Hello to all of you,

Thanks for coming by and sharing my stories. Unfortunately, my smelly cellie continues to pollute this tiny living space. I am thinking about letting our military know that I have a guaranteed major weapon for them. Just put him downwind any place where there is a threat to us, and they will surrender and beg for mercy.

Here's another happy memory from my days with Grandma and Grandpa:

I spent all of my free time with my Grandma and Grandpa on their farm. I was always the apple of Grandma's eye. We would raise and sell every kind of vegetable you can think of. My favorite time of the year on the farm was mid-August, when we would have a long row of purple-blue Concord grapes, long clusters of the most beautiful grapes I've ever seen. Grandma would cut the top ones, and I would lie on my back on the pine needles and cut the low ones. She would be at peace with the world during these times that we shared together. She told me later on that at that time she and Grandpa had been talking and wondering if I would stay with them when I got out of high school to help them run the farm. Both of them agreed that I would probably get married and wouldn't want to stay with them and help them. That's when I stopped her and told her that I would always stay with them and run the farm, for that is always all I ever wanted to do. If only it would have worked out that way, how different my life might have been.

Sundays were Grandma's fried chicken days. She would start early in the morning. I would be sitting patiently at the kitchen table behind her, with my elbows on the table and my chin cupped in the palms of my hands. She knew I was a leg man, and after the first batch of golden-brown fried chicken was finished, she would grab a paper towel and bring me a hot-out-of-the-pan chicken leg that would melt in your mouth. Then she would pat me on top of my head before returning to the stove to finish cooking. Life was grand then. Who needs to go to heaven? Just let me go over to Grandma's house on Sundays for the fried chicken again. That's my heaven!

Grandpa was a terrific salesman. After Grandma and I had finished picking the ripe vegetables, whatever was left over after eating, canning, and sharing with other family members, he would sell. Surprisingly, he didn't have an old pick-up truck, but a '67 blue Chevy Malibu. We would put into the trunk and back seat of the car the fruits of our labor to sell. Everybody knew Grandpa, from the supermarkets on Jefferson Davis Highway to the Firestone tire store to the Meadowbrook Country Club, we hit them all. And after he and his barefoot grandson had sold everything, I was usually awarded with a six-pack of strawberry Nehi. My life was certainly grand then. If one could choose his heaven to spend his eternity in, that little farm back in the 1960's and 1970's would surely be mine!

See you all again real soon.