Finding the right Father's Day gift

Note: This was written on Father's Day, 1995 and posted on Father's Day 2026.

Father’s Day. Some people take it for granted. This past Sunday was the first one I would spend without my dad.

He would have been almost 60 this year, always full of spirit and joy. Rarely did you see him with anything but a smile on his face. He kept that smile even during his final days with the family.

In early October of last year, he was admitted into Bethania Hospital in Wichita Falls. Although he knew the cancer had spread again, he wasn’t aware of the depth of the problem. He didn’t have to worry long. Thirteen days after being admitted into the hospital he passed away, a combination of cancer and chemotherapy. Although he had put up a galant effort for the past two years, he was just too weak to fight anymore.

"Slim" as he was called around town, was well known. I can’t remember many people that called him James. He wasn’t a businessman or a banker. He was just a simple person with a simple lifestyle. His education, limited to five years in the Jean school of Young County, Texas, was adequate enough for his generation. He went to Korea and sailed around the world during his military tour, but he returned to Graham, Texas to live out his life. His roots were deep in Young County and he wanted to bring up his three sons in an atmosphere instrumental to good health and down to earth morals.

During his final years with the City of Graham, he was responsible for making sure the city streets were kept clean. He would go to work every morning at 2 a.m., assuring the citizens of Graham the downtown square would be spotless before each business opened later that morning. During the times when the street sweeper was broken he did the job with a broom and barrel. All the time he was happy and content.

Although much of the time he was seen wearing a cap, his receding hairline and a just-visible bald spot became more noticeable during his later years. His face weathered by the many years of outdoor working conditions, was leathery but smooth. The gray stubble always seemed to show through when he didn’t shave for a couple of days.

For a man who had almost nothing, and kept a simple life, he was one of the hardest to buy for during gift-giving seasons. Giving him a tie or golf clubs for Father’s Day would be like putting a screen door on a submarine, not a useful addition. The same goes for electronic devices. Instead of using a digital alarm clock, he kept the same old-fashioned, analog-style clock radio by his bed for over 15 years. Believe me, waking up to a screaming AM radio is not my idea of a good start to a morning.

Christmas, Father’s Day and his birthday would find me scouring the hardware or sporting goods departments of the local stores looking for that perfect gift. Usually he would end up with some tools or a piece of sports memorabilia from his favorite teams, either the Dallas Cowboys or the Texas Rangers.

Despite his condition, his love for the Cowboys never wavered. One of our last phone conversations was from the hospital during a Cowboy game. The opponent escapes me but the conversation still rings around in my head. Lying there, suffering from the pain of the cancer, he still commented on the Cowboys chances of winning three straight Super Bowls. He believed they would pull it out. Somehow, I wished they could have.

As I pass the rows of cards and piles of items geared toward dad’s across this land this year, I can’t help wishing I was still having trouble picking out a gift.

The House That Held Us

Each night, I found myself drifting back to the old house, its worn wooden porch groaning softly under my weight as I stepped inside. The scent of tobacco and coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of old books and well-worn furniture. The living room, the heart of the house, was dimly lit by the glow of the television as Ernest, Wimp, as I called him, sat in his recliner, his grip firm around the remote. My visit was a quiet ritual, a silent comfort. Looking around the room, I saw the familiar open pack of cigarettes and half-empty bottle of Excedrin on the coffee table, evidence of Wimp’s long, exhausting days in the oilfields.  

The Discovery Channel was always playing, though I often wondered if he truly watched. Somehow, I felt it was simply the hum of familiarity he clung to after hours spent hauling salt water from leases to the disposal well. The house was full of life and carried its own rhythm, a cadence of laughter from the kitchen, the creak of old wooden cabinets, and the distant hum of a box fan pushing warm air through the hallway.  

That house was more than walls and a roof. It was a haven for late-night laughter, backyard cookouts under a string of rusted patio lights, and games played around a scratched-up dining table that had seen years of conversations. Wimp, Charlotte, Ernie, and Bobbie Jo, names tied to my memories like roots to the soil. They were the pulse of my teenage years, the steady presence in a world that was always shifting. They were truly a second family to me.

I sat and visited with Wimp almost every night. No topic was avoided, and he imparted wisdom from his hardworking years, scratching out a living for his family, mentoring me in my formative teenage years. I absorbed every nugget, not even realizing at the time the indelible mark he and his family would leave on me.  

Time did what time does. Charlotte and then Ernest passed, leaving behind the echoes of their lives inside those walls. Their grandchildren took up residence, holding onto the home as best they could. But grief had barely settled when fate struck again. A fleeing pickup from a police chase ended violently into the side of the house, tearing apart what had already been fragile. The grandchildren, caught in the chaos, left with emotional wounds that would never fully heal.  

A year passed. The wounded home remained, patched with a blue tarp, framed by crime tape that fluttered in the wind like silent warnings. The house, once a place of warmth and familiarity, stood battered, its porch sagging just a little more, its windows staring blankly at the world beyond.  

Then, today, as I drove past, expecting to see that familiar form, the house was gone.  

Not witnessing the demolition, I envision the old house, once alive with voices, laughter and the smell of home-cooked meals, was reduced to splintered beams and crumbling drywall, swallowed by the merciless jaws of heavy machinery. The excavator’s arm swung, its bucket clawing through what remained, scooping up the fragments of a life once lived. Pieces of the living room where Wimp sat, the kitchen where warmth lingered, the porch that held quiet conversations, all swept away, indiscriminately mixed with shattered glass, insulation, and twisted metal.

The rubble, stripped of its meaning, was loaded onto trucks, stacked high like discarded remnants of something once cherished. Tires groaned against pavement as they rolled out, carrying away the memories, not to be preserved or honored, but to be buried, out of sight, beneath layers of waste in a distant landfill. There, among broken furniture, scraps of forgotten homes, and the debris of a thousand stories, the essence of the old house settled, pressed beneath earth and time.

No gravestone marked its place. No tribute remained. Only the trees stood witness, their branches whispering the story of what once was, long after the last truck left the site.

The last of their kind

It was a sweltering summer day in 1979, the heart of a small town in TX pulsed with youthful daredevilry. James, Michael, and the twin duo, Jeff and John, met at their beloved vacant lot, filled with sandburs and rocks, an unofficial arena for epic neighborhood showdowns. Today wasn’t just about a friendly game of touch football or pick up baseball, it was a contest of pride against their fierce rivals from Texas and McBrayer streets, Charles, Tommy, David and Joe. The foursome, known around town for their competitive streak and rough and tumble style, were perfect opponents to work out their boundless energy against.

The battle kicked off with a pick-up baseball game. James took his stance as the pitcher, his eyes glittering with determination beneath the brim of his worn little league cap. Every pitch he threw carried the raw power of a rebel spirit, echoing off makeshift backstops as he challenged the opponents to keep up. On the opposing side, David and Charles, hurled jeers and wild swings, determined to stake their claim. Tommy, positioned at home plate, cracked his bat with a resounding smack as a blistering fastball soared by, sending the ball rocketing into the overgrown field. Laughter, shouts, and the crack of wood reverberated across the lot as the two teams clashed in a display of pure, unbridled competition.

After baseball, the battleground shifted to the rugged turf, where a touch football game was about to rewrite the rules of neighborhood rivalry. Michael, fleet-footed and cunning, darted around defenders like a streak of summer lightning. The air was thick with tension as James led daring plays, weaving through the opposition like a seasoned trickster. The twins, Jeff and John, displayed seamless teamwork, sidestepping tackles and sprinting with fearless abandon. Every pass, touchdown and fumble, and every triumphant cheer was a testament to a generation that believed in raw grit and heartfelt camaraderie.

When the competitive fervor of sports began to wane, the thrill of the day beckoned them on a more personal adventure, tearing up the salt flats on their bmx-style two wheelers. Climbing onto their well-worn bicycles, the quartet embarked on an adrenaline-fueled journey across twisting streets and rugged outskirts. They carved paths through small, rolling hills that doubled as natural ramps, where James launched himself into the air, his bike soaring momentarily like a bird on a dare. Michael, never one to back down from a challenge, tackled muddy trails with deft maneuvers, his tires splashing through puddles in an exciting mosaic of sun and dirt. The bike ride became a roller-coaster of skillful feats, jumping over makeshift ramps crafted from old wooden boards and navigating treacherous, slippery paths testing their balance and bravery. The wind, carrying the scent of fresh-cut grass and summer sweat, filled their spirits with the pulse of freedom.

By dusk, as the sky blushed with hues of orange and purple, the echoes of their laughter, the rivalry-driven cheers from the Texas-McBrayer rivals, and the thrill of airborne bike feats converged into a single vivid memory. In their small town, every swing of the bat, every pass in football, and every audacious jump on a bike was more than just a game, it was a bold affirmation of the untamed spirit of youth, a day when rivalries kindled friendships and the asphalt became a canvas for fearless dreams.

The day ended with them gathered on a quiet street corner, under the streetlights that served as a reminder to head home. Their hearts were still racing with the thrill of adventure, vowing that tomorrow would bring another chapter of wild, unforgettable exploits. 

Sadly, that was the last time the group enjoyed outdoor activities freely. They didn’t realize they were the final play-outside generation.

Lawless life a nightmare

First Place - Short Story 2023

Okay, I admit it ... I'm a lawless rebel who shouldn't be allowed to drive the streets; no sense of respect for our men in blue or the laws they desperately try to uphold. What I am trying to do is confess my criminal actions, right here, in print, for the entire world to see.

I forgot to inspect my car.

There. I've said it. I feel much better. I've got that tremendous burden off my chest and maybe now I can sleep again.

I'm not normally the defiant type, but this time other things just got in the way. Remembering to inspect your auto is a lot like remembering to renew your license -- if you don't look at it every day it slips your mind. And that's what happened. I became preoccupied with other things and, poof, instantly I become a lawless dissident. I know I'm not the only one who has fallen victim to this kind of behavior. On the contrary, thousands of people every month do the same thing. But I have a conscious and it became very bothered.

Traveling the streets of my hometown became a nightmare. Every time I passed a police officer I cringed. Hoping, no, praying that his eyesight wasn't keen enough to spot my out-of-date sticker.

Before long, I was taking the long way to work, careful not to pass in front of the sheriff's office. Normal trips to the store became a perilous excursion. Far away trips were out of the question. Fear became a constant companion. I dramatized what I would say if I should happen to be stopped by an officer. I was going to play it cool and tell him the truth -- tell him I simply forgot. Naaah. He'd never buy that. I'm sure other equally-naive criminal minds had used that one before. No. I had to come up with a good excuse.

Then it hit me, a perfect alibi for my terrible memory, I'd explain that my car was part of a...

About then I bolted straight upright in bed, beaded in a cold sweat. Could this have been a dream? No. It felt too real. Hurriedly I dressed and darted outside. The little square sticker on my windshield informed me I still had a few days left. I stumbled back inside, exhausted and relieved and fell back into bed, content in the knowledge I would not hesitate to renew my inspection sticker when the time came.

It's that kind of nightmare that'll take the word procrastination, right out of a person's vocabulary. Permanently.

Looking West

This is a picture I captured on the way to Rotan, going to the funeral of a very dear friend's parent. It is located on Hwy 380, just west of Newcastle, TX.

I entered it into an art show sponsored by my company as a part of the 'On My Own Time' art and literature competition from the Business Council for the Arts.

It won 'People's Choice' in 2023 out of about 100 entries.

 

Taffy remains forever in our hearts

First Place - AI Literature 2024

Taffy, the fearless chiweenie, had a heart as big as her little seven-pound body. She was unperturbed by the loud bangs and flashes of fireworks that sent other dogs into hiding. While others cowered, she would attack the bottle rocket or missile when the fuse was lit, barking and fighting to get to the noisemaker.

But there was one thing that Taffy didn't handle as well, being left b
ehind. Whenever we  left the house without her, be it to work or a quick run to the store, her expressive eyes would drop, and she'd let out the most heart-breaking barks and whines. Yet, no matter how long we were gone, her joy was boundless upon our return. She greeted us with inexhaustible energy, her tiny legs scampering as she wiggled her tail back and forth in a blur of happiness.

Taffy had an innate ability to make friends with everyone she met. Whether it was a stranger on the street or a guest in the house, she approached with a wagging tail and an open heart. She was a true ambassador of unconditional love and acceptance.

One of Taffy's greatest joys was going for car rides. When the question was asked, 'wanna go for a ride in the car', she jumped up, bounced around in a joyous motion and let out an approving bark. She knew an adventure was at hand and would curl up contentedly in her back seat bed, eyes half-closed in bliss, as the scenery whizzed by. It didn't matter where we were going; the journey and our companionship was enough for Taffy.

But her absolute favorite activity was chasing a tennis ball. She could do it for hours, her boundless energy never waning. When we grew tired of throwing the ball, she would return it just a few feet from our feet and nudge the ball a few inches forward with her nose, her eyes locked onto it with laser focus. She'd lay there, patient as a saint, waiting for the slightest movement. The moment the ball was so much as touched, she'd spring into action, a blur of fur and excitement.

Taffy's passing left a gaping hole in our heart. The house feels emptier without her limitless energy and unconditional love. Even now, memories of her bring both smiles and tears. Taffy was more than a pet; she was a cherished family member, and her spirit continues to live on in the hearts of those who loved her.

In Real Life For The First Time

Her View:

The sunlight framed his silhouette, igniting curiosity in the dim restaurant.

His View:

Eyes met across the room; both smiled, knowing it was fate.