborly advise there!  Anyway, the rows were planted and the work began.  There was hoeing to be done (and hoeing there was! LMAO!) and fertilizing to make the most beautiful peas.

I can’t count how many mornings I woke up with my Mom at 6am to go to the field.  This was supposed to be my summer break!  I was supposed to have fun with friends!  Tough shit, country boy.  You will pick peas and YOU WILL LOVE IT!  OK then, let’s go get this over with.  One evening, my Dad drove the truck down to the field and parked it.  The next morning, my Mom and I filled the back of the truck, a few buckets, and a few trash bags.  I think we got out of the field after 12pm.  That was a lot of peas to pick.  The only part that was at least somewhat enjoyable was the butter beans.  To pick the butter beans, it’s easier to use a 5 gallon bucket.  Place the bucket next to the plant you will be harvesting.  While sitting on the bucket, you can pick the beans and deposit them into the bucket through the gap in your legs.  At that point in my life, a was a bit chunky and sitting down was mainly what I wanted to do.

Shelling the harvest was an all day event.  After shelling the purple hulls, your thumbs are left purple and wrinkled.  Dad felt there would be a large harvest that year and so bought us an electric pea sheller.  Ohhhhh, we were the SHIT!  No more hand shelling for us, let me tell ya.  One would think this would make things much easier and in some ways, it did get easier.  It didn’t take as long to shell a bushel of peas as before.  As Mom and Dad were using the sheller, my sister and I and whoever was at the house that day would get a dishpan and shell by hand.

Poor Mom.  When the shelling was done, the work of getting them in the freezer began.  The peas and beans had to be blanched and then poured onto a table with a fan blowing on them to cool.  After cooling, they were placed into freezer bags and arranged into neat stacks in the freezer.

I miss those days of farming now that I am an adult.  I am hoping that we can get a good harvest from the vegetables we plant.  I, for one, love the taste of fresh veggies from the garden.  I would rather have them over anything else.  Pictures will be coming later and I will document the progress of our little city garden.

My taste in music couldn’t be any more vast than it has been most of my life.  I will always love rock & pop since it is what I first began listening to.  I can remember listening to the stations out of Mobile and Pensacola with my sister and my cousins.  Remember the song “Take On Me” by A-Ha?  I remember when it began being played on 97.5 WABB.  I can also remember when WBLX in Pensacola played rock music rather than its R&B format of today.  At that time, there was also a station I did not listen to until 6:00 pm.  That station was 95.5 WJDB.  When I heard that station (you couldn’t help bu hear it when you lived only 7 miles from it), my skin cringed as it played the dreadful country music of the 1980s with its sad and wrist-cutting twangs.  After 6 pm, the format changed and it played pop music.  That’s where I first heard the earliest songs from DJ Jazzy Jeff & The Fresh Prince.  Ahhh, the memories!

As I grew older and went through various stages of life, I realized that there were other things to listen to.  Gospel music became an important part of my life later in high school.  Things from Carmen and Michael W. Smith along with Amy Grant took control of my ear drums.  Those along with Alice Cooper and Metallica raged wars in my head that sometimes I could not stop.  It was an intense time…believe me!  Before leaving for college, my cousin introduced me to Enya.  From that moment on, my love for her voice grew and grew to monumental levels.  Some nights, I could not sleep unless she was singing.  At times, even now, that still holds true.  From that, my interest in music spread like wildfire.  Time periods created no boundaries for my ears.  Led Zeppelin, Van Morrison, and Queen filled my music collection and the gospel tapes went to my mother and little brother.

Now that I am in my 30s (not making that sound old), I have an even broader love of music.  As the video above shows, opera has filled a quiet need of mine.  Andrea Bocelli puts chill bumps on every inch of my body.  Pavarotti is another that makes me become a calm, together human being.  By no means the least important, Il Divo is one group that everyone should listen to at least once.  They are such a lovely piece of work.  And they aren’t bad on the eyes either!  Quite a few tasty morsels!

What are your favorite types of music?  If you grew up in the country, were you allowed to listen to what you wanted or were you pretty much limited to what Mom and Dad listened to?  Have you found places in your mind to let knew sounds sink in and soothe the rampant feelings and stresses of everyday life?

The names haven’t really changed that much.  Especially in simplicity.  The four dogs that are at home are called Fred and Barney (two jack russells) and Hondo and Cujo (some kinda mix), the larger two.  Naming animals was pretty fun.  My grandfather used to raise Jersey cows as well.  Throughout their cattle raising, there has been a cow named after each grandchild…except Logan.  They were already gone by the time he came along.  When it was time for him to stop raising the cows because we were worried about his age and being alone in the woods, he sold them to the grandfather of a good friend in Alabama.  Sarah was the only one left of the children.  Poor Help (the leader) was so old when he was sold.  He couldn’t have been sold to the butcher because the meat would have been too tough to eat.  He wore his bell around so the others would know where to go and who to follow.

But anyway, enough about cows and back to the topic at hand.  The roommate snapped some pictures Bear last night when he got him to calm down for a few minutes and look at the camera.  He’s a cutie!