Read a new issue every Friday of Tailgate News! (JULY 24, 2015 now current)
Please check the author’s book, The Path I Took, at the bottom of “Welcome Everyone.” We are also publishing a new book called “Dillinger Days,” which you may read chapter by chapter as the week go by – inside the magazine. If you like adventure stories of real life, these books may be for you. Enjoy the read! Thank you for your readership!
Welcome to Southern Arkansas Tailgate News!!!!
We welcome everyone to our site and hope you all enjoy our FREE MAGAZINE!!!
Like to see our archives? Password is: Jesus Lives! The majority of older issues are under the “Older Issues” post on this dashboard. All issues are still on the web that have been published since our April 6, 2012 digital world inception. We printed the Tailgate News Magazine for Southern Arkansas 72 times before becoming a weekly web based publication in January of 2013. The first Tailgate News was published in May of 2007. We started out, and remain, a magazine stressing the good news around us; particularly in the categories of community progress, high school sports and Christian testimonies. Enjoy the read.
See “Current Issue” on top of page and “enjoy the read”
July 24, 2015 Tailgate News is ready to read. The Central Arkansas and Development Council (CADC) will rebuild the weather damaged Gurdon Senior Citizens Center by November, according to Executive Director Larry Cogburn. Mayor Sherry Kelley says the new pee wee football and soccer field near the city park should be ready to use by spring and building progress at the site has been good since the rains stopped. The second annual Go-Devil football dinner will be held at 6 p.m. on Thursday, July 30 at the GHS cafeteria. Medical lady June Woolf will be practicing at Bray Clinic in Arkadelphia, starting in August, rather than at Gurdon. Patients are encouraged to follow her. Dillinger Days is about the art of planning a successful bank robbery. The sermon is about sin being defined in the Christian Bible and not up for debate. The editorial is on the lack of respect shown by President Barack Obama to the recently slain service men at the hands of a Muslim terrorist and the need for de-clawing ISIS. The Arkadelphia Badgers talent is outlined. Thank you for your interest in this magazine. Please share this Tailgate News announcement with your own timeline to help us build even more readership. Comments? Email me at: email@example.com. Thank you for reading the Tailgate News Weekly Magazine. Sincerely, John H. Nelson II, editor
Do you have a favorite story you would like to see on this website? Email it to us. firstname.lastname@example.org. Also mail the editor any advertising requests or news brief updates at this old faithful email.
As always, go to “current issue” for the July 14, 2015 update. If you missed July 17, or any Friday issue before, see the old magazines under “older issues” on the dashboard that comes up when you first enter our site. Obits are generally on pages 9 and 10. We are in 12 pages this week. Thank you to each one who reads us. Our average site hits, that is individual readers, are now around 5,000 per week for 2015. A complete set of the 121 plus digital magazine issues coming out since January 2013 is under Oldies and printing the pdfs (pages) is free. Heads up to scrap bookers and those with co-op advertising. Our first digital magazine was published in April of 2012. Tailgate News monthly started printing in May of 2007, with 3,000 yard throws being the primary means of circulation. 2013 was the first year it has been published weekly and all on a web site. Safari and Chrome browsers and Soda or Adobe pdf readers seem to open the pdfs faster than most other methods. Otherwise, read us in clusters of pages on “Read” pages. If you want to print our pages without copying them to your computer, try the Safari browser. Here is hoping something in the magazine benefits you and yours. Thank you for your patience as we harness technology to communicate the fundamentals of small town society, United States style, as perceived by this Baby Boomer. Our concentration news towns are Gurdon and Malvern. That makes our concentration schools the Gurdon Go-Devils and the Malvern Leopards. We also have regular contributions from the Venom Newspaper, a product of the Fountain Lake Cobras, during the school year. Here is hoping you enjoy your summer.
I am now 56. I wrote the book The Path I Took at 55. This book below will be edited and presented, one chapter at a time. It currently has 15 chapters. I hope you find it entertaining and perhaps it will allow you to know the editor of Tailgate News a little better. Sincerely, John
The Path I Took
Chapter 1: The Path I Took
By JOHN NELSON
Tailgate News Editor
Everyone has a story. You have one. I have one. Mine started with my first real memory, chasing Cathy Conn in Morgantown, West Virginia.
I believe I was just a little more than 2 years old, the same age as my grand daughter Rayne is at the present. I will be 55 in two days so this memory is many moons back. My name is John.
My dad is Dr. John W. Nelson. I lived in an apartment with him and his parents, John Hans and Marvel May Nelson. They let me play around the complex and associate with another doctor’s children; Rex Conn’s kids, Connie and Cathy. Cathy was my age.
For years, nobody believed I could remember this story I am about to tell you. But here it is, just as I remember, 53 years later. I played in the hall with Cathy and her older sister until nearly time to go get some supper. But I was not ready to stop talking with Cathy. It was cold out and there was snow on the ground. I went outside to meet little curley blonde-headed Cathy at her window.
I don’t recall what was so important for us to talk about, but if my grandfather had not called me into supper I might still be out there in the snow. The old man gave his grandson too much time. I got frost bite in my left ankle.
Grandpa Nelson always was probably too lenient with me. When the weather gets a certain type of cold and wet, my left ankle nearly buckles in pain to this day. It has to be really cold though for the frost bite to come back. I rarely experience it from my Arkansas home.
About 10 years ago, I felt it in Minneapolis. That is a very cold place. So cold that I pleaded with my daughter Kelley to send my body back south if I should die in the land of the lakes… and ice.
I could chronologically go through my life, but I won’t. Still, before I leave my West Virginia days, I do have one more strong memory. This one involves a couple of my fingers getting caught in an iron door. Again, I was supposedly too young to remember this.
I had been playing with kids from around the apartment and not paying attention to the closing doors. It did not occur to me that the iron, end of the floor, door would be too heavy to open for my little hands. I carelessly laid my hand across the door frame and got to talking to another kid. I think it was Connie Conn. I remember her running in front of me, in her pajamas.
But my smiles from our play disappeared quite promptly when that door closed. I screamed bloody murder! Most likely it scared the other kids off. I remember the terror in Connie’s eyes. And then this large person opened the door. Actually she was just a grown up, but when you are two all grown ups are large. It turned out the lady was a registered nurse and friend of my father’s. She took me to Daddy at the hospital.
Dad’s reaction was very concerned but very professional. He X-rayed my fingers and found out they were just badly bruised, but not broken. That is fortunate, as I would need those fingers to type many stories for years to come.
THE MEMPHIS TREE
After West Virginia, my father took a job at the University of Tennessee Medical Center for a Dr. Lemmie Utterback. At least I think that was the guy’s first name.
I got to know Dr. Utterback a little bit because of his boat. He took my Dad and me out on the water and it was the first time I had ever been in a motor boat. But the biggest small child memory I have of Memphis was when a car nearly came though our apartment picture window.
I was about six months away from entering kindergarten and it was Christmas time.
I was stringing popcorn with my grandfather to go on our tree. My grandparents had moved in with my Dad to help raise me after my mother left because she got sick.
In about three years, I would get a step mother, who to my knowledge is still married to my Dad, Dr. John W. Nelson, today He is 86 this year, if God has graced him with a long life. Although we have lost touch, I have tried to find him. So far no Daddy and no obit.
Back then, I continued living with my grandparents, John and Marvel Nelson, of Hagerstown, Indiana, and Dr. John W. Nelson, of wherever he happned to be doctoring at the time. It is no wonder I later became a person who loves to travel. Indeed, in the final analysis, the apple does not fall far from the tree.
But back to my significant memory. We almost got ran over in our living room. A car, on Christmas Eve night, on Southern Avenue just across from Memphis State Campus, hit a tree with about a 6-inch circumference. That little tree saved our lives. If not for God putting that there, my grandparents, my Dad and me would have been toast right then and there.
I never forgot that God, at least in my life, has been a God of mercy. In 55 years, that has never changed. And of course, being God, it is highly unlikely He ever will. We heard a huge boom that night and went out to investigate. My father said something about a drunk out of control. Being a little kid, I really could not say for sure what the cause of the accident must have been.
But a drunk out of control sounds like a pretty reasonable explanation. Back then, it always seemed like as long as my folks were around, life was safe. No matter what might be happening in the world, I was safe with them.
In this book, rather than just move from incident to incident, I will try and pick out points of mercy shown to me by God to let you understand that God has been good to me -even though I drink fairly deeply of the cup of love and of life – charging through like I was in control when actually I was scared to death a lot of the time. Now don’t tell anyone.
The Path I Took…
Chapter 2: The Band days…
When I entered the fifth grade, it was proposed to me that I join band in Hagerstown. I loved music, and my Daddy had been in band, so why not?
I began by taking up the clarinet. Before it was over, I would get pretty good on the coronet as well, plus get good enough on the guitar to write my own songs. But back in fifth grade, I just smiled and asked for a clarinet.
My Daddy got me one from somewhere in Oklahoma. It was a wooden woodwind, which was an old clarinet. But it played pretty good and the best part was making music with my friends. To this day, I wish that is what I did for a living; make music with my friends.
And yes, I realize that is a line from “On the Road Again” by Willie Nelson, but believe me, it fits. I went to work with that Clarinet to be first chair in the clarinet woodwind section. I made first chair out of about a dozen or so players. However, I shared it with a girl named Peggy Lindley. We would challenge each other from time to time. Sometimes I was first, sometimes second. It all depended on who won the challenge.
I have a column in Tailgate News Magazine called Memorable Moments. This book is probably going to be a series of such moments; times I remember that somehow stick out at 55 years old. The stuff we are talking about now represent some pretty good times when I was between the ages of about 11 and 18. They all took place in Hagerstown, Indiana, my childhood hometown.
My first band director was Mr. Haskett. I don’t recall his first name. It might have been Joe, like my second and final band director was called. Joe Backmeyer came into my life when I was about in the seventh grade. I loved his class and how he made me and my fellow musicians feel a part of each other’s lives.
I probably learned more friendship skills back then than at any other part of my upbringing. I used to have a lot of close friends. I don’t let all that many folks that close to me anymore. I know I should, and I am working on it. I suppose I have been playing life a little over cautious these past eight year but that is another rabbit to chase entirely.
Let’s go back to band class. I remember those challenge trials with Peggy. She was a slender, very tall blonde girl, a grade or two ahead of me in school. I have always been short; 5’6″ is stretching me. But hey, Napoleon was short right?
I remember Ross Bennett playing trumpet, John Sanders playing trumpet and Dean Charles playing trombone. Bob Farris played the tuba. I saw Bob at our 35th class reunion but did not get to talk to him. I hope to do that at our 40th. That should be coming up in a couple of years, say 2017…
So let’s try and get a handle on the year I first started band. I graduated Hagerstown Jr. Sr. High School in 1977 and so my first experience with band must have been around 1970. I don’t really recall too much about fifth and sixth grade band, or if I did all that much with Mr. Haskell except figure out I enjoyed what I was doing.
But in seventh grade, when it was announced that Joe Backmeyer would take over, things started to change. There was this girl who played clarinet also. Her name was Joni and she went to my First United Methodist Church with me. We sang in choir together there and played in band together. She had curley reddish brown hair and freckles. I watched with interest as she grew up…
But somewhere in junior high school, Mr. Backmeyer decided to let some of us young folks, with what he called talent, move up to play with the high school kids now and then. I was one of those that got to play with the bigger kids. That was great boost to my ego.
I was not only in band, but in 4-H, Methodist choir and vice president of the Hagerstown Historical Society. This met I got to help another classmate, Jim Hudson, clean out cemeteries from time to time. We mowed them, set up broken head stones the best we could and recorded names and dates of the dearly departed. That data would probably be of use in today’s world of the Internet in something Ancestry.com. But back then, it was taken down and I have no idea what happened to it after that. Jim Hudson was the Optomitrist’s son. I thought Dr. Hudson was cool and his profession was the first one I attempted before switching majors in college to Social Work and then to psychology and journalism. I stuck with the latter and eventually got a bachelor’s with a major in journalism and minor in psychology.
So I was a busy kid back in 1970. I also took care of between 100 and 300 rabbits, from which I picked a prize winning buck, doe and meatpen to display at the Wayne County Fair every fall.
One of my first memorable band moments was in a church. I had competed in this music memorization contest with my clarinet and Mr. Backmeyer played along with my song on the piano. The contest was at Ball State University in Muncie, Indiana, where I would eventually get that bachelor of science afore mentioned. I got a superior rating and felt so accomplished.
But the moment that stands out in my memory came about a month later when I was supposed to reconstruct my musical piece in front of Dr. John W. and Nancy Nelson, my Daddy and step mother. There was only one problem. I did not take seriously relearning the piece…
I got up on the stage and started out pretty good. I noticed my Daddy smiling and Nancy smiling. I so wanted to impress them. You see, I only got to see them every three months, when they came to visit me from Oklahoma City. Other than that, my grandparents (his folks) raised me on the farm. Even back then I was a lover of life and the pleasures there of. Before I fully understood the path of following Jesus Christ, I understood pleasure and exploration. This little moment we are on is an example.
I had spent the time I should have been practicing for that concert talking to my Daddy, which I idealized back then and frankly still do. His dropping out of my life is the single most painful thing that ever happened to me. That pretty much happened when I was 20 years old and newly back from Florida.
I know I was hard to take as a young, “bullet proof” young rebel. But still yet, I wanted to see my Daddy every chance I could. He did come to my college graduation in 1982 and his own father’s funeral in 1989. That is the last time we were together. I have never understood why and I probably never will. My latest research, here in 2014 is swaying me to believe that my neurologist father has passed from this world. If he is still alive, and he happens to read this, I sure would like some contact. Just for the heck of it, my telephone number is 1-870-353-8201. As always, I am throwing the bottle out into the ocean.
But let’s return to those innocent times. That church concert was a hoot. I started looking at my Daddy and step-mother and completely forget the song! I mean I had no idea what in the dickens I was playing. But I am a natural song writer. Having written more than 150 poetic tunes for guitar, I suppose I can say that. And it was no different at the age of 14 or so. I played that group a tune they seemed to be into. My band director cut his eyes to me and then started following my jazz piece with his piano keys. We both played along a while until it seemed like an appropriate place to stop…
The crowd went wild. I received all sorts of applause. I got the heck off that stage as fast as possible, after taking the customary bow with Mr. Backmeyer and after seeing that my Daddy and Nancy seemed fine with the tune.
Back stage, Mr. Backmeyer could not help but laugh. I laughed right along with them. We even went out and took another bow, or at least I am remembering such. All I know for sure is we pulled it off. It was the John Nelson version of Mark Twain’s “Royal Nunsuch,” straight out of Huckleberry Finn! And it worked. Mr. B asked me if I could play the same tune again. I laughed and shook his hand. I said something to the effect of, “Not until donkeys fly!”
It was one of the first times I remember that I realized I work better under pressure. That is why, in my opinion, my 16-page Southern Arkansas Magazine, is turning out to be much more entertaining to create for you than my 12 pager I created in 2013 was. It fills my schedule and challenges my talents. That is the best thing for John, and hopefully for you the reader.
I remember going home and telling my grandparents what happened. Sweet Jesus, I said, I simply went blank and then decided, what the heck, time to improvise. They too had a great laugh about it. I don’t remember whether I told Daddy and Nancy or not. If I did, I am sure I was somewhat embarrassed, but at any rate, we do what we must. At least that is the way I was raised.
The next big band memory was my first band camp. It was also my first time away from home, other than that occasional visit to Daddy’s house in Oklahoma, or before that Milwaukee, Wisc. And of course North Webster Church camp. That is worth a mention in another chapter. But now, for my favorite band memory, “It happened at Band Camp.”
To fully understand the wonderful relationship I had with this 65-member band, you just have to have a little background to how bad I wanted to go to that first band camp. I was 15 and had just been snipe hunting with Joni Woodward. That is the little curley headed gal I mentioned earlier, also a clarinet player. Now at band camp, I was playing the coronet. I switched ombisures and instruments for marching band to be heard more. Even as a writer of the written word today, I love it when we have a huge number on the site visits. It makes me think maybe someone is enjoying what I have to say.
But anyway, I was in first section trumpet, never first chair like on the clairinet. My trumpet playing buddies all had five or six years more experience than me and besides, I just did this when I marched.
Back to Joni. I promised my wife Michelle that I would not write anything dirty in our Christian based magazine, so I will not go into the full relationship. But I can tell you Joni and I were in puppy love and I could have done a lot worse than to love, honor and obey that gal. She was fantastic. We never married though. It was the era of, “If it feels good, do it,” so when I went to college on my own I started dating other women and eventually moved on to Elaine DeHart, my second serious girlfriend.
Again, back to the age of innocence. I was excited. I had kissed Joni snipe hunting and that was a thrill to me back then. She kissed back with a lot of enthusiasm and we went to the show pretty regular. We also spent a lot of time at each other’s houses. But band camp took our relationship to the next level, where it stayed for five great years. In short, our childhood relationship became accepted by our family members to the point where the term John and Joni was used a lot, instead of thinking of us as two people.
But just before band camp, about three years before my graduation so it had to be in 1974, I started dating this gal that was two years older than me. And we had big plans together for when we got away from home…
I was so excited about it I dropped a huge dresser drawer on my right big toe! I mean it was seriously messed up and horrible looking. I lost that toenail and it grew back funky. It is something I just looked at as I was writing this. Yes, it is a childhood folly that stuck with me this far in life an will probably always look funky and double-layered.
My folks suggested I go to the doctor and that I definitely needed to cancel my band camp plans. I did neither one. I had a date with Joni for some serious smooching and I was not going to let her down! We band folk left the next day for some 16-hour-day marching. This was actually my second band camp we are talking about. I knew the routine and still wanted to go – because of my heart-throb for Joni Michelle Woodward.
My first band camp, where I met a gal named Kelley Thompson, was a lot of fun too. But nothing compared to band camp number two. So we will go on with the Joni band camp story of 1974. It was everything my folks said it would be work wise, and I was a rank leader. That made it even more challenging.
I had a straight ranked file and I had a comical way of lining them up. I remember saying some word phrase akin to “Butts up!” and all of the five folks in rank formed a perfectly straight line for marching . Mr. B caught me doing that one time and remarked that my unique approach to life had not changed since that church audition a few years before. I smiled at him. Our rank actually won an award, despite the fact that I felt like my foot was going to fall off.
I think Brent Meadows actually got put down in the air duct the year before. He was good natured about it though. A group poured water on him and let him loose. It was so hot in Indianapolis that year and also the second time that water was definitely a good thing.
But all rabbits aside, Joni and I had a plan. She was going to sneak down to the boys floor and we were going to listen to eight track tapes after room inspection. My room mate, Grover Brower, a drummer, was part of the plan. Most of the band knew about this rendezvous, but nobody ratted us out.
We came up with some cock and bull story the next morning about how Joni had just wanted to borrow a couple of tapes and had only been in my room a few minutes. It was still a violation of rules. We waited for the axe to fall and Mr. B to send us home… He was no dummy. He knew she had not been in my room for just a few minutes. But what happens at band camp stays at band camp… just like in Vegas right?
He scolded us and told us there would be no more violations of the rules on his watch and then sent us back to our ranks and files. We did not chance any more get togethers that week, but the flood gates had been opened. After that week, for five years, it was never John. It was never Joni. It was always John and Joni.
We were kids and we from decent families. But we were in lust/love and that, as they say, was that. Yes, it was a band thing. And we stayed in band. She was there until her graduation in 1975 and me until mine in 1977. We never dated around. It was always John and Joni. I tried to date a couple of times, but somehow my innocence was in tact. She was my one and only those five years, and that was the way it stayed.
As for the band, they were my closet friends in high school. I can honestly say I had a love for each and every one of them. We played concert after concert, and marched in those hot uniforms every summer. We also played with frozen horns on the post office steps every Christmas as the Christmas carols bellowed out and the seasons passed.
We were in pep band too. I remember these giant sweet tarts, sort of salvo tablet sour treats, that I loved to eat as I watched my classmates play football and basketball. To me, it was only yesterday.
In Chapter 3, we will go into family memories during high school, both good and bad on the farm, and how life progresses for the John and Joni dating scenario. Every day was exciting back then. I was a young man in love and full of dreams to conquer the world.
Chapter 3, The Path I Took
When Grandma got sick…
By JOHN NELSON
Tailgate News Editor
Once Joni and I got back from band camp, life started to get into a routine. It was a healthy routine, as far as I was concerned.
My grandparents and her Mom accepted she and I as part of both families. I had a youth leader from church, Ron Close, who offered to put me on the management trainee course at Dana Corporation if I wanted to marry Joni straight out of high school. I considered the motion, but ended up going to Indiana University(IU) alone instead.
But when I first stated dating her, all I could think about was how cool it was to have a steady girlfriend. I never got over enjoying spending a lot of time with a girl. That is probably why I have been married to Michelle for 16 years as of this year. She and I just seem to fit together and I hope we always will. Back then, it was a different story. I was 15 and Joni was 17 and the advntures of youth were before us.
One of the points that stand out in my memory was my grandfather sending us to the doctor to make sure we did not start our family sooner than we planned. One thing I will say for my folks, they were practical but not condemning type souls.
My grandfather did encourage me to marry her after high school and assured me he would still pay for my college education. Grandma said I was too young to marry. I listened to her. Did I make a mistake? I guess I will never know. Joni was a wonderful girlfriend and would have probably made a wonderful wife. There was only one problem, Grandma was right, I was just too young to settle down.
I proved that by going ahead with my IU plans. I was one of those lucky folks who grew up in a time when many children got a chance to go to school. In the 2014 economy, college educations do not seem to be nearly as available. Maybe I just know too many working stiffs who can not seem to prioritize an education in order to have a more financially secure future doing something interesting instead of the same old thing, different day.
But this chapter is to be about high school memories. It is Superbowl Sunday as I write this. Joni was a Minnesota Viking fan. Back then, the star quarterback was Fran Tarkington and it was around 1975. She and Dean Charles, one of my best friends of all time, would watch the football games closer than me. They even went out alone once, but Dean brought her out to the farm and dropped her off. He felt so guilty. I felt sorry for him. Joni and I survived it. But in the end, we both screwed up the “puppy love marriage.”
It was the era of “if it feels good do it,” so she dated a little and then I dated a lot. But that does not take away from the five years of loyalty we had. She and I would go to band practice and then to the truck stop, nearly every fall week night. I always had the same thing to eat; a smoked sausage sandwich with cheese, on a hoogie bun with steak fries, thick and sliced…
THE EYE TWITCH
During the five years I was with Joni, plus those previous years when we were church friends, I had three attempted dates before my college days. One such date was with a cheerleader that had a twitch in her eye. I do not remember her name, Valerie I think. She had a shapely body but a really strange personality. Still, she liked me and that made band news…
I picked her up and she immediately started downing lime vodka. Then I decided to go parking at my Grandpa’s other farm, known as the Allen Place. I headed down Highway 1 and figured I could find the old farm. Unannounced to me, I was being followed by probably a dozen band cars. The Hagerstown High School Band was going to make sure me and this gal did not get into any trouble.
We got the Allen Place parking spot and she told me she was not in the mood for parking. She offered to get together later. I was disappointed to say the least. I do not remember if I kissed her. I probably did. But she was steadily sucking down the lime vodka. Then, on our way back to her house, she said, “Pull it over quick!” I looked in the rear view mirror and saw a line of cars pull over with us. My one-night-stand gal, with the twitching eye, was throwing up out of my passenger door. I heard about a dozen people honking. I was so embarrassed.
I took this lady home and headed to the truck stop. Joni and her mother, Buryl, were at our favorite booth already. The news of the messed up date had reached my childhood spouse. Joni and her mother were both busting a gut in laughter! Oh yes, high school days were a blast. I started laughing too. Laughing at myself comes hard at first, but then it always becomes much easier.
My two other attempts to explore what other ladies might be like back in high school went a little better. Elizabeth Williamson was a buddy’s sister and Cindy Miller rode my bus… One went to a movie with me. The other met me out at the Hagerstown Park for a bike ride and walk in the woods. But Joni and I somehow talked out our differnences and things got happy again for a couple of years. So much for puppy love in the life of John Hancock Nelson.
AT THE HOSPITAL
Another family memory, involving me, Grandpa and Grandma and Joni happened with my grandmother had a bleeding ulcer. My folks and I were at the supper table. I am not sure Joni had arrived for the evening just yet, but she got there before the ambulance came. Without warning, my grandmother grabbed her stomach and began to keel over. We called that ambulance and they got her loaded up. I remember talking with Joni, who wanted to ride to the hospital with us and my Dad, who said he would make the trip home to Indiana from Oklahoma as soon as possible to check on her.
We drove in silence in my Dodge Dart swinger. Grandpa rode up front and Joni in the back. It was about 35 minutes and we pulled into the hospital, Reid Memorial, in Richmond, Indiana. They were unloading Grandma and taking her into the surgery area.
Her doctor, Dr. Rex Henshaw, came out and talked with our family. We all prayed before Grandma went under the knife. She would have a third of her stomach removed and then live another 13 years. But at the time, it was eight long hours. Joni fell asleep in the waiting room after telling Grandpa and I everything was going to be all right. Grandpa and I stayed awake and worried.
He told me the story of how they met at a dance in Grundy County, Illinois. I listened in silence. Tears were in his old eyes. It was 1975 and they had been married since 1918. Joni had smiled at him and told him it would be all right just before curling up and falling asleep. She looked so peaceful. And yes, Joni Michelle Woodward was very easy on my eyes. But my priority was not to be there for my girlfriend that night.
It was to be there for Grandpa and there I was; all eight hours of that grueling operation.
Finally, the doctor came out of surgery and found me and the old man, sitting on pins and needles, both looking like sleep could take a hike for the next week!
Dr. Henshaw said, “Marvel is going to be OK. I had to remove a lot of her stomach, but I got the bleeding stopped and I made her a smaller one. She will have to eat more often and have smaller meals, but it will probably be easier to keep excess weight off. I anticipate a full recovery.”
I could have kissed him. My grandfather shook his hand and thanked him profusely. Grandma would be in recovery for awhile, but then we could see her. On October 31, 1988, I faced her death. She was 92. Grandpa lasted until the following January. In the first month of that year, my grandfather went to be with the Lord at the age of 96. They said he had the healthy body of a 64 year old man, but that he died of a broken heart…
So as the song says, “I come from a long line of love. And indeed, when things get tough, we don’t give up.” As I may have mentioned, I have been married four times. My view is if something is worth doing, it is worth doing until you get it right. My current wife Michelle and I have had 16 years of wedded bliss, as of this writing, that is if we make it until Sept. 19 without me running off with a Playboy model! My bet is we will be just fine. I subscribe to the theory that the secret to remaining married is getting two imperfect people together who refuse to give up on each other.
As for the old days, it took me a long time to learn the consideration it takes to keep a spouse interested in continuing to share a home with me. As my daughter Kelley said many years later, “My Daddy can get a date easy. It is keeping a girl that he finds to be a challenge.”
Oh well. She was right in my younger days, but I have high hopes this go around.
My grandfather and I took Grandma home in a few days after her ulcer operation and things got back to normal for awhile back there in 1975. Then Joni graduated and went off to Ball State University to college. That is when things really started to get hard as far as maintaining puppy love goes.
She took on a job as a theater hand, setting up stages for plays and got acquainted with an actor type fellow named Ron.
All I can remember was she told me he brought her a bottle of wine and it fell out of his hands on her step when he attempted to knock on her door.
She did not end up with Ron. He was just a stone in our road. But the trust had been broken for both of us now and one thing you can count on in life is trust is very hard to rebuild.
Chapter 4: Florida Days
When Joni and I broke up, after about a year in college and some other adventures to New York and California for brief stints, something happened to me. I got the traveling fever.
In the spring of 1978, before I had a chance to finish that second semester of full-time college at Indiana University, I decided I wanted to see what life would be like if I just took off on my own. Sure, it was a sabbatical from my goals, but looking back, it was worth it.
I began a journey that would continue sporadically for about two years before finally settling back in to school full time and finishing that college degree in August of 1982. But this chapter is from 1978 until about 1980 and is probably better titled, “Florida Days.”
I loaded up a U-Haul trailer with all of my earthly possessions from an IU dorm room in March of 1978, cranked up an old Neil Young eight-track tape called, “This is Nowhere,” and headed for the Sunshine state down Interstate 75.
I really had no idea where I was going. I just knew I was not ready for college in my known world until I knew a little bit more about what the world at large had to offer – and how I would react without so much structure in my life.
I had turned 19 December 24 of 1977. Wow, and here all of these years I was a year amiss if we are correct now. Yes, I was 18 at high school graduation in May of 1977 so I would have had to turn 19 and headed to Florida for the first time in March of 1978. That would account for the two years I have always remembered of adventures before settling down in the spring of 1980.
At any rate, Florida was in front of me. My background was behind me, but I still had an umbilical chord to my grandparents. I called them every night I was down there.
My grandfather’s wisdom and my respect for him probably made the difference between coming out of that place alive, as I obviously did, verses dying at the wrong end of a gun.
When I hit the Florida state line, I pulled into a small town, Ocala I believe, and found a park. I have always loved parks.
I had my old beach guitar in the car and a song in my heart. I did not really know where I was going or what I would do, but I figured I would have to come home when my savings ran out or I ran out of work.
Wow, Florida was beautiful. The palm trees were so pretty and the seagulls looked like they do in the movies.
I enjoyed the sounds of nature and just resting there a bit before getting back in my 1974 Dodge Dart Swinger, slant six, to continue the journey.
I took a side road that said Sara Sota, 300 miles or so. I really don’t remember what else the sign said. I just decided I would head toward Sara Sota and find a small town near the beach to get some sort of a place to live.
I ended up renting a trailer in an orange grove in a town called Arcadia. It was a rodeo town and a place where migrant workers came to pick oranges every year. The trailer was empty because it was the off season.
My landlord was nice enough. I remember moving enough of my stuff in to feel at home that first night, but there was no lights yet so it was a bit frightening as I read the Bible by flashlight.
Then I heard some weird rustling of pages when I turned out the light. I clicked the flashlight back on to discover roaches bigger than I had ever seen in my life! Everything in Florida grows big. I suppose tropical climates are good for them.
The next day the old guy I rented the trailer from sprayed it down for the pests and hauled 16 of them out of there. I was not unhappy to see them go.
I went to town and got lights, gas and water on, and then went back to the trailer to be sure all was in order. I asked the landlord if I could eat the oranges from the trees in the yard and smiled. He said sure, to enjoy them.
After playing my music on the porch and eating a couple of oranges, I got told to keep it down if the windows were open in the trailer. I agreed. I don’t recall ever having any more criticism from the landlord after that.
I drove into town and started looking around. I found this Trailways bus station, where I called my last girlfriend at IU, a curly black haired gal named Becky Cook. She was the police chief’s daughter there in Bloomington, Indiana and a great looking woman. I asked her to come to Florida. She said she would love to but had too many things holding her in school…
The bus station owner overheard my conversation with Becky and saw the disappointment on my face.
He smiled at me and offered his hand.
“My name is Al,” he said. “I own this bus station and do a little preaching at my church on Sundays. It is just outside of town if you would care to join us.”
I told him I would and did so. The bus station business was sort of at a lull and so Al and I had occasion to have a lot of long talks during the next few weeks.
He invited me to join him in a business called Amway. I did that and ended up delivering products for him to earn a weekly salary for a while.
Then I met Alice. Alice was 36 and I was 19. I used to tell people her name was Alice Hyatt. Truthfully, I don’t recall ever knowing her last name, even though we lived together for more than a year. She was just Alice and one of the nicest people I have ever met.
She came into the station and announced that she had a Dodge Dart also. Hers was white with a black top. She said since we drove the same kind of car, I should give her the key to my trailer and let her start cooking supper.
To Al’s surprise, I gave her the key and told her I would be home around 6. Al thought I was crazy. It was a rather bold move, looking back. But Alice was as good as her word. She was a great cook and so the next day she decided to move in with me.
I don’t ever recall arguing with her. Before I came home to Indiana to finish college, she asked me to marry her. I could have done a lot worse. She may have been older, but she was pretty, resourceful, easy to work with and definitely somebody I have always been glad that I knew.
She told me she had been raised Pentecost and rebelled at an early age. After getting pregnant and giving her son to her parents to raise, Alice had gone to Los Angeles, California to try her hand at being a stripper.
She loved it. And with her jovial personality and looks, I bet she got a lot of tips from the guys. However, as fate would have it, she fell off the stage one night and broke her leg.
This caused her to move back home for recuperation and to make a new plan. She told her son she was his older sister, at her parents insistence.
Alice joined me in the Amway business and we went to a lot of upbeat sales meetings. Al had us convinced with hard work we could achieve great success.
In reality, he kept me going at about $250 a week for the deliveries so he could draw Amway, multi-level marketing circles and recruit new people under him.
Like any sales job, it would have taken time and hard work, but it was an honest occupation and I could have probably developed my own wing of it to make the serious money in a few years.
But there were other distractions. Al introduced me to some of the wilder side of Florida. I was a drinker and so I introduced myself to the local night club, known as the Hitch N’ Post, located between Arcadia and the Sara Sota beaches.
It was there that I met night club owner Buddy Brewer, who was also a “Freedom Fighter.” I gave that name to the guys who fought white slavery by putting away abusive pimps and getting young girls out of the strung-out prostitute bear trap. I started using my sales ability to help that group at night rather that keeping my mind on building an Amway business.
It seemed OK with Al. He felt sorry for those girls caught up in drugs and prostitution just like I did. Between Al and Buddy, I became what was known back in the day as a “spinner.”
A spinner was a guy who would go to a strip bar, strike up a conversation with a pimp and pretend to be a pimp himself. I was told beforehand about a girl wanting to go home to her parents. You see, the prostitution racket was one thing, but these abusive pimps hyped the girls up on heroin in order to get 10 tricks a day out of a girl that should have been doing no more than four tricks without the drugs.
The 10-trick druggie prostitutes burned out fast. Some had respectable parents who wanted them back home and enough sense to tell a Freedom Fighter about their situations.
I usually went into the club, met the girl briefly that wanted out and then sat up at the bar, as I was instructed. Pretty soon the pimp would come up to me and ask me if I thought that little girl I was talking to was pretty? I would tell him sure I did.
Then the spin would begin. Cops had tape recorders on us as he tried to get me to pay for the hooker. I explained to him that I was in the whore business too and was just being nice when I talked to “his property.”
This line usually brought a smile to a pimp’s face. Degrading a woman as if she were a hound dog was their way of doing business. I had been an A student for the most part in high school and college. So I caught on pretty quick as to what to say to get the guy to open up with me about just how big an operation he had and how many tricks a day he was getting from his ladies.
I would get them laughing and joking, doing what I called a Jim Croce act. Croce was a popular singer at the time. And yes, I had been told the deal. I realized this was a combined effort by the police and the local mafia to get these greedy pimps out of the prostitution racket. They were bad for mob business and they made the police look bad because so many of the girls before us spinners got going ended up going home to their parents in a box.
I worked the “Gilded Cages,” a Florida term for strip bars, night after night. The Freedom Fighters called me Tygar, a Seminole Indian name that a few folks still call me to this day. It was strongly rumored that Al was affiliated with the Tampa mob. He as much as told me so.
But Al was my boss and my friend and probably had just as big of a hand in keeping me alive as my nightly calls to Grandpa. My grandfather, in his younger days, had a close association with the John Dillinger gang and he knew a lot of the old timer gangsters in Florida.
Wow, there is so much more to tell. We will have to call the next chapter of “the Path I Took,” Florida Heated Adventures. But I as a reasonably good farm boy. I was loyal to Alice while down there and I was honest with my boss at all times.
I met him every night at his church to let him know how the spinning was going and to get schooled on how to survive the racket I found myself getting deeper and deeper involved with. I could go back there to this day and probably find a nitch as a spinner, or rather its modern-day, high tech equivalent. But I am sure high tech has changed a lot of things. But Florida was more than just shell games. Florida, between 1978 and 1980 was when Johnny the boy became Johnny the man – not necessarily an all good man, but a man just the same.
Chapter 5: Barking at the Moon
In the last chapter, I set you the scene for my 2-year life in the state of Florida. I didn’t tell you about the slices of life that mattered more than all of the drama.
Here is the deal. I had the long-time relationship with Joni for five years and then Elaine for about a year and a half, but settling down was really not in my veins. Searching for my “soul mate” was. But in the meantime, there was Alice. She was a good friend, a good room mate if you will and an overall good partner in personal life and in business.
But I was looking for that spark that never came. Actually, it did come to me twice years later, but like the lighter that goes out from lack of lighter fluid, those sparks went out too… The beauty, however, is both seem to have the potential to be re-lit. Even so, just like when I was a child, I wonder if that perfect, God-send, soul mate might be just over the next hill.
As I get older, it no longer bothers me nearly as bad. I have discovered, through my now 55 years of life as I write this to you, that what I sought in Florida, I still seek every day. And some days, I find it in the eyes of my dear sweet wife Michelle. Other days, I feel like I am so lonely for that spark that Michelle or no other woman could fill the loneliness void. It is those days that I pray a lot, walk with God even more and listen, as one of my sermons said.
Sometimes, when we bark and moan, silence on our part is the only cure. That silence gives God the opening to respond to our loneliness, grief, disappointment, despair or whatever other dark side human experience we happen to be going through at the time.
It was on one such occasion that God responded to me when Alice walked into my life. As I say, she apparently knew Al, as I believe I recall them smiling at one another when she walked into the bus station that day.
In the last chapter, I told you how Alice said she had been watching me go in and out of the trailer park in my beige Dodge Dart. She had a car of the same make and model. It was even a rag top like mine, but her Dart was white with a black top… The night she invited herself to live with me was a blast. I really did believe there might be a spark there at first.
The Bible says marrying a friend is the best way anyway, as there is no greater love than he who lays his life down for a friend. That may be an admittedly twisted interpretation. But the bottom line is, to live with someone, lay down with them every night and hold them close to you, a man and a woman in that situation had better be a lot more than physically compatible.
The years have taught me the mental capability is at least as important as the physical attraction. But whatever life has taught me, whether it was Alice, Linda in Texas who was my next girlfriend, or my four wives of later years, you can fit together like a hand in a glove with a woman and still not feel that spark when you enter the room with her.
Chasing yet another rabbit, before we return to life in Florida, I have always told my kids that relationships between the opposite sex are either a business deal or true love. You can build a good life either way. But when God gives you a spark, you never forget it. And when you see her, even years later, and you hold each other forever in the middle of a public store, that spark comes up out of both of your souls in all of its glory. Some live with it between them and their life-long mate every day. Me, at least I did experience it, twice.
I probably won’t be writing chapters on those two experiences. Some things are too wonderful to put into words and even too private for me to share. Suffice to say, both ladies were the cat’s meow in this Tygar’s mind. My conclusion on sparks is simple; shut up about such magnetic love experiences and simply thank God for not forgetting to allow you to feel them.
That was the whole point of Florida back in the day; to learn to feel life’s experiences and then to return to my educational pursuits and writing career for the right reason – because it was what I truly wanted to do.
PICKING A MATE
Living with Alice was a trip. That is a phrase from back then. It simply means life with Alice was fun and I learned a lot from her being 17 years my senior. But that ended up being my reason for not marrying her. I wanted someone younger and someone I could have babies with. I needed a different business deal. Looking back, she was still young enough she could have had my children.
To my knowledge, there was no reason why she could not have. The truth was I was still fascinated with being the county stud back then. Like a wolf that had eaten a few pieces of steak from a grill, that wolf wanted more.
To date, I have had nearly 40 close relationships with the opposite sex. I told a friend of mine the other day the reason I kept trying was if something was worth doing it was worth learning how to do right. My current wife and I will be on anniversary 16 this Sept. 19. Michelle is a keeper, not that several of the other 40 were not keepers too. But apparently that settling down gene had not grown inside my head until my current wife came along. She is easy on the eyes, accomplished and yet reserved enough to put up with my continued effort to grow up.
Back in the day, when Alice was in her shoes, Alice was every bit as good of a woman. The problem with Alice and John was that John was not very good husband material at the time. I had wild oats to sew and a spark to search for. Back then, I believed the spark of “google eyes” true love would be enough to keep me with the sparker forever. It was not.
But the friendship and love life I had with Alice could have lasted to date, just as the life I have built with Michelle seems to be on solid ground. Alice and Michelle remind me a lot of each other. I have no way to know what the future holds, but I will say about my current wife what I said to you a bit earlier about Alice of Florida, she is good for me. And I pray I am good for her.
ME AND ALICE
Now I am done musing, back to Florida. The year was 1979. Yes I know. John gets all mixed up on times, dates etc. but listen. So far, if you will be patient, those memories do come back accurately. This time I will venture a timetable guess like this. I went to New York and California that first year, 1977-78. Then in the spring of 1978, I came back to Indiana University with Elaine DeHart under my arm. We lived together that spring in college and then we got back together that summer in Hagerstown and New Castle before heading down to Memhis, Tenn. to take a class or two at Memphis State University and enjoy each other a little more.
Then I returned to IU. Elaine did too but we broke up that fall of 1978, as I wanted to date around. I also dated Elaine still from time to time. And Leslie, Beth and others. The last, once again, was Becky Cook, the police chief’s daughter, which I spent time with just before going to Florida in the spring of 1979. I could go back and rewrite that last chapter, but no need. We just did.
Getting back on an accurate and more chronological track, waking up with Alice in Florida was a pleasure. She was the most sensual woman I had known, at least up until that time. She did mean a lot to me, and had I been a more mature guy, I would by golly have married Alice. Of course, I would have had to learn her last name to do so.
A typical morning in Florida involved enjoying my room mate, then going out on the porch and peeling oranges while she made me bacon and eggs for breakfast. Then I would go to the bus station to pick up the day’s Amway product order for delivery and to talk with Al about learning how to “draw circles” for the sales end of that business.
From there, I would go to Buddy Brewer’s Hitch N’ Post to talk with some folks about helping those trapped in the drug abusive prostitution rings. Of course, before leaving for such a day, I always kissed dear Alice goodbye and assured her I would make it home to her that night. She used to get a bit nervous about that, smoking cigarettes until I got in. Oh how my old heart goes out to that good woman. I used to say I was a man with few regrets. Well folks, I regret having treated her so matter of factly. She deserved so much better than my younger self. And I sincerely hope she found it in life after our season was over.
THE FAKE OUT
Ok, so some folks like tales of the love lorn and some don’t. This next incident is a tale of my work in Florida, that is as a spinner of yarns to help those girls who believed themselves trapped forever.
I came into the Hitch N’ Post one day, after delivering Amway, and sat down with Buddy Brewer. He seemed a bit nervous for some reason and said, “Tygar, can I get you a margarita on me?”
I smiled and said sure. He ordered one for himself as well and we sat there enjoying our tequila. I noticed a couple of “Freedom Fighters” at the pool tables. I called them Michigan Fred and Pistol Pete from Texas. I have no clue what their real names were.
But they were loyal to me in 1979 and 1980. As was the older, more conservative, black gentleman I used to call Alfonso. They were just there, so to speak. I did talk to Alfonso for quite a spell on an airplane once and I got used to the other guys being around. They went where I went. I suppose some higher ranking officer in the police department or the Tampa mob made sure I was not alone very much.
I used to tell Alice I did not feel like the work day had gotten off to much of a start unless a dozen or so motors cranked just after I fired up the old sewing machine engine, slant six under my Dodge Dart hood. But that night, Buddy had something to say and he was not in a very good mood.
“I have a girl I want you to help Ty.” “Will you do it?” he asked. I smiled and asked if he thought my abilities could do her any good and he said yes. I asked for an explanation of what was going on. He said he would just have to explain on the way. He was playing with a pair of scissors. He knew I carried a knife but no gun. I did not want to be tempted to commit murder.
We walked outside of the club and I saw Cowboy. Cowboy was a wild gangster who had a bunch of men following him in pick-up trucks with rifles in the back window. I had on my trench coat that my grandmother had bought me. I still had my passport from my European trip I took back in high school in the inside lining.
Cowboy had a girl in the truck with him. She had a pair of cutoff shorts on with a tie up top that was more off than on her breasts. I could see her “Alice Cooper” lines, as her mascara had been running down her cheeks. Buddy told me she was one of his whores, but that she had a year and a half year old baby and needed to come get her kid and go to the house for some shut eye.
Buddy was said to be a pimp too, but a traditional one. Not one to put the women on a mountain of snow (heroin). He said her name was Candy. He showed me the little boy playing inside the club before we went out there. Cowboy was drunk. And his gang was about that way too.
“Can you help her Ty?” Buddy asked. I thought quickly of a spin that might work to free Candy. I realized at the time it would be considered a crime by the legitimate law. I include it here based on my suspicion that it would be hard to prove what I am about to reveal and also on the statute of limitations on such a deed. And of course, it might have never happened. After all, I am such a mixed up old guy. Heck, I temporarily forget that one year with Elaine, Beth and Becky. And of course Leslie…
OK, here is the skinny of it. Me, or somebody who looked one heck of a lot like me, walked out to where Cowboy had Candy in the pick-up.
Cowboy said, “Yo Tygar. I don’t want no trouble with you and you need to go back inside. I am going to get a few more rides out of this old gal before I let her go. She is a really fantastic little whore.”
The girl looked scared to death. I started the spin.
“Cowboy, I know you think I am independent and that my assignments are not to get regular whores away from regular clients, but this girl and you not being willing to release her leaves me no other choice but to reveal to you one of my most guarded secrets.
“With your permission, I want to show you something. It is not a gun, but can I reach in my pocket and bring out a little booklet?”
Cowboy’s face looked amused. He nodded at his shooters and they pointed a half of a dozen rifles straight at me. The girl looked terrified as he fondled her and started to ignore me.
I reached for the passport and brought it out in plain site, slowly holding up the United States eagle seal on the document’s cover.
I shouted, “LIsten to me Cowboy. You see this seal. I am a United States federal agent now. If you kill me, they will be on you and yours like ugly on an ape. Now we have been friends on the road. All I am supposed to do today is get that woman back with her kid and give her a chance to hang up her whore boots for some legal line of work. I don’t want you and the boys busted but if you force my hand, I too have guns around here.
After all, this is Buddy’s place and you know the mob and the cops have been banning together to help young whores change their lives.”
The spin sobered him up. It was delivered with as authentic of a voice tone as I could muster. Then I stood there, holding up the passport and staring into the eyes of my woman-hungry friend.
He knew who and what I was, the grandson of the body double of John Dillinger who had robbed 18 banks in 1934 and got away with the money and the robberies…
He looked at his boys and motioned for them to stand down. The rifles were dropped. He opened the pick-up truck door, lifted the whore like she was a sack of rabbit pellets and threw Candy at my chest. The poor woman was sobbing.
“Now get on with it Cowboy. Go have dinner with the boys somewhere and I will see you down the trail,” I told him. He tipped his hat and said, “Later Tygar. Be careful out there and thanks for not bringing the law down on my ass.”
I nodded. He fired up his 350 Silverado engine and he and the rest of the Cowboys headed down the road.
Buddy had come on up behind me while I was still starring down Cowboy. I turned my attention to the lady I had just freed from his clutches and to Buddy. I carried Candy inside and placed her on a couch. When she calmed down, Buddy brought her the little boy.
They were playing peacefully while Buddy and I retook our seats at the bar. He asked me if I realized impersonating a federal officer carried a five to 10 year sentence in the penitentiary? I said I knew it but somebody had to help Candy. He slapped my back.
“Dillinger,” was all he said…
Chapter 6: My grandfather’s Dillinger story…
By JOHN NELSON
Tailgate News Editor
Since the last chapter ended with a friend in Florida comparing me to a known gangster of the 1930’s, I want to describe the reasons why I remembered the end of the day rescuing “Candy” with the Dillinger name being mentioned.
Like every boy, I had to be raised by someone. My grandfather, John Hans Nelson, 1892 to 1989, was a hard working farmer, a family man and a story teller in his own right. I recognize that everything he implied, and/or told me about John Dillinger, the Robin Hood criminal of the early 1930’s, as possibly being Grandpa’s own fiction novel.
I make no claim that any of the following material is gospel. I do, however, make the claim, that to my knowledge it is true. I have come to that conclusion after years of pondering what happened. So, in order for the curious reader to understand why I am who I am, he or she needs to know what I was told as a child.
FIRST MENTION OF JOHNNY D
I was about my own grandson Josh’s age, or maybe a year or two younger, when my grandfather first started telling me about the legendary John Dillinger AKA Jack Rabbit AKA Public Enemy #1. I was about 6 to 8 years old I suppose (my Josh is 7 as I write this) when I went back to Warfle’s woods, carrying a beebee gun. Grandpa and I were hunting rabbits in the snow. Warfles woods was about 20 acres of woodland just next to our 80-acre farm out on State Road 38, by Hagerstown, Indiana.
On the back 40 of the corn and soybean farm was a group of roadsters from the early 1930’s. Everyone of them had riveted holes all through their front doors and some of the windows also appeared to be busted out. I walked by those old cars in silence for awhile. The year was somewhere around 1969 so those cars had been there for sometime. But finally, curiosity got the best of me.
“Grandpa,” I asked, “Where did all of those holes come from in those cars?” His answer was, “A long time ago there was an ancient machine gun known as the Tommy Gun. The police put those holes in those cars when I had to leave town in a hurry. They were trying to stop me, and folks like me, with showers of machine gun fire.”
I asked my grandfather when all of this happened. He said it took place during the bank robbery days of a Moresville, Indiana man named John Dillinger. Or at least that is who the papers said did the bank robbing.
I did not know much about things like that back then so I did not ask any more questions. But every time I went back to the woods to hunt squirrels, I checked out those bullet holes in those old 1933 roadsters just a little closer…
EIGHTH GRADE HISTORY CLASS
Between 7 years old and 14, there is time for a lot of conversations between a boy and his Grandpa. I was in 4-H, heard stories about a bad year of farming when the cholera took everyone of my Grandfather’s hogs and about how Grandpa went back to pool sharking to make her a living that year and make enough money to buy starter hog crop. And of course, I heard about him studying up on how to treat the cholera so the disaster never happened again. Hogs was where the Indiana farm money was. They sent Daddy to medical school and me to journalism school. I love hogs. Can you blame me?
But something was not adding up. I mean there was not a safe full of 20 dollar bills to be made pool sharking for 18 months, or was there?
Grandpa never would answer that question with anything but a rather sinister smile. He would go on to say it was easy to get feed and seed delivered for him in the 1930’s because he had the money in the safe to pay for things…
I finally asked him what sort of currency was common in those banks that Dillinger robbed? He smiled and said they mostly kept money in 20’s back then.
He would talk of how Johnny Dillinger always started a robbery by shining his blue eyes at the people behind the counter of the bank, wheeling up a Tommy gun and saying, “My name is John Dillinger and I am here to rob your G.. Da.. bank!”
It was part of the Dillinger signature. The element of surprise was planned and on the gang’s side for 18 robberies, all over Indiana and Illinois, for a year and a half. Once, he said, Dillinger was caught. But they sent him to Joliet State Penitentiary on a robbery and assault only to become discouraged when the gang helped break him out.
Dillinger thought on his feet, so my grandfather said. His theory was if he told another soul about his plans the cat would be out of the bag. So he thought on his feet and he asked a trash truck driver if that truck were pretty easy to drive when the guards had let him and his cell mates out in the yard to exercise. Johnny D. hit that guard with his huge fist and got in that trash truck and drove. Bugsy Malone, Baby Faced Nelson and a few others in the gang were waiting outside to get Johnny to safety. He stormed the prison gates in that big trash truck and kept going!
The banks were being robbed again after that. It seemed the most successful bank robber in history liked the dance halls. He visited a blonde beauty in Chicago and some say he was sweet on her. The couple, others say, looked like a farm couple from over here next to Moreland, Indiana, some 100 miles from Mooresville where Dillinger was raised.
Then he would break, smile and go back to reading his newspaper. My first thought was my grandfather was John Dillinger… In later years, I would find out I was probably partially right. The biological John Dillinger was a brown-eyed, 5’6″ farm boy who was a good mechanic and good with his hands all together. Other than the height, and the fact that the 6’0′ Dillnger robbing the banks had blue eyes, the two farm-boy mechanics walked the same, talked the same and met each other in a desperate need for an ala bye person – probably in a Chicago bar where Grandpa was hustling pool about the time John Herbert Dillinger showed up for a drink after being released from prison.
John Herbert Dillinger, baseball player and married man from Mooresville, robbed that town’s grocery store, or at least tried to do so, and went to jail for eight years. When he got out, his wife was divorcing him and there was no work to be found under the Dillinger name. If only he could put that bad name to use.
He met a girl in Chicago named Birdie Lawrence, who said she loved the name Jimmy. Birdie was also a flapper, just like the bank robber’s main squeeze Marvel. A flapper was a girl who worked in a speak easy, illegal night club that served alcohol. Birdie smoked Chesterfield cigarettes and drank coke with real cocaine in it, just like Marvel did. Jimmy Lawrence, AKA John Herbert Dillinger, and Birdie wanted to be farmers. A trade out idea came to John Herbert and John Hans. John Herbert and Birdie would live on the Nelson farm in Hagerstown for a couple of years while John Hans gathered money to go back into farming his own land after that…
It was a time of wildness for their generation. But let us go back to Hagerstown, Indiana when I was 14. You see, I knew a little more about the Dillinger gang and how John Hans Nelson met and made a deal with John Herbert Dillinger with each passing year.
But I wanted to know if John Hans, who swore his name was Nelson, was somehow the man asking banks for the their G.D. money.
I came in from school and found my old man sitting in his favorite rocking chair, reading the newspaper. I immediately started a verbal jabb on him to see what information came out. In Florida, I explained to the Freedom Fighters this technique is best described as “drawing fire.”
I said to Grandpa, “Grandpa, I did a term paper on John Dillinger and looked all sorts of information up in the dictionary and Brutannica encyclopedia. But some of it did not agree with what you said happened.”
This made the old man drop his newspaper to the floor, sit with his elbows on his bony knees in those overalls, and say, “Like what?”
I said, “Well for one thing, it said Baby Faced Nelson shot a deputy during a robbery. You said the robberies came off with no real wounding gun play.”
Grandpa got mad. He stood up and started calling Baby Faced Nelson a low-IQ sorry SOB that could not follow a damn order no matter how hard he tried. He called Nelson trigger happy and uncontrollable. Grandpa had been a straight A student in school and you might be surprised how eloquently he could talk to you if he really wanted your attention.
Grandpa also spoke Indiana farmer’s ease, a crude form of cussing where those who participate are supposed to invent the most vulgar ways to talk known to man. He was good at this. So am I.
“When Nelson shot that deputy, I fired him, I fired him quick see because innocent bloodshed was not what I wanted. I wanted to shift the economy a bit and give the working man a chance to hold up his head and be proud somebody was protesting governmental regulations. Too many rules strangled too many little men. But as to Baby Face, always remember he is no blood relative of ours. He was a killer and I had to get rid of him. We were there to get $100,000 a bank and get out. (the takes varied according to history but $100,000 was what the federal government insured at the time) That’s all.”
I looked at him and said, “You fired Baby Face Grandpa? I thought Dillinger did that (gotcha I thought to myself).” He looked at me, got real quiet and went back to reading his newspaper.
From time to time, we would talk of a robbery. He seemed to know the details of every move Dillinger had made. Then I was watching television late one night and caught a special on the gangster. It showed an old clip of him being arrested in Kendleville, Indiana, on his second and final incarceration.
The television reporter asked the robber, “Mr. Dillinger, I understand you give part of these 20’s to widow women in their back yards. Is that true?”
The robber turned to him, as he was unloading his pockets and pulled out a pocket-watch that looked strangely familiar. I had seen one just like it packed away in the drawers of the living room cabinet on many occasion.
“Yes, I like to help people who would work if they could. But our government won’t see fit to concentrate on that so somebody has to feed them. The government steals money from the people through high taxes. I take that money from the federally insured banks and give it back to the people who should have had it in the first place,” he said. “But tonight, all of that ends. These coppers got my pocket-watch, my money and the worst part is I had a date later tonight with my best girl. Well, at least I will have a bed to sleep in.”
Laughter followed. I swear the guy in that movie was the spitting image of a young John Hans Nelson. The rest of that story, according to my grandfather, and according to what history I have been able to uncover, was that “Mr. Dillinger” somehow got a hold of a prison knife (shank) and carved a bar of soap in the shape of a pistol. Then he waited for his supper in that city jail. A black man was in there with him, smiling and keeping real quiet.
Officer friendly brought the food and Dillinger asked him what was going on in that front office? He said he thought he heard someone coming in the front. The officer turned and Dillinger pushed the soap to his neck.
“Now give me those keys copper.” “Sure Johnny,” he said. “Just don’t get excited.” Dillinger and the black fellow left the jail without further ado, locking Officer friendly in his own jail. Rumor has it the man later said he was honored to have had John Dillinger escape from his jail. Again, from that day on, the blue-eyed bank robber, with the jovial laugh, never got caught again.
The black fellow that was in there with him went and got drunk in an Indianapolis bar and bragged about escaping. He was subsequently collared by the coppers and returned to his cage.
Allegedly, John Dillinger was killed in front of the Biograph Theater somewhere around July of 1934, in a hail of Tommy gun bullets fired by federal agents working for J. Edgar Hoover, then head of the FBI. Hoover’s top agent was there firing as well. His name was Melvin Purvis. But when the corpse was turned over, it was strangely short… about 5’6″ and the eyes on that corpse were brown. Fingerprints revealed it was John Herbert Dillinger all right. His father, and sister Audrey Hancock, claimed the body and took it back to Indiana for burial.
Ironically, Audrey Hancock was my biological mother’s maiden name as well.
Years later, Grandpa would tell this story and hint at a conversation where he talked to J. Edgar Hoover. He said his best friend in life was Lawrence Hoover, a fellow fisherman. He said the name Jimmy Lawrence was the alias John Herbert Dillinger used when he hoped to run away with his fiance Birdie Lawrence to raise their child on his share of the bank robbery booty. For you see, the biological Dillinger got a share of the money for loaning his “bad name” to an Indiana farmer with a “good name” so that good name could come back to society after the robberies were over.
But Jimmy Lawrence, AKA John Herbert Dillinger, had his face altered to avoid a connection with the very similar face of John Hans Nelson, AKA Johnny Dillinger… The face looked different but a lady in red ratted out John Herbert Dillinger to avoid being sent back to Hungary. Dillinger was going to go out on a date with Birdie. The lady in red, his land lady, wanted to go along, so the couple said sure.
When the lady dressed in red stood next to John Herbert Dillnger, the fireworks from the feds began. After the killing of John Herbert Dillinger, our Mr. Hoover got a very provocative telephone call from a bank robber.
“This is John Hans Nelson Mr. Hoover,” my grandfather allegedly said. “Yes John, what can I do for you?”
“I am the one who robbed your GD 18 banks, not that unfortunate stooly you shot.”
Hoover’s end of the phone went silent. Then he spoke, “Your name is Nelson sir, not Dillinger. We have no arrest warrants for you. We suggest you go back to your farming lifestyle and enjoy your life. We have a depression on and rumor has it you have a little money saved. The public needed a dead John Dillinger. We gave them one. We solved the case and the public can now move on. Have a great life Mr. Nelson.”
It is said that Melvin Purvis, in his follow-up research kept thinking about the blue eyes verses the brown eyes and how short the victim in Chicago looked compared to the man who escaped Joliet Penitentiary. When he was satisfied what happened, and figured out what J. Edgar Hoover had already accepted as a deal, Purvis knew the wrong man had been shot. The discouraged Melvin Purvis then shot himself…
Grandpa always said a man who would kill himself just took life too seriously and must have had bad nerves…
THE BOAT CONFESSION
When I was 15, some more of the Dillinger story came out. Most of what I just wrote came my way in pieces years later. But here is an actual account of something “old blue eyes” had to say to his grandson.
We had been showing rabbits at the Wayne County Fair, so it must have been August. I suppose it was around 1975. I can not remember if I had started going with my high school sweetheart Joni yet, but if we have our dates right that “honey moon” band camp had just happened that summer. Maybe Grandpa thought of me as more of a man than before.
At any rate, he grew his mustache out and went to the fair. I looked at it in surprise. Sometimes, he said, I like to dress up like the old days. The fisherman afore mentioned, Lawrence Hoover, had just died. We had went by Mabel’s home. She was Lawrence’s wife. Looking back, knowing what I know now, I wonder if the man Lawrence Hoover was John Herbert Dillinger and Birdie Lawrence’s son? It would make sense.
Grandpa said if you wanted to hide, stay right under the nose of the law. They usually did not look there…
I had read, while researching my afore mentioned history paper, that John Herbert Dillinger always wore a mustache. Historical photos proved that out. So it would make sense that the body double would want to grow a mustache…
I did not mention any of this at the fair, but rather looked my Grandpa dead in the eye, and asked, “Tell me the truth, are you John Dillinger?”
The old man gave me that smile of his and said once a secret was shared with even one other human being it was all of a sudden public knowledge.
Later that day, he invited me to go fishing at the Scout Lake there in Hagerstown. I accepted. I always accepted. He was my hero and best friend. My girl Joni loved my grandparents too. She had to if she was going to be my girl…
So there we were, me and him, row boating around the lake in silence, casting rubber worms under tree branches in an attempt to snag a big bass. And we did too, every now and then. Then I would go back to worm fishing and work on filling up the bucket with blue gills and red ear.
I was not really thinking about my question about Dillinger, as I figured the old man just did not want to admit it or else it was a lie he would just as soon not explain. But all of a sudden, he started talking. And this is what he had to say.
“My name is Nelson. My best friend’s name was Lawrence Hoover. It was taken from the two names of Jimmy Lawrence (AKA John Herbert Dillinger) and J. Edgar Hoover, the FBI leader from back when I was young. These men did me a favor back then. I wanted to farm bad boy and I had lost my hogs to the cholera and what little money I had. I met somebody who helped me and then I came up with a plan to go back into farming without any trouble.”
I listened awhile longer as he paused. Then he said, “My name is Nelson, but I have always been good at playing poker, pool and checkers. But my loves, besides your grandmother, have always been farming and fishing. I did what I had to do to continue both.
“But when I came home, people thought I was a bank. I loaned them money for awhile but most could not pay it back. So I started giving away gasoline, food and other things people had to have to survive. I suppose that had to do for them. If I kept giving away money, I would have lost the farm again. And I had to keep farming.”
I took this information, pieced it together with some dates and historical accounts, and then came up with my theory. John Hans Nelson robbed those GD banks of their GD money. And he GD it to hell got away with it. That is my story, and I, John Hancock Nelson, am sticking to it.
When my grandfather died, it took our family attorney, Ralph Lafuse, six months to find all of his bank accounts the man had scattered here, there and yonder. He had a couple hundred thousand dollars and two farms paid for, after medical and final expenses. But he had another $428,000, so I was told, hid out around this country… Not bad for a small time Indiana corn and hog farmer.
He also paid $20,000 cash for my Daddy’s medical education and who knows how much for my journalism degree. I do know he gave me $144,000 in pieces from my college graduation in 1982 until his death on Jan. 22, 1989.
In Chapter 7, I want to shift gears and discuss my love for music and how my grandparents were quite an influence in that realm as well.
Chapter 7; Music: from Clarinet, to Coronet
to Piano to Guitar to Voice
I suppose I came on this earth loving music. I remember listening to my grandmother sing “Three Little Birds” and thinking that was just the best song ever. It was something about three little birds up in the top of a tree, tree, tree. And they looked so sweet and they were so sweet.
Later in life, when I had my daughter Kelley, I used to bounce her on my knee and sing, “My little girl is a pretty little girl and a pretty little girl is she. And she looks so sweet and she is so sweet and her name is Kelley Marie.”
Now I have my 2-year-old grand daughter Rayne Rose Marie. I bounce her on that same knee, and you guessed it, I sing, “My little girl is a pretty little girl and a pretty little girl is she. And she looks so sweet and she is so sweet and her name is Rayne Rose Marie, Marie. And her name is Rayne Marie!”
So back to my musical history, other than loving songs on the radio like, Those Boots are Made for Walking, and Mr. Bojangles and of course, Piano Man, I played around with the piano in the church basement and learned to play Inna Gadda Da Veda by Iron Butterfly. I played clarinet for 7 years, trumpet for 5 years and then took up guitar. I wrote 150 songs using guitar chords and actually just about got on an album in Memphis with “So Easy.”
I also had several fans and dorm buddies who liked one I wrote called, “Junk Yard Full of Dreams.” Here are the lyrics to those two:
So Easy, I need you so easy.. I need you so easy. I ain’t asking you to sacrifice. I ain’t asking you to like. But once in awhile two souls meet more than once before they die.
So easy, I need you so easy. I will admit the paths of love, don’t cross out loneliness nearly enough. But all you get in life equals all you give up. So easy, I need you so easy…
Junk Yard Full of Dream
I am feeling old today, what are we going to do? The bills keep on mounting and your nervousness does too. Hell its only money and I never cared for that. I got my dreams, though tattered and worn, I smile like an alley cat.
Can’t you see we’re sinking, It ain’t working like you said. The cob webs of your dreams are sinking fast and the spider just can’t be fed.
I got you and this old guitar. We’re gonna save our songs. We’ll make all of those dreams come true and it won’t take that long.
Oh I can tell you believe it, and I dig that scene. But what you really got is a rusted out engine and a junk yard full of dreams…
Yes sir, that was the song. I used to sing it and think of my first wife, Renee. She laughed at me in some ways and believed in me in others. I was immature and did not value her friendship nearly as much as I should have. I blame hormones and just being too young in my mind to be married.
But the point is, one time she told me John Nelson would have his own newspaper. She was just sure of it. I was too. Since then, I have owned and operated the Bryant Community Press, the Marmaduke Chronicle, The Magnet Cove Community News, The East Poinsett County Progress and the Southern Arkansas Tailgate News Magazine. I still own that last one, seven years to date, and you may very well be reading this book chapter in said magazine.
Two years ago, after 32 years in print media, I went website and Facebook Widget site hit circulation proof. I put out 12 to 16 magazine pages that can be printed but instead I use Word Press to present them to between 3,500 and 6,000 site hits a Friday.
So yes Renee, John really did have his own newspaper. As a matter of fact, all of my dreams pretty well came true. Now then, I would not mind having a bit of money to go with all of this stuff. Time will tell on that one…
But still, love is the thing I have always wanted most. In So Easy, I wrote it at age 19 for my old girlfriend Joni Michelle. That is only 36 years ago at this writing. I continued to write music until I was about 30. I still have a good many of the songs. Now I have written a few since, but nothing that really stands out in my mind. I still put a poem in this magazine every week and my guitar still sits in the corner of this office begging for attention.
One of these days I will write 100 more songs. Who knows. Some might even get some site hits.
I just wrote another one. I will put it in the paper this week as a poem called, “So Tired of Me.” Those of us who spend hours alone get that way from time to time. I sang to the song to edit it. One day soon I will get my old guitar down and write some chords for it.
I grew up with my grandparents as an only child. Writing music and singing music was how I passed a lot of lonely hours. As a magazine writer, living with a girl who enjoys spending a lot of time alone doing her own thing, I find myself once again with time to think, time to create and time to get to know the real me.
Perhaps it is time to write more music again. I have had about all I want of the music my current world or memories has to offer. Sometimes I get tired of me… just might be my come-back kid tune and find a bit of Intenet popularity.
At the beginning of this book, we had a chapter on band. I shared a few of my more tender musical memories in it. Those band kids were my true chums back in high school. I suppose then I should have known I could never get away from being a writer.
But I fear I have broken the Mark Twain rule here. Twain, Samuel Clemmons that is, once said life is much too important to be taken seriously. So let’s revisit a football game, say about the fall of 1976. My classmate and quarterback Jeff Bell had the ball. He came barreling down through our opponents and made a great pass. I have no memory of who caught the ball, only that they ran it in and the extra point was good too!
This was significant, because I think it was the only time our team scored that entire season. I was in pep band with my coronet at the time, playing charge as they ran in the ball and taps when the other team scored a couple three times and put us back down with the chickens doing that pecking thing.
This was Indiana and football season sometimes got pretty cold. But those band uniforms were heavy so me and my fellow musicians did not really mind.
High school was also the time I listened to rock and roll a lot in my bedroom. I had my speakers set up in an amateur surround sound type deal. I had an elephant light and I even had earphones so I could listen after 11 p.m. The folks always crashed about 11, as the day began early on the farm.
I mentioned earlier that I know how to play Inna Godda Da Veda by Iron Butterfly on the piano. I used to play it a lot as I watched that elephant light. This was before beer and smokes. Back then all I had was the music.
Grandpa Nelson must have thought all the hippy music was some crazy stuff. At any rate, because Johnny Boy enjoyed it, John Hans was determined to join in. The old man loved dancing. He would come in my room and dance a jig right there in front of me. He loved the drum solo. One night he came in with two trash can lids and added his own symbol play, along with his usual dancing. He had to be 80 at the time, or pretty close. Let’s see, I was 14. He adopted me at 66 so yep, 80 he was and what a music man!
I don’t know if he thought I would be offended, but I wasn’t. I loved his act! Sure wish I had it on video as we explore this memory. Grandma stayed in the living room, but when I looked around the corner at her, she was laughing fit to be tied.
And you will not believe this. But as we speak to one another through these words on the page, I have been listening to The Band, “The Weight,” and Marshall Tucker Band, “Can’t You See.”
Music changed a bit for me as I got older. I bought a guitar and an amp and started playing my songs and a few copy band songs. I have always been the writer and singer more than the guitar performer so the good Lord blessed me in college with Tony and Mark in my dorm. They played lead and base guitar and we had a lot of fun. We even named our little band “Bold Tiger.” Those two were from England and they could make guitars sing right along with whatever I could create or copy.
Oh I realize our technology has changed so much, but the cloud I am on when I am singing stuff like Billy Joel, “The Piano Man,” is still has soft and fluffy as ever. It is like another world to me, a world without bills, worries, or even goals to reach. It is simply wonderful.
When I get to heaven, hopefully in another 70 years or so, I want to tune up a harp and get a few angels to join in. They can play the harp and I will sing. So yes, I love music. I love country and rock especially. I love old hymns and old Pentecostal gospel too. So does my current wife on that last part.
Michelle is quiet natured like Grandma was. She is there and she is a loving soul, but she never tries to up stage my act. I appreciate that. I am a writer and not too bad at it I guess. I am a salesman and good enough to make a living. But music is my heart. Music is my soul. I long to tell you about it – in a song….
Chapter 8: My addiction to writing…
I suppose getting started as a writer comes to everyone in a different way. Me, it all started at 8 years old when I was pecking out sentences on an Underwood typewriter to have something to do on a long Saturday morning alone.
You see, as previous chapters have indicated, I grew up an only child with my Dad’s parents on a farm in Indiana. I raised rabbits and cats, helped with the gardening, hunted wild rabbits in Warfle’s woods and rode around on my Grandpa’s tractor with him while he let me shift gears back then. Being 8 on a farm was actually a lot of fun.
I started writing simple stories. Every night, when I got home from school, I would hurry up and get all of my rabbits fed so I could watch Dark Shadows on television before I tackled any homework I might have. Back in my day, there was actually very little homework except a weekly list of spelling words. I would go over them in the mornings with my grandmother about four mornings out of five to make sure I did not miss any on Friday’s test. I am sure I did miss one occasionally, but for the most part I got 100s.
School to me was very important. You see my biological Daddy was an excellent student. He was said to have made all A’s and he became a neurologist. Talk about big shoes to fill… I usually made 5 A’s and a B on most report cards. I always said it was because I refused to work hard on subjects that bored me to tears, but to get below a B would have been academically embarrassing so I worked at least that hard.
I ended up with a 3.79 out of 4.0 in high school and a 3.4 out of 4.0 in college. Both of those scores amounted to an A and an A- /B + average. School is hard for some. For me it was fairly easy, but I just could not hatch in my soul that love for money to turn my grades into golden nuggets. I understand my daughter Erin Anne has it. God bless her. Maybe she is giving her excess to the homeless or something. I do know she has a kind heart and I miss her very much. I have not seen my oldest in years.
But getting back to my history, every boy has to have something in his veins. I went from typing stories about vampires at 8 years old to writing for the sixth grade newspaper and developing comic strips, to being a janitor and inventory boy at the weekly newspaper in high school to writing copy for the Delaware County Sports Times and the Muncie Weekly News at Ball State University where I graduated.
I also wrote for the Ball State Daily Student. Somewhere in there, I remember realizing that personality features were my favorite kind of writing. I had a friend that was a woodworker, an old veteran who had retired as the head of security at a Connersville industry. I wrote one of my first features on A.J. My friend Ed Janes, from the journalism department at Ball State University, took the pictures of A.J. Stein as he worked on his wood.
Ah the days of divided labor. Now I write 90 percent of my stories, take 90 percent of the photos and put the paper together for 16 pages a week. Plus I sell and make up all of the advertising, which supports this glamorous lifestyle I live in the lower middle class style of a king in Gurdon, Arkansas. Actually, I love my simple life. I did go in debt for my two good cars, the house and some home improvement, such as windows, a new porch and redone kitchen ceiling this past year. Hopefully all of those payments will be well over with and a decent savings started in their place before I am 65.
The debts should be done at 61 and then I will save a few hundred a month until I retire from the advertising business somewhere around 75. Being used to the payments, my plan is to go to Edward Jones and get the automatic bank draft thing going. Maybe that way I can finance a few gardens, raise a few rabbits and enjoy some fishing coupled with an occasional game of golf. But oh yes, writing. There I go chasing rabbits again, and this close to Easter.
Writing is something I will probably do until the day I die. And if me and the good Lord are indeed on the same page, that won’t be for more than 7 decades on top of the breathing time I have already had on planet earth. My wife says if God grants my request, I may not like what the world is like in 2084. I bet I will. And I bet I will still be writing a blog on the Internet about it, paid advertising or not. And knowing me, I will always do the Tailgate News but when I hit my mid 70’s I am sure I will at least cut it back to 12 pages a week so I have more time for that fishing, gardening and golfing.
So let’s talk about the pen some more. When I went to college, I tried to major in optometry. My grades in Calculus were not the best, B+ average, but what really got me was the C+ I got in freshman biology. Sure, half the class flunked and that grade could have gotten me admitted to Optometry School there in Indiana because most of my other grades were A’s. As I say, I finished college with a 3.4. That really is not so bad and I believe being an optometrist would have been a fine career.
But I was in love with writing and ended up majoring in magazine journalism with a minor in psychology. I knew it was aiming for a struggle money wise. And it still is a struggle, even in the blog/digital publication world.
But the pay from selling ads on the net is more spendable income because I no longer have a print bill and I can come out once a week to keep my ads turning like worms in a dirt pile for fishing. So far, so good. That is, the balancing act continues.
So somewhere around my second year of college, I began to realize journalism was what I wanted as a career. I considered law school after college, but decided “Mark Twaining it” was what I wanted and so by golly that was what I was going to do. My grandparents stood beside me all the way. I wish they had lived to see me now. For a writer, the digital income is about as close to success as I have ever gotten.
There are days when I think about trying to get this book published one day and live off of royalties on some island somewhere, but most of the time I just dream of breaking even and putting a few bucks back for a nice vacation or two more.
As with all of us, it depends on whether or not I can stay reasonably healthy, and if I can find someone to buy this book or some subsequent fiction based novels I have planned. This one is a get to know me type of affair. And as I always told my daughter Kelley, who I at least partially raised, “If Daddy is not writing, Daddy is not working.”
THE REAL WRITER
But let’s get down to it. I could give you background all day long and talk about features that AP liked in the various newspapers where I worked as a reporter/editor over a 34 year so far career, but let’s just say I did win a few awards for my writing and photography. Those awards did not pay very many bills, but man the trip down the road I took was fun, at least for the most part.
I had a couple of week-long hospital stays from the money stress and stress of my non-conventional life style, coupled with a lack of diligence in taking a pill a day to keep the bad moods away, but for the most part my biggest problem was living on pennies and dreams for so many years. Now, living on credit cards, car payments, a house payment and a window payment, those old days are in the rear view mirror unless my wife and I can not stay healthy enough these next few years to get the house, the windows, and the two cars paid off, along with getting those credit card debts to being collectively under $1,000.
Again, as soon as the major investments are paid, it will be time to get back into the money tree lifestyle of Edward Jones. And the best part of being a writer like me, with a home, a pretty wife of 16 years, a career as a magazine publisher that I love, friends that are better to me than I deserve and a God that is definitely better to me than I deserve, is I agree with song writer Jimmy Buffett, “If it suddenly ended tomorrow, I could somehow adjust to that plight, good times and riches and sweet sunny beaches, I’ve seen more than I can recall.” Yes, I cleaned that up. We are, after all, a Christian publication that wants to at least make an attempt at overcoming obvious sins.
And that is really hard for me when it comes to swearing. Outside of writing and singing, swearing an entire new language is one of my pleasures in life. And so I must keep my temper and my mouth sweet. And when I mess up, I must follow my colorful expletives with some serious apologizing to Jesus Christ and anyone else in ear shot.
But to be a real writer, you have to live what you are writing about. I write about the financial struggles and loving and living struggles of the common salaried man. Here is one time when I collected a little of that poor boy wisdom to use in my writing.
I lived in a trailer park in Alexander, Arkansas where a possum came up the dryer vent and screamed at me around 2 a.m. I screamed back as I was taking a golf putter to the darn thing!
I was the editor and advertising director of the Bryant Community Press at that time and it must have been around 1991. My wife and small child, Kelley Marie, came out of the bedroom to see what Daddy was screaming about. Both of them laughed so much they were fit to be tied! Finally, the possum went back down the hole and I was declared the winner of the fight.
Now folks, on a normal salary, or credit card allowance and pay back scheme like I have today, a fellow would not have had such a privilege as fighting with that possum. And man can I tell you about old cars. I have had some vehicles that were about 20 steps below the definition of clunkers. I would always have to find a kind hearted mechanic. Sure I knew car payments would have been cheaper and easier, but I had not decent credit score and no chance of getting a bank loan on a reporter’s salary, so all of that stuff was out of the question.
But man did I write back then, feature after feature, investigative news story after investigative news story and whatever else the publishers and editors wanted from me. My old writing mentor, D.L Bailey of Helena/West Helena/Jonesboro, used to say, “You have to get a bit faster on the story turnouts and quit working so darn many hours or you will burn out. You have worked for nearly every editor in Arkansas and we all like your work. Stay healthy and stay happy in your writing. It is the only way for those of us with printer’s ink in our blood to survive this big old, bad old, world.”
Dee taught me that all of the writing rules I had learned in college were just guide lines and that the main thing was conveying information that was “easily read and readily appreciated.” He also taught me the value of a photograph that made people smile or admire the fact that those in the picture were accomplishing something. Journalism is supposed to be about people in the picture. Now and then, as a magazine editor since 2007, I break that old newspaper rule, but I still adhere to it for the most part.
I remember running into another couple of fellows who had the printer’s ink in their blood over Marmaduke, Arkansas way. Ronnie and Roger Hardin loved publishing their sports copy and photos in the Marmaduke Chronicle every week for four years. With four of us drawing money out, paychecks and print bills were a struggle to say the least, but as my wife pointed out, we still never missed a meal. The Hardin’s called the paper “our labor of love.”
By the time I threw 3,000 copies a week all over Greene County and mailed out my 400 and some paid subscription list there in Marmaduke, it sometimes seemed like our labor of love was about to bury us. But we kept going, right up until 911 when the economy came to a screeching halt and the worst happened, I had to get a real job for awhile… I got one as a sports writer for Mark Bivens, then editor of the Malvern Daily Record. I had known Mark since we were reporters for the Bltytheville Courier News back in the 1980’s. He recently retired, which seriously freaked me out. I realize his health failed him, but for a purpose driven writer to stop writing, most of the time it is a funeral parlor that they land in next. Hopefully Mark is still secretly writing and we will hear from him again.
For a writer, like me or Mark, or Joe May in Amity, D.L. Bailey in Jonesboro or Joe Phelps in Arkadelphia, there is always something else to say. At least it seems like those guys fall in my category of looking at things. But then again, some people bail out of the career that I would have never thought would. A friend of mine who climbed pretty high in a chain newspaper is trying to get a trading post going here in Gurdon. She quit her editing job to “take off the stress.” Man, if I was not writing at all, the stress of boredom would soon catch up to me. But I wish Wendy Ledbetter all the luck in the world with her trading post.
As for me, I always told my daughter Kelley, “Kelley, Daddy is a writer and writers write.”