Red Velvet Cake

Look, look, can you see

what Sheila has done for me?

Outside is a beautiful sight,

but inside is a tasty delight.

She did for me bake

a red velvet cake.

Collards, pork roast, corn

and potato salad makes me mourn

for more of that cornbread.

And with that I said,

get the hydraulic boom

so out of the dining room

I can get my fat butt

into the dining room, but

first one more piece of cake

that Sheila did bake.

For all the kitchen messing,

for all the blessing

You have bestowed on us

thank you, Lord Jesus.

Mule Shoe

This is a 3 and one half ft by 7 ft cypress slab of wood, 3 and one half inches thick.  I carved the letters into it on both sides.  This is for a four thousand acre hunting plantation on the Alabama side of the Chattahoochee river.

Indian

This is another little Indian that I carved from cedar.  I started it out as a practice for the eyes and I just kept on.  It is eight inches tall, three and one half inches wide and three and one half inches from front to back.

Damascus Road

As we go through this hard life a little help is welcome.  We start out enthusiastic and full of energy, but as time wears on,so do we.  Even though people rush to and fro in every direction and without direction, the final destination is in the same direction.  Wherever we fall is the end for us in this life, but  we merely transition over into a new one. We may think that we die alone, but we don't.  We are greeted by many that have gone on before. If you go by way of the cross, it will be a good life forever.  If not, it will be horrible for a long, long, long time.

Dale County Snake Dance

Carlile Farms was split almost in half by a pretty big creek that still flows over 300 gal. per minute. The side across the creek from the house was always known by the family as "across the creek". When grandpa farmed with mules, he would cross the creek in a narrow shallow spot. He would leave the barn and walk behind the mules about a mile and a half to get to the back side of his property. If he needed grannie to help that day, she would walk also. When he got his first tractor he was able to ride, but grannie did not trust his driving and continued to walk. Not me, I would sit on the left fender, because all the controls were on the right side. I don't know what she was afraid of, he drove so slow that she was always ahead of us.

The land sloped downhill to the creek and the old road was pretty rutted up with some good sized holes and grown up with dog fennels. A perfect snake habitat. Near the bottom of the hill, the road was lower than the sides and large oak trees with moss hanging down from the branches lined each side. The dappled light provided some cool shade that refreshed us all. At the bottom you could go to the pasture on the left or continue on to the creek by going to the right. Since the road split there it was wider and a little more clean since the sand had washed down the hill and settled there.

This particular day was hot and dry. Grannie was so miserable that she was fussing about something that grandpa had done. She was a kind woman, but had a hair-trigger temper. I wasn't concerned though, because it was grandpa's turn today. All of a sudden that old black snake picked that particular time to cross her path. I always thought she was old, but she was younger then than I am now. So she was able to whip that hoe off her shoulder and pin that snake's tail to the ground before he could get out of the way. She always carried a hoe with her to the field. The snake was long enough that when he stretched out he could almost touch her, but she was not about to let that happen. When he lunged straight, she turned to the side, when he went to the left, she went to the right, when he went to the right, she went to the left. When he went high, she ducked, when he went low, she raised her foot. Never once did she turn that hoe loose. Grandpa was yelling at her to kill it or turn it loose, but she was deaf and could not hear him. She was also stubborn and probably would not have listened to him, even if she could. I was amazed and sat there dumbfounded, listening to the soft strains of the Tennessee Waltz playing somewhere in the background.

When the snake realized that he was no match for grannie, he relaxed and lay down on the ground to catch his breath. Grannie told him, when I remove this hoe from your tail and you come at me again, your next dance will be with the devil. As he slithered off, she told me that was a Black Runner.

Grandpa's approach to snakes was quite different. Most of the time that they looked after me, I would stay in the field with him. At mid-morning, I was tired from walking since early that morning. He would plow the mule and I would follow along behind him in the peanut field. The Woods were off to my left about 30' from where we were. The peanuts were lapped together in the middle and about as thick as a field of kudzu. I was a sleep boy walking, when all of a sudden he yelled....Snake, go to the edge of the field. I probably stepped over 3 on the way there, but if I had not done as he said, there would be heck to pay. He never slowed down; if the snake did not bite him, he did not have time to fool with it. Following him in that field kept me out of trouble, but made me think that there must be an easier way to make a living.

The End of The Year of the Windmill

At long last I have completed the windmill project.  A lot of hard work, sweat and tears went into this.  When I sit in the swing and watch it spin, it was well worth it.

Redneck Cock Fight

You know chickens have it pretty good until time to feed the family. Someone feeds them, gives water and shelter to them and all they have to do is keep their head down when it is raining. Roosters on the other hand have to impress all the chicks, fight off younger roosters and keep the neighborhood children in check. Such was the case of the rooster sitting on the gate across the dirt road from grannie's house. It was a sweltering dog day afternoon in early August and Benny and I were playing outside after our nap. Normally I did not pay much attention to chickens and roosters other than to watch my step. But for some reason that day I walked across the road(you could do that in the old days because if a car was coming it was moving at about 15 miles per hour) stuck my thumbs under my armpits, flapped my elbows, and crowed at that red-headed rooster. Even if I would have had a shirt on, I don't think it would have helped. By the time he sailed down off that gate, struck me on my white bony chest and tattooed me for about an hour(10 seconds max.), Benny was hollering shoo, shoo. Shoo hell, get a gun and kill this crazy fowl. By the time I was able to pick myself up out of the sand and assess the damage Benny was rolling in the dirt, laughing, and ignorant to the fact that he was rolling in the blood that I had lost from the lacerations on my chest. Here comes grannie running from the house, all hollering and screaming. When she saw that I was all right, damned if she didn't start laughing. That was the first time I can remember having fried chicken during the middle of the week.

The Year of the Windmill Part Three

     Some mornings just before dawn I hurt so bad that I just have to get up.  Such was the case this morning.  I made coffee and got outside just before the sun came up.  There was a coolness in the air that I had not felt for months.  Sheila is in the process of painting the deck and all the rockers are at the deck of my shed studio. This area like most of the yard is covered in large oaks and pines. Squirrels were dropping pine cones and acorns all around me.  A few small ones landed on me and I was tempted to moved so I didn't.
     "If you are going to throw at me at least let it something good."  I said. Just then a couple of small cylindrical shapes of chocolate fell into my lap, just beside my coffee.  Looked pretty good so I popped it into my mouth.  Tasted ok, but had a hint of a taste of pine nuts.  After a few moments, I had the urge to climb a tree.  Something I had not done in fifty years, but it dissipated pretty quickly.  Good thing there was only a couple of pieces of chocolate.  Had there been more, I may have gone to the top of the pine tree.
     After an hour or so, I had enough energy to go and work on the windmill.  I have the head(gear box, blades and tailbone) mounted onto a 3 inch steel pipe so that I can work on it.  Inside the helmet on the bar that houses the yoke, there is a date stamped.  It was produced in June of 1938.  In 1927, daddy was born in Midland City.  That made him eleven years old when this mill was erected.  When I walked up to the mill this morning, I looked at all the 22 rifle shot holes in the blades.  The tailbone had been shot with a shotgun and looks like hell, with holes, dents and lots of rust.  I wonder how many of those holes belong to daddy?  I would almost bet money that most of them belonged to him.  I also would not be surprised if the shotgun blast on the tailbone did not belong to Daddy Frank.  There is a lot of history tied to this windmill and I am glad that it wound up here.
     I am not mechanically inclined and have had to redo a lot of the things that I did to the mill.  To send the gear box off to be repaired, I had to remove the sails, three at a time.  I did mark the front of each sail, so that I would put it back as it should be.  There are six arms on the front of the hub and six arms on the back of the hub.  According to the directions, the rear arm should go on the outside hole of the outer band and the front arm should go on the inside hole of the first section.  You then reverse this on the next section.  There are six sections and on the third section, I realized that I had forgotten to reverse.  I had to backtrack and do it right.  On the sixth section, before you can join it, you have to reverse the first section.  That was a job.
     After that was completed, I wanted to be sure I had done every thing right, so I sent a photo to Miller's Windmill service.  His reply was, everything looks o k except for the rear arms should be straight.  I told him that they were bent like that when I started to work on them.  I even told Craig, when he welded them to make sure they all had the same angle.  Evidently, when the tornado blew the mill down, the rear spokes bent the same all around the hub.  I was disappointed but, I removed the sails and the spokes to straighten them.  That took another two afternoons to fix.  It has become a conflict between me and the mill.  Very close to the end and I wonder if I or the mill will win.

The Year of the Windmill Part Two

     Every year in the fall, Dothan has the National Peanut Festival,  It is a huge ten day event that celebrates the farmers and the peanut industry.  Over the years, it has become more and more a social event, with recipe, arts and crafts and beauty contests taking over more and more of the festivities.  Of course the parade on the last Saturday of the event is the highlight and for a couple of hours everyone forgets their problems and enjoys the atmosphere.  When the festival moved to the Houston Co. Farm Center Daddy carried me, Benny, Wayne and mama to watch them set it up.  At the entrance was a big Pepsi bottle tied down with ropes.  I had never seen an inflatable before and it was an amazing sight.  You could actually see the giant sweat drops running down the sides of the bottle.  I don't remember going back after they opened, but I an sure that we did.
     As I am walking through the midway this year, it is in a strange place and the light is slightly different.  The crowds are the same, walking in all directions, bumping into each other and not even realizing it.  The sounds of kids' excited screams, parents scrambling after them, trying to keep up.  The clanking of the roller coaster chains, the game vendors barking at you from every direction, "come on over, knock the balls down and win".  There must have been hundreds of them, and that awful music.  Confusion reigned supreme.
     I began to notice that at every game tent, one of the workers was out of character. He was quiet and unassuming, but his eyes were cold and dark.  It seemed that he was only looking at me with no expression.  I grew concerned as I could not shake him.  I tried to escape by getting out of the crowd and going behind the tents.  It as darker here and I thought I could escape.  Not running, but walking briskly, I headed toward a utility pole in the distance.  There I thought I could lean against it and have my back protected and be able to see what was coming at me.  I made it, looked around and leaned up against the pole.  Regaining my breath, I began to feel foolish at being afraid.  From behind the pole, I could feel the terrible grip clamp down on my throat.  Already afraid, I struggled valiantly against the hard boney fingers and felt the finger nails dig into my flesh.  I could feel the blood run down my chest.  As everything went dark, I gave a final hard jerk, twisting my body into his thumb and as I fell to the ground I could feel his grip was broken.
     As I awakened , the alarm clock was making an awful noise.  I was at once awake, in sweat soaked sheets and knew I would not be able to snooze.  I felt like destroying the clock, but realized that it had awakened me at just the right moment, so I gently turned it off.  Not wanting to dwell on the night's events, I tried to think of the fact that the new gearbox for my windmill was to arrive today.
     I had sent the old one to Miller's Windmill Service in Indiana to be rebuilt.  I knew it was in bad shape, but he thought he may be able to repair it.  The shaft had worn through the bearing and most of the snout on the bottom side.  I could feel the shaft turn when I turned the hub.  When Mr. Miller received the box, he informed me that the top of the snout was worn through also.  When he tried to force the shaft out, it snapped the snout, and the photos he sent showed that only 25% of the metal remained of the snout.  However I was concerned about welding cat iron so I was o k with purchasing a new gear box anyway.

The Year of the Windmill

     Sitting in my studio, I can hear the water dripping onto the tin top.  The hard rain had just ended and the leaves were shedding the excess moisture.  I love a good rain at the end of July.  It gives welcome relief to the heat and oppressive humidity of the Dog Days.  The rhythm of the drops was slowing to a stop and lulling me into a peaceful state.
     "Charles, go to the store and tell them to not put so much juice in the tomato's."  Mama said.
     "I will."
     It was the first time I had seen her for almost two years.  She was standing in front of the stove, where I had seen her many times.  Her body was young and vibrant and her hair was a deep auburn, almost black, with not a hint of grey.  Her body was not bent and frail as it had been.  I had longed for this moment since she had died.  And this is what she said to me?  Even as I was disappointed at that, I realized that for her it had only been a few minutes.
     "How have you been, mama?"  I asked.
     "Nothing has changed in the last few minutes."  she answered, puzzled at this question.  "Your father is young again and is free from the arthritis that has plagued him for years."  "As a matter of fact he and Daddy Frank are off squirrel hunting in the lower forty."
     "That's good, Mama." I replied, strangely aware that I was much older than she was.  Now according to her I was older than daddy.
     "What about grandpa, grannie and Maw?" I asked.
     "Grandpa is pulling weeds in the garden, grannie is painting a portrait of her black cocker spaniel and Maw is fishing in Spurgeon's pond.
  We talked for a while and each of us enjoyed the visit.  It was easier for us now, we had never bonded in the past and things were hard for us.  The closest thing to this was the summer that I moved to Mobile to go to college.  I worked at the peanut mill in Headland, moving trailer loads of peanuts from the line to the dryers.  On the last day, she brought me lunch and stayed with me while I ate.  I always treasured that.
  I could hear a low tapping sound coming from the back room.  At first it was not bad and hard to discern, but it steadily grew into a crescendo.  I got up from the table to go open the door to the room and mama rushed to get between me and the door.  "You can't go in there yet, it's not time." she explained.
     She faded away and everything became dark.  The dripping of the drops had stopped and I opened my eyes.  The sun was peeking out from behind the clouds as I went to the barn to gather my tools to work on the tower of my windmill.  It had been given to me by Fred McKay.  He had gotten it off a farm he was renting near Midland City.  According to him, a tornado had knocked it down years ago and every piece of angle was bent.  I had always wanted a windmill on the place and I was glad to get this one.  As we looked it over, we discovered, stenciled onto the angles, DR. C. ESPY MIDLAND CITY, AL.  This was especially exciting to me because he and my grandfather were good friends early in my childhood.
     On Sunday mornings a group of farmers and merchants would gather at Nook Gary's store on 134 in Midland City.  Doc Espy owned several stores in the area and had a large work force.  The other farmers would tease him saying, "If you will fertilize your peanuts, you'll make more."
  "I am not trying to make peanuts, I'm trying to make money." was his response.  Grandpa told me that story several times and always with humored respect, for one thing that Doc Espy made was money.  I feel grandpa's and Doc's conversation in heaven led to my getting the windmill.

Mule Shoe

This is a project that I took on, which is out of the ordinary for me.  I have done a few carving projects over the years, but mostly I do sandblasted wood signs.  This customer had this 42x84x4 inch piece of cypress, that he bought at auction.  A long time ago I tried to sandblast cypress, but it was a waste of time.  The only way to do this wood was to carve it.  I made the mallet out of a 2x4, I have a factory made one, but it is too heavy.

 

The Lord is my Shepherd

I painted this 24x36 inch painting with oils.  I also painted myself getting anointed.  The enemy at the table is someone that I am very familiar with.  This rendition of the 23 Psalm embodies my idea of salvation.

Danger

The danger is not that we have a private conversation in our home.  The danger is that it is stolen and broadcast to the public to ostracize us.  The danger is not what I say. The danger is that I can not say it.  The danger is not that we have a president and congress that is taking our rights away.  The danger is that we do nothing to stop them.  The danger is not that our president lies to us.  The danger is that we allow it.  The danger is not that we don't take care of someone.  The danger is that we take care of them forever.  The danger is not the freedom of the press.  The danger is that the press is giving up that right.  The danger is not giving up.  The danger is  giving in.  Whether you agree or not, you have the right to vote for your convictions.  The danger is not voting for them.  This is my opinion, and as of now I have the right to it. 

Jimmie Ray and the Winstons

  
 The single light bulb, swinging at the end of the cord hanging from the ceiling, cast moving shadows around the dirty room of the warehouse.  The men have been here since mid afternoon. At that time the sun was shining brightly through the long bank of windows, at the top of the block wall.  The dust and grime of the city showed clearly  with the  sun streaming in.  Loading the boxes onto the pallets was easy then, but the sun has been down a long time. Jimmy Ray is as weak now as the single light bulb.  He reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out the pack of Winston cigarettes, taps one out and lights it.  Taking a deep drag of the cigarette, he pauses to reflect on his sorry life.
     Times have been rough for a long while now, and Jimmy Ray took the first job that he could find.  It was hard work, long hours and low pay.  It was going to last just long enough to get him to something better.  That was ten years ago and he is still here.  He finds it impossible to leave.  The working conditions are intolerable, tantamount to slavery conditions.
Mr. Bigguns was a terrible person and a worse boss.  He was of average height, but his pussle-gutted stomach overpowered the rest of his body.  Years of inactivity had shrunk his legs and they were just a little more thank pipe cleaners.  His dark beady eyes did not belie his terrible disposition.  The old flop hat that he wore down low over his eye brow was dirty and matched his yellow stained teeth.  He had chewed on cigars for the majority of his life and  was not about to stop now, teeth be damned.  He demanded loyalty from his workers and his paid goons saw to it that he received it.  He never left the room other than to take care of necessities.  He always leaned back in the wooden roll about  chair, with his feet propped up on the old wooden desk,  Over the years, deep grooves had been gouged in the top of the desk by his heavy black leather soled shoes.
     Three men worked the floor and John Paul drove the fork lift into the trailer to retrieve the pallets.  He then placed them on the floor in front of  Jimmie Ray, Joe Frank ad Frankie Joe.  Their job was to open the containers, remove the product from the large box a package it into smaller boxes that could be camouflaged easily with respectable logos that would not arouse suspicion.  At first the smell of the illegal weed was overpowering, but Jimmie Ray had grown accustomed to it.  Now it actually smelled pretty good.  It was a redundant job and they had done it so long, that they did not need a scale, just eyeballed it.  That was ok with Mr. Bigguns, as long as it did not go over three pounds per box.
     Jimmie Ray wanted out, but his will was weak.  He was present when John Bob, frustrated by the working conditions, up and quit.  Just as he reached the door, Mr. Bigguns, always present, shot him in the back of the head.  He cussed as the blood spurted onto the weed.  "Don't throw it away, we'll just let it dry and send it to London's East Side." He said.  "Tell the dealer there that it is red weed and his addicts will love it."  He gave no sign of remorse for John Bob, other than the fact that two of his goons had to leave to dispose of the body.  Every month, after that, some poor soul had to be sacrificed to satisfy the blood taste.
     The longer that Jimmie Ray worked there, the deeper into despair he sank.  When he was off work, he knew that he was being watched.  His only source of pleasure was Katie Belle.  She was nearing her prime as a street walker and was in a state of blues, herself.  Both of them were walking the street at the end of their respective shifts, when they met.  Katie Belle was exhausted and walking bowlegged as she reached for the door handle of the all night café.  Jimmie Ray reached down and grabbed it first, turned to smile at Katie Belle  and shoved the door open for her.  It had been a long time that some one had shown her a courtesy for no reason and she smiled back.  She invited him to join her at a dirty table in the back.  There they connected and talked for hours about nothing.  The blinking Coors  red neon light gave each of them a better impression of the other, than would ordinarily be seen.  It was not love at first sight or even lust, but just a feeling of comfort that each needed.
     They always sat at the same dirty old table at the rear of the dimly lit café.  Most times they sat alone, but not tonight.  Two of Katie Belle's co-workers were already there and they joined them. As they sat down a couple of Jimmie Ray's friends showed up.  As they all sat around and reminisced, the mood became dark.  Dreams had been put on hold and finally died, lives ruined.  Now they were locked into their lives and no one was happy.  No amount of liquor could change that.
     Shortly before dawn, Joe Freddy from Jimmie Ray's work joined the forlorn group.  Jimmie Ray was glad to see him, for he was normally in a good mood.  But not tonight.  Jimmie Ray could see immediately that his friend was despondent.
     "I have been looking for you Jimmie Ray," he said.
      "Yeah, what's the matter?"
     "Let's go outside where we can talk."
     "O k, I'll be along in a minute."
     No one even noticed when Joe Freddy showed up or left.  Jimmie Ray was going to say goodnight to his friends, but they were all out of it, with their heads down lost in a better time somewhere else.  He just got up and walked toward the front of the café along the unpainted floor boards, scattered with bits of food that had been there far too long.  It was a long walk to the front and a sense of doom settled in on top of the depression he was already holding up.
     As he opened the front door and stepped out into the predawn light, he saw the sawed off shot gun in Joe Freddy's hands.  Joe Freddy looked as if he were going to cry.  "I'm sorry Jimmie Ray, but if I don't do this, Mr. Bigguns  will kill my family."
     A sudden feeling of compassion came over Jimmie Ray and a surprising sense of relief.  His hard times were about to end and he was glad.
     "Here Joe Freddy" and he took off his only valuable possession and offered it to Joe Freddy.  "Take my father's watch and wear it with pride."
     That seemed to upset Joe Freddy and the tears he was trying to hold back came pouring out.
     "Go ahead Joe, t will be o k."
      Joe pulled the trigger, but the old gun miss fired.  The wood barrel support fell off as Joe Freddy tried to unjam the gun.  As he broke the barrel open and ejected the unspent 12 gauge shell Jimmie Ray began to remember happier times.  As the dawn broke upon the scene it brightened Jimmie Ray's spirits, but wrecked havoc on Joe Freddy. Just as he loaded another shell into the barrel and closed the breach, Frankie Joe rushed onto the scene yelling at Joe Freddy.  As Joe Freddy turned to answer, Jimmie Ray sank to the ground.  His legs and his nerves had given out on him.  "Joe Freddie, stop, don't do it!"  exclaimed Frankie Joe.  "Mr. Bigguns just had a massive heart attack and died.  "Bot of you are safe now"
     Joe Freddy sat down beside Jimmie   Ray, buried his head in his hands and sobbed uncontrollably.  Jimmie Ray reached over to comfort his friend.  "Come on back in and let's have us a drink."  As he got up Jimmie Ray reached into his shirt pocket and pulled the pack of Winstons out.  He tapped out three cancer sticks and passed them around.  As he struck a match on the side of the blue match box he said, "That news was better than sex."  He took a deep drag off the cigarette, pulling the smoke down into the depths of his soul and let it out with a huge sigh of relief.

Stick

This is a cedar limb that I just finished carving.  I offered it to Sheila as a walking stick when we hike at the farm.
"I don't want to become dependent on a walking stick."  she said.
"No, you have it wrong," I replied, "this is a snake knocking stick."
She looked at me, then the stick and then back at me.
"You made it way to short!" she exclaimed.

Two Sandblast Signs

A project we,  @ C and S Signs, just finished for Rob Moore.  The first is 24 wide and 36 inches tall.  The second is 12 inches wide and 18 inches tall.

Town of Rehobeth

This is a 4x6 ft. aluminum sign that we at C & S Signs produced and installed for Rehobeth, Al.

Rated R

As we galloped along in the cool, dim purple night air, the full moon was just beginning to rise above the tree tops.  The sound of the chain saw engines revving up had my heart pounding and the excitement was at a fever pitch.  I reigned my horse in and grabbed the saws away from the other two.  I was just an observer and did what I could do to help.  As we continued at a full run, they swung their arms in circles to get the blood circulating again.  The cramps in their hands was unbearable and to relieve it they flexed their fingers.  We were a long time on the hunt and the weight of the saws increased as time went by.
Yelling and laughing, they were hyped up on the chase.  For hours we had been on the smell and the  prey was getting close.  The black horse collapsed and went down with a sickening loud thud.  It's body, covered with thick white lather did not even attempt to get up.  The rider, high on meth, turned a flip and landed on his back.  He jumped up and began to run at full speed, grabbing the chain saw from my hand.  With a quick pull, he fired it up, raised it over his head and let out an evil, blood curdling yell.  It was all we could do on the horses to keep up with him,  Just ahead of us, he barreled into the cabin  The other rider jumped from the saddle and landed in the green stickers in the yard.  Only wearing white socks on his feet, the brambles cut into the bottom of his feet and blood poured out.  He looked down in surprise and willed himself not to feel the pain.
     There was no time for the man in the cabin to scream.  His upper body  was separated from his lower body.  Starting at the left shoulder the saw left out of the body on the right side of the belt line.  As the blood flowed out it covered the room, splashing into the attacker's face.  As the blood hit him, it brought him back to reality.  He stopped, listened to the music and looked at me with fear in his eyes.  Suddenly he fell dead.  The fall had torn his aorta, but the amount of meth he had taken, kept him going until he completed his task.
     As the one with the socks  entered the cabin, he saw his reflection in the mirror.  Instantly he was transfixed.  He dropped the saw and began to look for the pose that best suited him.  He stood in front of the mirror for a long while.  When he finished, he knew what he looked like from any angle.  I knew to leave him alone.  When he was ready, we would continue after the one that got away.  Some one would come along eventually to clean up this mess.
     The one we were after knew he had a little time to get ahead of us, however he knew he was doomed.  We never quit and he was well aware of that.  It was just a matter of time.  As he roared down the road in his 1957 four door Ford Fairlane he saw a parking lot full of cars and trucks.  Looked as if it were the perfect hiding place.  He parked and walked into what he thought was a mall.  Nothing could be farther from the truth.
     As soon as he walked through the door the smell hit him.  Bulls, excited by the cows had a strong smell of testosterone.  The cows in heat, all bunched together in in a small spot were giving off their aroma.  All this mixed with thousands of cattle inside a building excreting waste and urine.  This nearly knocked him off his feet.  As he regained his breath, he smiled.  With all this smell, it would be difficult for us to pick up his odor.
     The bulls were lined up awaiting their turn at the top of the Shute.  The supports were made of large timbers, tied together with ropes.  Four inch by twelve inch boards were bolted into the timbers.  This made for a strong breeding pen.  Each bull was lifted up by hydraulics until he could reach and penetrate the cow.  Then he would be lowered until the next cow could be loaded into place.  He would be raised again.  After a few times the bull would be backed out and another would take his place.
     The bull in line next was a black Angus, massive in size and had a nasty disposition.  When he was raised into place and made his move, a hush fell over the crowd.  The timbers began to swell and release.  The crowd began to breathe in slow unison.  The platform was swelling and releasing,  the timbers swelling and releasing faster and faster, the crowd breathing faster and faster.  The lights brightening and dimming.  Then for one brief second the lights went dark.  Liquid emotion shot out into the darkness and everyone went silent.  Cigarette smoke instantly filled the room.  When the lights came on everyone was limp and worn out.
     Always a jerk in every crowd, this fool had less sense than most.  As they were placing the next bull into position, just before his head was secured, the fool made his move.  I had seen it before, but it catches me by surprise every time.  He had a cattle prod in his hand. Before anyone could stop him he ran up behind the bull, penetrated   him with the prod and charged him up.  This bull was more massive than most and extremely excited.  When the charge hit him, he bellowed, stomped his feet and smoke blew out his nostrils.  His eyes turned red and he jumped clear of the pen.  As he  landed  he knocked spectators in every direction as if they were rag dolls. Pissed as he was he knew who and where his attacker was.  Nothing was going to stand between the two.  A few of the bulls were slow to get out of the way and paid a heavy price for that.  In the dim light, the dust being kicked up gave an eerie ghostly sheen on everything.  The fool knew that to be safe he had to get up high and fast.  Just as he reached for the ladder, he tripped on the purposely outstretched foot.  Before he could regain his footing the bull was upon him.  Stomping him with his front feet and then butting him with his head into the ground.  Just before the fool lost consciousness ,  the bull stopped.  He turned his head and his butt together, grabbed the prod with his teeth and pulled it out.  Then he deliberately and with much power turned back to the fool.  The fear in  the fool's  eyes struck a nerve with the bull.  Knowing he had won the battle he broke the wand and walked off with all the dignity he could muster.  Not knowing how he knew, he knew he would do it all over again.  Hell we all knew.
     Then we heard the music, looked over and spotted our prey.  It was not hard, he was stiff and erect, sitting in the middle of limp wasted people.  I heard the roar of the chain saw....

Sorry State of Affairs

Well, America how is that "Change You Can Believe In" working out?  I for one am sadly disappointed.  At the founding of our government in 1776, there were hidden angels of influence and common sense moving among those in authority.  They helped to form a Christian nation that was a light unto the world.  Over time our government , collectively, began to feel that it was omniscient. They hardened their hearts and minds to the influence of the angels of God.  Slowly the angels were pulled out and away from the government and left us to our own devices.  I feel that there is not one left in Washington today to try and help us.
     I do not presume to speak for God, but in my humble opinion, I think that he is more disappointed with us now, than he was with Sodom and Gomorrah.  It is a classic example of "You get what you wish for."  At least Jimmy Carter tried to rescue the hostages of Iran.  All this president can do is bully the American people.  With a Russian president that is perceived (wrongly) to wrestle bears, our leader, as Sarah Palin says, "puts on his mom jeans."  I admit that I am a white man that was born into a culture of discrimination in the south.  This has nothing to do with race.  I challenge any of you to find a people more hated and discriminated against than the Jewish people.  Yet I call a thirty three year old Jew that sits on the right hand of God, Lord and Savior.
     We, the American people, have stood by and allowed our freedoms to be taken away.  We have not responded for years of being called racists and bigots and it is time to change that.  Love the sinner and hate the sin.  Why should we give up our rights so that a small group can feel empowered?  This change can come by praying that the angels of influence be restored to our nation"s capital, and that prayer be reinstated in schools..

Dawson Fire House

This is the Dawson, Ga. fire house as it was in the early 1900's.  It is still in use today.  This is an eight by sixteen feet mural that I painted for the beautification board.

Apples

This project is a little out of the ordinary for me.  It is based on a sign project that I did for an apple orchard, in north Alabama.  The size is 24x36 inches and is oil on canvas.

Rest in Peace Dakota

Rest in peace girly-girl.  You were the sweetest most gentle dog ever.  God gave us to you to fill a big hole in our hearts.  You did that and more.  Your life was cut much too short and you will be missed.  Thank you God for our time together.

Fox Feather

This is the first feather that I painted.

Deer Hunter on Feather

Deer hunter in tree stand, painted onto a turkey tail feather.

Joy in Jesus

There's power in the name,
even by myself, I am not alone,
maybe just a little lame,
but with joy in Jesus, my bone
will not break.
Even though I did not cry,
my freedom they did take,
with joy in Jesus I will not die.
He is my heavenly cake.
I had no control
over the national boss.
My security  he stole,
my insurance was a loss.
Jesus sits on high,
joy to him on the right,
as I give a thankful sigh
Because he has me in sight.
Joy joy joy in Jesus,
I do not complain
he is a physician to us.
Even though I am in pain,
my body does ache,
with doubt in my mind.
This with a touch he can break
And joy in Jesus, I will find.
As he heals my soul
and gives me joy unspeakable,
not a lump of coal
but happiness that is indescribable.