It was a warm April afternoon. There were four of us, Billy, Bubba-Bubba, Brain and myself playing baseball in Billy’s back yard. Bubba-Bubba was called that because it was what his baby brother called him. Brain got his name on the first day of school in the third grade. His real name, Brian, was misspelled on the roll. The teacher… Read moreA Covert Operation | Part One
“Look up there at that patio,” said Bubba-Bubba. The Old Bastard’s patio was a brick and concrete extension of the back of the house. Three brick pillars supported it across the front, three on each side and three across the back. The pillars extended above the patio, with wrought iron railings between each one. Concrete steps ran down the left… Read moreA Covert Operation | Part Two
We crossed Billy’s back yard and sat against the fence behind the big tree with the basketball goal. Billy’s American Bulldog Socko had joined us walking through Billy’s yard. He was the neighborhood dog. Socko looked mean, but was completely gentle, never barked and didn’t bite. The only problem was that he had a propensity to chase cars. One day… Read moreA Covert Operation | Part Three
I love the rain. Particularly on early mornings in the studio, such as now. There is something incredibly peaceful, comforting and inspiring about the sound of a gentle rain falling outside the window. I even have to admit that on some days, when the rain ceases and the sun comes slowly out that I am a little bit disappointed. No,… Read moreThe Rain | Comfort And Inspiration
“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolor, summer an oil painting and autumn a mosaic of them all.” Jackie posted this quote by poet Stanley Horowitz last week on her Facebook page. It was the first time I had read the quote which, I have found through research, gains momentum this time of year. And, understandably so. I am fortunate… Read moreAutumn | A Mosaic
It was a beautiful spring Saturday morning. Thomas Brooks, his father and grandfather were sitting at the kitchen table of his grandparents’ house in East Atlanta. He was nine years old. His grandmother, Mema, had made breakfast for them. Thomas’s grandparents were from Auburn and Carl in East Georgia. Everything on the breakfast table was from the family farms there. … Read moreGone Fishin’ | Bump, Bump!
