Dirt Road Tales

  Friends with Benefits Whiskey and Wine always got along fine until one night they tumbled together. What they thought would be nice, a cocktail on ice, left them high, dry, and unfettered. Where she used to be sweet, he simple and neat, now they swirled in a toxic ether, of love and lust that in the end must leave them both feeling under the weather. So keep it in mind that not all pairings wind up as happy as lace and leather. No, these two should stay friends, and not hook-up again, so we all can wake up feeling better.

  The Doodle Mafia My dog, General Sherman, has been saving up his money to get a DNA test. He wants to see if he can up his value and desirability. If by some chance it turns out that he does indeed have some poodle mixed into his typically American mongrelization, it would be the doggy equivalent of having royal bloodlines. I mean, what dog doesn’t dream of being non-shedding, and hypo-allergenic?  With the chance that the test comes back positive, Sherman has been trying to come up with a name for his breed, ie “Labradoodle”, or “Golden-doodle“. He is fully aware that, being Southern and a bit hillbilly, it is likely that his options will be a bit different from the normal everyday doodle varieties. For instance, we know his Grampa Red was a Coonhound, and we cannot find a prefabricated name for a poodle-hound mix, so Sherman tried out “Coonoodle-Doodle” on me this morning. I must admit, it has a sexy ring to it. There is also surely some Beagle blood. While “Poogle” is definitely o

  Weeding Life’s Garden Congratulations my friend, for graduating from the Spring of your life and into its Summer. Gone are the days of rainbows and buttercups. Now the weeds and storm clouds have found their way into the magical garden of childhood. But do not despair! Granted they are many, but they are only clouds and weeds. You have been well prepared! Now is the time to begin using those lessons ingrained by loving parents, wizened mentors, and fastidious teachers. It is an exciting time, a time to accept the responsibility of tending your own little plot, for it is not age that makes us adult, it is the willingness and ability to accept responsibility. Coming soon is the time for you to step out alone, to discover who you are, to ferret out new ideas, to plan for your own future rather than having it planned out for you. And now is the time to begin seeing life on this Earth for what it truly is, a roller coaster ride of mountains and valleys, pleasures and pains, loves and loss

  The Night Hag Matilda Twitty was young and pretty, the princess of Fairly Hall. And popular too, nearly everyone knew her well as the belle of the ball. The trouble though, what they couldn’t know, was that Tildy had a twin, an evil tart with an onyx heart who used magic to do men in. Tabitha Twitty was unknown in the city as the family hid her away, in an upstairs site, where they hoped they might keep her villainous powers at bay. But the men from town, determined and bound that Matilda see their allure, came to call, at Fairly Hall on its princess so fair and demure. But what the boys got was not what they thought as they serenaded their love. Those courtships were jaded, while the boys promenaded, Tabitha spied on them from above. Sipping her wine, biding her time, unseen from her garret’s gable. Awaiting her chance while ”Sweet Tildy“ danced, to cut in and turn the table.  This sis in the attic was a raging addict who when the night grew late, would sneak below, and steal the so

  The Cure for What Ails Ya Deep in the Ecuadorian rainforest, shaded forever from light by a dense canopy formed beneath the ever drip, drip, dripping leaves of a thick and ancient stand of kapok trees, rooted in the rotted, but vitamin rich vegetation that lies atop the mud-slick slime that must do for soil in this fetid place, grows a malodorous, mushroom shaped fungi that if ever swallowed by man will prove to be the cure for all that physically and mentally plagues him in this world... if only he could ever find it, and once found pick the slimy thing from the ground, and once picked be curious enough, brave enough, and hungry enough to put the disgusting thing into his mouth, chew it up, and swallow. If only ever. Sigh...

  Fill’er Up, Please Fifteen minutes of love is only twenty bucks at the Springfield Flying J Truck Stop. She ran off from the place a few months back when the manager of the joint grew soft on her, but his business fell so slack so that he had to get her back, no matter the cost. Fortunately, it wasn’t hard for Pete to find her. She was only one exit down, at the Circle 10 Fuel and Fireworks. Her name is Windy, and like a vacuum she sucks in the big rigs, giving her drivers not just the quick pump and go, but a warm shower afterwards too, and a bite of cherry pie at the counter. She truly loves those truckers, so she throws herself into the job, and in so doing she keeps those lonely men coming for miles around. It was really all her fault, and Windy knew it. Like any good employee, she tried to be sweet to the boss, even to suck up a little, but when Pete started balling her out about laying down on the job, it made satisfying her customers extremely tricky. I mean, how can he tell h

  Riverdance Happenstance was what rolled her to her back, happenstance and a boat’s wake were all that could, but she watched from that attitude as the waves rippled across a green-tint sky with yellow clouds afloat like she, drifting peaceful like she, and the currents swirling ’round her. It’s all there was, was to watch. The doing was done. She read once that a brain might live for two minutes after the final breath, and now she knew it was so. She felt herself bobbing like the surface waves, like she was a wave. Like that bubble from her throat her two minutes floated up.

  Riverdance Happenstance was what rolled her to her back, happenstance and a boat’s wake were all that could, but she watched from that attitude as the waves rippled across a green-tint sky with yellow clouds afloat like she, drifting peaceful like she, and the currents swirling ’round her. It’s all there was, was to watch. The doing was done. She read once that a brain might live for two minutes after the final breath, and now she knew it was so. She felt herself bobbing like the surface waves, like she was a wave. Like that bubble from her throat her two minutes floated up.

  Makin’ it Rain Ever since his genetic tests came back, my dog General Sherman has been practicing his moves in the hopes that he might be asked to join Australia’s “Thunder Down Under.” Unfortunately, he missed out on the Doodle Mafia thing, but the tests did show some Aussie Shepherd blood mixed into his American mongrel, opening the doors for a dancing dingo dynamo. I will admit that I held higher aspirations for The General than just shaking his money-maker for a room full of screaming women. I have been diligent in his training, he has never had anything but the very best single malt scotches, and Cuban cigars. I was willing to pay his way into any obedience school that would have him, but I finally came to grips with his choice when I realized that there really is no higher aspiration than shaking your money-maker for a room full of screaming women. And so, to Pookey-Bear’s dismay and laughing disbelief, I have decided to quit my job and join General Sherman at the Thunder Down

  Connecting the Dots I was lying on my back in the wet grass trying to connect the multitude of dots in the night sky, so that I could then paint between their lines. My hope was that a picture of God might emerge from out of the chaos, but then the breaking dawn either completed the painting for me, or erased all of my work. I wish I knew which.

  The Water Boy Jimmy “The Water Boy” Jefferson was found fully clothed, hanging by a belt. One end of the belt was wrapped around his neck, the other around a running shower head. Even Jimmy’s very last toss had landed right side up. Jimmy Jefferson was a youngster with a gift. He could toss a partially filled, plastic water bottle, flipping it by it’s neck, and make it land upright every single time. Jimmy had watched videos of people tossing them on YouTube and tried it. His first attempt failed, but something connected inside him. He felt the water’s weight, and the bottle’s shape, and the distance to the landing spot. Jimmy visualized the bottle flipping awkwardly through the air, twirling at the perfect height, and with the perfect number of rotations to land cleanly on the tabletop, and it became so simple that he never missed again. Jimmy was showing off his newly acquired talent in the lunchroom at school the next day when Mr. Bailey noticed the gathering crowd. When he inquir

  Hidden Gems There were one hundred heavily armed soldiers behind me as I wound my way through the deep forrestation surrounding the Congo River. There was no slowing down, and certainly no time to rest. They got on my trail at Monono, and pursued me through two full days of all out running under unrelenting monsoon rains. The pack on my back was heavy, being filled with millions of dollars worth of unprocessed diamonds which had been secreted away from the kimberlite mines of Botswana, and the DRC. I would be a rich man if I could make it to Lake Tanganyik, and if I could bribe a fisherman to take me to Tanzania, and if I could get aboard the train at the Kogoma railhead to Dar Es Salaam. Granted, there were a lot of “if’s” but it was also a lot of money.  I found a cave on the Kombola completely by chance. A waterfall had, over the centuries, worn away the rock behind the falls, leaving a space large enough for a man to walk into, while the water itself provided a veil to the entran

  While Walking Never really thought about a “favorite” flower before, but: I like the smell of honeysuckle when it hits you unexpected like, when you are just walking, your mind adrift, and the scent seeks you from out of the blue. I like a magnolia, 40’ tall and covered in giant, white blooms. Reminds me of home. I like the heartiness of a dandelion. Little SOB never gives up til you get his roots. I like the azaleas when I watch The Masters, and the cherry blossoms in DC, the peach blossoms in Atlanta, and a ’Nawlins fuscia. I like the clematis Pooky-Bear planted on the back fence. But mostly I like the smell of a honeysuckle when I am walking.

  The Ghost in the Machine While he was muddling the mint leaves together with the sugar in the bottoms of our julep cups, my dog, General Sherman, posed me an interesting question. “Do dogs have souls?” I added the crushed ice and bourbon to each silver cup, stirred briskly until the outside of the cups were frosty, took an evaluatory sip (which was found to be satisfactory), and returned to my seat beneath the ceiling fan on our shaded porch, the perfect spot to ruminate on the matter, and pray tell to deliberate through peaceable discourse... at least to the point where General Sherman’s views branched so sharply away from my own as to lead to a discordance. After all, a man and his dog should always remain civil towards one another. “According to Christianity,“ I pointed out, “dogs do not have souls, and therefore cannot be admitted to heaven.” ”Sadly true,” responded General Sherman, “but Hindus believe otherwise, and so admitted the dog along with the other animals into their cyc

  A Simplistic Sonnet A healthy dose of poetical prose  sprinkled like rose petals on silken sheets, pulls the eye across elliptical rows to that place where language and story meets. Should your own voice seek that lyrical style that frames beauty wherever you want it; with candle lit, you may sit and beguiled by the master of both script and sonnet. There awaits a teacher with lessons nigh brooding silent on literature’s shelf; craving the twinkle in a lover’s eye; to guide you through your inspection of self. So, hark! Ye scribes whose musings will not fly, read Shakespeare and learn to lift them on high!

  Gold Digger Granny had a heart of gold, she wouldn’t hurt a fly. But the dear could not help everyone, no matter how she tried. Up late one night and couldn’t sleep, she turned the TV on And caught the end of “Prayer Time,” with Reverend Jesse John. Granny watched the preacher tell a tale about a friend, A goodly lad, who knew no bad, and never tried a sin. He didn’t drink, nor smoke, nor cuss, this good man that he knew, but only worked, and never shirked a Sunday in the pew. And how the Reverend Jesse John did work for Granny’s heart, Expounding tales of woes and jails with histrionic art. He mined that heart, and dug its gold, and never cared a bleep, that the check she sent was for her rent, and put her in the street. But dear old Granny, bless her soul, has found her angel’s wings all the joys that heaven holds, are in the song she sings While one mistake became the fate of the Reverend Jesse John A plain mistake, anyone could make, unwound his holy con. The reverend never dodge

  In My Hour of Dying... I will not count down the minutes.  No. I will roll off of her, and playfully slap her bare bottom. I might even light a smoke. A cigarette used to be good afterwards, back in the old days, the nicotine soothing after the vastly increased heart rate. Besides, why the hell not? I will definitely sip whiskey, a good bourbon that tingles sweet and smoky like root beer against the tip of my tongue. I will close my eyes as it spreads its familiar fire, flushing my heart and belly with warmth while it slowly leaches through me. But mostly, I bid the toxins come to soothe unsteady nerves.  I will tug into my boots, so that I might die as I lived, tooth and nail. I will go outside. I will invite  The End  to meet me beneath the sun, or the stars. As  The End  chose the time, I shall choose the place. I will lean my back hard against the rough bark of an oak tree and scratch a dog’s ears. Those ears will be soft, like velvet in my stiffening fingers. I will look back wi

  For Fun, Gus As a lover of history who likes a good mystery I often ask myself why, anyone ever thought it could be clever to give a mushroom a try? Think on it, y’all! What idiot saw a truffle and thought that it, despite the smell might taste just swell, even though it was growing in shit.

  The Hell Daddy Raised The things I’ve done I’ve done for fun for life, for love, for kicks. So to the prudes who found me rude and those I’ve given fits. I’ll say again to paraphrase Twain, “God made only one of me, But if heaven is banned to this kind of man, then hell should have good company.”

  The Key It was late summer-early autumn. School was back in swing. The days were warm, the nights cool, the moons sharp.  For a fifteen year old boy waking up to the wider world it felt that life was tilted on edge, hanging on a precipice. There were so many directions to take, so many paths, not the least of which was to just let go, and fall into the chasm. She was older, and she did the work. She would have had to. I had noticed her before, had caught her glances in the hallways, and on the bus, but girls were a newly discovered attraction, and a mysterious one. I suspected what those glances meant, but did not yet know what to do with them. She was new in the neighborhood. She showed up at the courts one day, where we were hanging out, playing ball, “smoking and joking,” as boys will do. She was alone, and unworried by it. She wore short, cut-off jeans below a frilly top that left her mid-riff bare, like her feet. They were unmistakably “after school” clothes... play clothes, if

  Wishing Well Not a wisher, but a doer, be. Work and save frugally. Do without, and stay within those means you make with calloused skin. Invest more, ingest less be lean, strong, and worry-less. Set a sail that no wind of change nor turning tide can re-arrange. You’ll find that surplus is not greed but security, for those you lead, with a little left for those in need; Joy - born of philanthropy.

  More a Brother I had a friend once.  We grew up together. Same neighborhood. We played sports together, learned to smoke together, walked to school together. When school ended we shared an apartment. In it we shared women, weed, beer, and our philosophies on each. We shared food, too... when there was any money left over for it. We sweated side-by-side, shirtless under a Southern sun, earning the cash it took to party at NASCAR races, rock concerts, bars, and beaches. We spent sleepless weekends playing chess, darts or poker.  We slept in cars, slept in jails, camped in cemeteries, climbed water towers, and went weeks at a time without power, or water while we scrambled for cash. Sometimes we fought, sometimes we ran, and sometimes we didn’t even give a shit. We eventually grew up, got married, matured, and grew apart. When he died it hurt, even though we had not spoken in ages.  That has been ten or twelve years ago, now. Quiet years. Old years, with easy, comfortable days. Years wi

  To Be Real There is a statue in Verona, standing in the courtyard outside the House of Capulet, of the fair Juliet. She stands where she might once have seen the young Romeo hiding in the shadows, where she might have listened as he compared her own beauty to that of the rising sun, but for her bronzed eyes that cannot see, and her bronze ears that cannot hear. And neither can bronze legs walk away from, nor bronze hands slap at, the cold fingers of tourists who reach happily for her breasts, cupping them for “luck.“ Nor can her bronze feet kick the tourists away as they snap endless selfies of themselves while they rub. No, she must perpetually endure through rain, sun, and cold the throngs who come to shop, eat, polish her nipples, and photograph her heavy smile. “O! To be the real Juliet! To be she of the flesh, and to have let the poison turn a beating heart back to ash, and dust. O! To be a real girl, with a real heart!” Meanwhile, in nearby Tuscany, a wooden statue of Pinocchio

  It is a Friday night, 1982. Southern long-hairs huddle around a fire built of debris stolen from a nearby construction site. Toy Caldwell’s guitar sings through someone’s  boombox into the frigid night air, mixing pleasantly with the smokey odors of burning pinewood and second hand marijuana. There are bursts of laughter, bouts of quiet boredom, and a long night ahead. What to do? Trouble looms. Testosterone hangs thick as the Marlboro smoke. The talk becomes, “what to steal, where to vandalize, who’s ass to kick?” The youngest voice reveals it's youthful naievite, “I’m cool staying right here.” A pretty girl flashes him a friendly smile from across the bon-fire's twirling flames. “Who the fuck are you?” The voice belongs to an older neighborhood tough. His features are sharp in the flickering light, his eyes and cheeks hollow.  The youngster stands. He is slender, athletic. “I ain’t nobody.” “That’s right. You ain’t nobody, so shut up.” The kid shrugs. “These guys do what yo

  A Case for Education Equality is the necessity to freedom. To be free is to be free from domination. Freedom from domination requires everyone concerned to be of equal station, station being Latin for “stand,” or where we stand with other people.  This is the purpose of both our Declaration of Independence and our Constitution, to ascertain that if we as individuals are to have freedom, then the strength to have it must reside in our people’s equality, no one being greater than another. The path to achieving equality of station lies through education, and our ability to use language to influence the choices we make collectively... to debate, and to agree. So, it could be said that equality = community. The word currently bouncing around politically is equity, equity differing from equality in the assumption that some people may need different treatment to make their opportunities the same as another’s. The question then becomes, “how much equity, or differing treatment, to achieve fa