LONG JOURNEY HOME – BIZCATALYST 360°: Recent Episodes

BIZCATALYST 360

LIFE | CULTURE | BIZ | REIMAGINED

The night is quickly approaching.

It is a time when dreams come true and unwritten stories are waiting to be told. They swirl in colors and become as a mist spinning like a color wheel on an artist palette.

The birds go to their nest hoping that the eggs hatch in the morning and we may hear their song.

The night whispers stories hopeful that we hear them, believe in them and Strong Ink will decorate our paper with possibilities, mysteries, and storytelling.

We wait and pause holding on to them for one more moment…. Then we shall unleash them!!!!

The wind caressed the trees of the deep forest and it made a sound so soft you would think that it was a whisper that you were hearing.

Olivia leaned in close to Joshua’s ear and said,” The wind, it sounds like Midnight Whispers, a sound that only we can hear.” They could hear the wind unleashing the unwritten stories that rested inside them both.

The stories were about the love that they shared, the love that awakened on a rainy night as they walked down a dark street with only a small umbrella to keep them dry. As the years past The Midnight Whispers gifted them with new stories, beautiful paintings and the community love them and the things they did to give back.

Tonight was their night, a night where their love for each other was powerful and bountiful in its many times they gave back to the community, in abundance and without expectation. It was a time that their love filled them with joy, kindness, and passion. They knew it would be a love that would last forever.

The wind whispered to them of the amazing things that would be unveiled in the coming years, and they knew it would be a love without end. They held each other close, embracing the love they felt with for each other. Angels guided the path they walked, creativity would be what they would share, inspiration would drive the stories and Olivia’s beautiful painting. The future would be filled with abundance, their love without end and their imagination would be unleashed.

The wind became calm and the stories faded, as it was past the midnight whispers. Soon the dawn will awaken them to the new day and new beginning.

I dedicate this story to Raissa Urdiales, my friend, poet, writer, storyteller, and an amazing collaborator. Thank you for your kindness my friend.

The workday on the farm was hard, backbreaking, and exhausting.

Everyone worked and had tasks that they were responsible for and had to do every day except Sunday.

Sundays were special and was our day of rest and worship. We all took baths Saturday night while mom ironed my white shirt, my Sunday blue jeans, a dark blue denim pair that I only wore on Sundays for church.

I loved the sanctuary; it was breathtaking with stained glass windows. The pews were polished and shiny. I loved to sing hymns and gospel songs.

I always close my eyes when the preacher prayed, but I said my own prayers hoping the crops would grow good and the rain would come to our fields.

It was a good place to grow and the farm gave us so much. I learned about kindness and helping others and how hard work made us stronger.

It was a time of great responsibility, and often hardships, yet it was a good life, built on hard work, family, friendship, and church on Sundays.

The azaleas are getting buds of red, white and some seem almost pink. Working in the garden, digging in the soil, raking out the leaves and weeding the intrusion weeds.

The garden gives me a sense of doing something that has healing properties.

I watched the birds as they scratch the new soil finding worms and insects. Time seems to slow down when I am in the garden.

Perhaps the calming work done in the garden does relax us with feelings of contentment and wellbeing.

The midday sun chases me from the garden where I sit in the shade of an ancient oak tree drinking sweet tea and reflecting on the morning s work.

Soon spring will gift me with flowers of all colors and reward my digging in the soil with breathtaking beauty.

An Owl can be heard in the distant forest, the only sound heard in this darkness.

I sit by the window choosing a book to read, perhaps Edgar Allan Poe, and surrender myself to the mood of the night.

Sleep doesn’t come easy tonight and I see shadows in the darkness and yet I do not fear the night. I know that dreams come to us after midnight and often I give in and write the stories they bring.

Morning is near, the spirits hide in the shadows and I can see the light coming across the fields and forest. I put down my pencil and ponder the words that I have written. I do know they are stories of the night!!!

I used to come here every Sunday.

I would sit alone in the back pew. To be honest I mostly held my head down and read from my Bible.

The old church is closed now but I still come and sit in the back row and with my Bible. It’s the same one my mother gave me when I was five.

I am old now and to be honest I don’t read much anymore, yet I hold it in my hand and remember the songs and sermons from so long ago.

For now, I will say good night and hope you feel the peace I shared, the friendships I cherish. It’s time for me and my old dog Buddy to take the long way home.

It was a day spent in the gardens planting flowers and raking leaves. It is a place of healing and finding peace in our lives.

The birds sing a beautiful song and wait patiently for their time in the garden. They know that I raked the garden and they can feast on the insects and earthworms.

I sit quietly within the garden, feeling the hours pass slowly and time seems abundant. I watch the bluebirds building their nests and soon they will hatch and find the garden.

I love the beauty of the flowers and the songbirds singing at sunrise. It is a good life I have, an abundant life. I find that I need very little to find the joys here in the garden.

Tonight, I will sit alone in the quiet of the abandoned church.

I listen for the angels that visit here. Perhaps it is the ones that came before my time. Now it is me asking for hope, forgiveness, and blessings.

I like the solitude and spirituality of this forgotten place, often the veil opens for a few minutes and you can hear their whispers.

I wonder if the congregation loved the little Church. Many were hoping prayers would be answered and songs of glory and redemption would fill the church.

I will sit here a while longer and maybe I will write of the stories told here when I was a child. It was a time of fellowship, gospel music, and covered dish suppers on Sunday nights.

Every day I walk toward the light, heading back home to the ones that came before me. On my journey, I always look for a little white church to pause and give thanks for my blessings.

As a child I loved books, and they opened many doors for me.

I grew up on a tobacco and cotton farm and my daddy wanted more for me, so he bought me some Childcraft books and Encyclopedias. They took me to a place that was beyond anything I could imagine.

I started writing stories when I was six years old and as primitive as my stories were, they made me want more. I loved to write and read books and I had lots of time to craft my art. Nothing I did stopped me from finding time to write.

Many years later, here I sit writing this story knowing over the years I have lost time and I struggle to find the time to unleash the words within me. My dog Buddy and I spend a lot of time on the back roads. Buddy is quite the philosopher, and poet and he laughs because dogs can’t write but indeed, they can tell stories.

Perhaps I will find time, and I wonder if my writer friends have the same struggle getting words to paper.

I guess for now Buddy and will walk a bit farther down the dirt road and add a few more stories that might not ever touch paper.

Well then night comes, and I am sure I will burn the candle until late into the night and possibly write a new story or finish an old one.

The writers, poets, artists, and storytellers are the givers of the stories, they write our dreams, our hopes, and the words find a way to become books and maybe people will come to love them.

She came to sit on this bench every day. She always brought her book and lunch in a brown paper bag, sorting everything to a certain place. In the fall she always wore a brown sweater that looked a bit large, perhaps it was her father’s or one she found in a sale bin at the general store. Today she wore it loosely wrapped around her shoulders.

She came here every day at noon always bringing sunflower seeds for the birds and calling to some of them by name. When she read certain lines she would laugh, closing the book and just sitting quietly with a tranquil smile on her face. She would always say hello and offer some treats that she kept in a small mason jar.

She didn’t come here today, nor the next few days… The birds and squirrels sat on her bench waiting yet she never came again. Often as I approached the park I would think I saw her but no it was not her. After many years passed I still thought of her often and wondered what happened to my friend, but she never came back.

Then one fall afternoon I saw a man walking toward her bench and I knew that today I would find out what happened to my friend. It was an older man in a uniform with a plaque in one hand and flowers in the other that came today. He screwed the plaque onto the bench and I could see tears in his eyes.

The plaque said she came here every day at noon for many years. The old soldier smiled at me and said she was his wife but passed many years ago. He said he still brought flowers on their anniversary. This was where we got married. He smiled and slowly walked toward his car.

I sat there for a while and for a moment I could almost see her sitting there feeding the birds. I knew it was time to close the book on this day and start a new day tomorrow. I will always remember her kindness, her sharing sandwiches with me when I had no money for lunch, and her love for the birds.

Finding an abandoned place always gifts us with unwritten stories, amazing images, and sometimes whispers from spirits left behind by those that are yet to cross over.

There are times when I am gifted words in abundance, and I can’t find enough time to write what I hold inside, yet sometimes the words can’t be released and That is when Buddy and I find stories on the lost highways. They are always there waiting for us to unleash them.

Stories are often hidden, and we find them in an abandoned barn, or the quiet of the forest where folklore and magic leave stories in a hole in a tree or an abandoned mailbox. by the roadside.

Often the pencil just sits there on the paper waiting for inspiration while the waiting is also a story, in fact, that is how this story got written. While it is true that stories often hide their words it is also true that they long to be released and will rejoice when the story gets told.

Perhaps I will sit here a while in this worn wingback chair, pick the pencil up from the paper and one day I will share what was written by this pencil and a single sheet of paper.

The winter storm came hard and unforgiving, driving was almost impossible, cars were spinning off the interstate and some just pulled over to wait the storm out. I saw an exit that was not snowed over and cautiously turned off the interstate. The road was an old backroad winding through the forest and farmlands. I could only hope I had made the right choice perhaps I would find out soon enough.

After several hours of driving seeing no signs of civilization, the gas gauge was down to a quarter of a tank. I could feel a hopelessness and it felt like a weight on my heart. In the distance on a ridge, I saw an old abandoned Church and I feared I would not get there as I felt the tires spinning on the steep hill. Inch by inch the car slowly gained the hill and I pulled into the Church parking lot, grabbed my duffel bag, and walked toward the doors.

The winds were so powerful that I could barely walk, and lowered my head leaning into the wind, and finally made it up the steps I noticed a plaque that read, Welcome All Wayfarers Enter And find Sanctuary, I knew that I too had sanctuary from the storm, a place to shelter.

I sat on the front pew and stared at the stained glass windows knowing that I was lost, hungry, and had an empty tank of gas for the car. Oddly It was not very cold, and I pulled out my sleeping bag and laid down on the pew. A quiet prayer in thanks for finding shelter asking for nothing more than the quiet of the Church.

I was awakened by the sound of a door slamming outside, yet I felt no fear here only a deep feeling of serenity. A man walked in wearing a cowboy hat and a thick barn coat carrying a thermos and a bag with food. He said, “Hi I am sure you can use some hot coffee; I saw your car as I was heading home and knew you were lost.” Seems he lived a ways past the church and his father had been the Pastor here for many years. After he passed the Interstate was built, and people stopped coming here to worship it was boarded up and abandoned.

The morning sun shined through the stained glass windows casting colors on the Altar and I could hear the songbirds singing and I knew this would be a better day.

I saw no sign of the Pastor’s son, so I packed up and made my way to my car. The car started on the first try and to my surprise the gas gauge registered full and a basket of sandwiches was in the back seat. Truly I found shelter from the storm and yet I wondered if the Pastor’s son really there or perhaps I met an Angel and he gave me comfort and sanctuary on a stormy night.

I have walked many miles and I know each day I am closer to the light.

The road is a place of reflection. I look inward remembering what I have learned, the beauty of the forest and forgotten places.

I have many memories of where I have been and the new friends I have made. Often I hear a whippoorwill or a train whistle blowing in the distance, a haunting sound. I feel a sadness in those sounds, yet I cherish them.

Perhaps it is time for me to pause and write those memories and new stories yet to come. It is peaceful this place down the dirt road, a place where birds sing each morning and the spring brings flowers and beautiful colors to my garden.

I think I will sit in the garden with my old hound dog, watching the deer that come at sunrise and maybe he will chase a few squirrels never really trying to catch them.

The stars fill the night sky and the candle burns low. Soon the darkness of midnight will awaken my dreams and I will put words to my blank pages and a story will be told.

As I got older, I knew it was time to take a few items off my bucket list of things to see. It was a long drive to Alabama giving me an abundance of time to reflect on the things I was blessed to be part of and the things I still wanted to see. Having played music for years in Roadhouses, Honky- Tonks, and Outdoor festivals. I knew it was time for a road trip. My dog, Buddy, and I headed south to see the grave of one of country music’s founders, Hank Williams. His songs reached deep and touched your soul. My favorite was Jambalaya and of course, you had to hear I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry. Great songs for the long ride.

It was almost midnight when we reached Montgomery and parked my truck near Oakwood Cemetery Annex. It was a quiet night the sky filled with stars, and you could hear an Owl in the distance. It was rather spooky that we could hear a Whippoorwill calling into the dark night. It seemed to want our attention. I unpaged our sleeping bags and we were so tired that the quiet from the cemetery awakened my dreams, a deep sleep that took me so close to the veil that I could see the other side,

It was near dawn when I heard a car just down the road, the headlights were on, and I could hear the engine idling. I could see it was an old Cadillac with the top down and someone sitting in the back strumming a guitar, a familiar song. The man in the back seat was singing Lonesome Whippoorwill. As I shook off the sleep, I walked toward the car parked just outside the cemetery road he laughed and drove off disappearing into the morning fog.

Dawn was approaching fast, and the ghosts and spirits disappeared into the morning mist. I guess Hank enjoyed making the hair on my arms stand up.

It was time to head south of Montgomery towards Macon for another place where songs and ghosts still entertain an old visitor from time to time.

I used to come here every Sunday and sit alone in the back pew. To be honest I mostly held my head down and read from my Bible.

The old church is closed now but I still come and sit in the back row and with my Bible. It’s the same one my mother gave me when I was five.

I am old now and to be honest, I don’t read much anymore, yet I hold it in my hand and remember the songs and sermons from so long ago.

For now, I will say good night and hope you feel the peace I shared, the friendships I cherish. It’s time for me and my old dog Buddy to take the long way home.

The abandoned home was a story untold. The reading glasses sat on an old parchment. I read the story carefully so as to not disturb the pages. They have sat there on the worn wooden desk for years waiting to be found.

The piano stands by the stairs and the music long gone, do I touch the keys and unleash the forgotten songs? Perhaps, they even sang songs together at the end of the day, maybe a gospel song, Wings of Dove!

It’s time for me to leave this forgotten home and as I look out the window I see a reflection in the glass. Beside me, I see a mother and child or maybe just a vision behind the thin veil.

It has been said that we should use our imagination to write our stories and perhaps that is true. I would suggest that we should drive the backroads, walk down a forest path, and find that abandoned farm.

I bow my head when I pray and raise my hands as I rejoice and give thanks.I am not ashamed to say I believe in the light that seems to be just beyond the setting sun. I remember when it was a dot of light that didn’t seem to always be there. Now when I walk down the dirt road I walk a little slower knowing that the light is brilliant and I feel the pull it has on me.

I don’t attend church much anymore as I now feel God in the quiet of a forgotten place deep in the forest. I feel my spirit tingling when I hear the morning birds singing or the sound of the wind blowing through the trees deep in the forest and my heart feels full knowing that this is God talking.

On a back road that is almost overgrown I found a deserted church and I wondered where the people had gone. I can feel the stories and hear the spirits whisper, asking why they were abandoned, forgotten, and left behind. Some say there are ghost but I know that they are real and live on the other side of the thin veil. I have felt their touch often and have heard a sad weeping and they are hoping to see others that still have not crossed.

I know that angles have guided my life nudging me down the right path and keeping me safe from the darkness that pulls on me at times. They bring us here as newborn babies and then guide us to keep on the path of light and in the end they will take us back home.

It seems the older I get; the slower time moves. Time seems to be something we seldom understand. When we write or paint we often forget time. We accomplish much yet we find time has moved faster and we know we can do no more. I often feel that time is flexible and we navigate our way like sailors in a storm, yet time may be like a reflection of stillness on a lake making it hard to see where the lake ends and the sky begins.

Lastly, I would say I sometimes ponder too much when I should be taking a slow walk with my dog Buddy down a dirt road and that is who I am.

It was just past midnight when I looked out the study window and the clouds were dark, ominous, rumbling with bolts of lightning making the night seem like day. The wind was blowing hard whipping the waves upon the shore. The night had released the furies. It was the promised nor’easter that everyone had feared. The night would be long, and the morning would bring to light massive devastation.

The storm had awakened me from my deep dreams of my granddaddy sitting in his study writing. In the dream, he was caught in the stories and letters to friends and family. These would be the last poems written, the last stories he would tell, and his last manuscript to send to his publisher. In the dream, a letter sat on his oak desk, and there written in ink sat an envelope with my name in bold letters.

The wind was powerful and frightening and the thunder shook the cottage. I knew the house was old, yet it had weathered storms for many years, and I knew I was in a safe place. I knew that the dream had some truth in it as our family believed that often dreams brought us messages. I walked around Granddaddy’s writing room knowing that the letter I saw in my dreams was here somewhere, but the candles burned low, and I was yet to find its hiding place.

I sat at his desk looking at the outbox and no matter how long I sat looking it was not there. The storm was building stronger, and the temperature was dropping. I grabbed some kindling and touched a match to the wood, and it grew slowly. I could feel the warmth and sat back behind the desk. Granddaddy’s sweater was on the back of the chair and with some hesitations I put it on, I could smell his cologne and the scent of firewood. This awakened so many memories of spending time with him when I was a child.

I put my hands in the sweater pockets and felt an envelope. I held my breath, and I pulled it out and there it was the letter he never got to send to me. The letter’s first sentence captivated me, and I knew I was reaching for a new journey.

The Letter

My dear grandson if you are reading this it is the poet’s last days. In this letter, I give you the cottage by the sea so that you can live the life of a poet and artist.

I could read no more, tears came, running down my face and I longed for my granddaddy. For now, I will sit in his chair and watch the storm get to the other side of midnight and I will wait here and watch the coming sin rise.

Excerpt from Part Four – The Letter

The winter winds from the coast blew hard wreaking havoc across the inland farmlands.

I spent some time at the riverside cemetery visiting mom and dad. While I knew that they were not there it was a good place to sit and write stories of their life, the things they love, the joy and sorrow that touched them, and their hopes and dreams.

The darkness came fast with thunder and lightning, unleashing the furies upon the holy ground. In the distant trees, I saw images of a lady, perhaps it was just the shadows, yet I knew that often during the storms the veil would thin near the cemetery. I called them shadow dancers from a story my grandma Pola told me, but the vision still sends chills down my spine.

The rain was torrential, the wind shook the car, and lightning lit the sky revealing the dark clouds. I knew it was time to head home knowing that the country road had no lights on the road to guide me through the night. It was the darkest night I had ever seen. I expected to look out over the fields and see the Four Housemen Of The Apocalypse riding toward me, coming to collect their dues.

I slowly made my way towards Fair Bluff as it was just over the state line into North Carolina. I wanted to see if The Blue Bird Bookstore was truly there or if was it just a dream. Tabias the owner of the store and I were friends as children, but it was thought he had died in a wreck years ago. Surly it was him that gave me the book to write in. Most of the streetlights were burned out but as soon as I came off the bridge, I could see a bright light coming from The Blue Birds Bookstore and I knew I would seek shelter there with Tabias and all those books.

The rain and wind were dancing on the street, the river was coming over the banks and the streetlights were all out except the one in front of the Book Store. The lights were on inside and the sign in the window said open in bright blue letters. I parked out front, grabbed my coat, took a deep breath, and ran toward the door. It opened to a warmth from the potbelly stove and the smell of coffee was inviting and needed.

Tobias opened the door for me, and I headed for the most comfortable chair by the heater and sat down hard. I knew it was not possible that this bookstore was here or my old friend who passed away many years ago was sitting across from me in the same clothing he had on the night he disappeared. Yet here I was in a warm bookstore, Tobias sitting before me smiling, perhaps a dream that felt real.

Tobias leaned for and asked how my story was coming along and I told him about writing at the cemetery about a time I got upset with Daddy. It was hot and I was only six years old and cropping that tobacco got too much for me, so I slipped away to the house, packed a small suitcase, and headed up the road with his dog. Daddy found me walking the train tracks about two miles from the farm.

Tobias let out a long slow sigh and walked over to the bookshelves. Books he said books hold the soul of the one that writes the story. Some say books are just words forgotten on a dust shelf, but I knew he believed that they were all living books that let the stories always be there as a memory or perhaps a reminder. In his presence time seemed to stop, the past, the future all living in this quiet moment. I did notice that the clock on the wall never moved, and he had been here for what seemed like hours.

I took the book from his hand and saw my daddy’s name on the cover, running my hand over the letters I knew that it would be the past as my daddy saw it. I sat down in the deep leather chair near the fireplace and opened the book and my daddy’s words filled the pages.

Grant Devine Tyler

It was a hot day and we were all working on groping and stringing the tobacco. It was important that we get it in the barn so it could be cured and taken to market. It was a hectic day and was near noon when I noticed Larry was gone and so was his dog. I called his name and whistled for the dog but there was no sign of either of them. Larry was known to wander off down the train tracks when he got mad so I went to the house and had fixed a sandwich and poured a thermos of sweet tea

I found him a few miles from the house and I was almost sick with worry and disappointed that he gave up and walked away, yet part of me was proud of him for having the courage to take his own oath at six years old.

I put the book down and realized that everything I would write would find its way into a book with the point of view from whom I was writing about. As I looked around the bookshelves I saw all of my family had a book along with aunts, uncles, grandparents, and even friends. It was more than I could wrap my mind around.

Tobias said everything we do in life touches so many people, maybe even into infinity telling us the past and the future, they become living books that never get completed but create a never-ending chronicle of life.

I looked deeply into his eyes, and I saw heaven’s gate and I wondered if he might be an angel. I told him goodbye, and I needed to drive away for now and absorb what I had seen, and I would be back. He told me that I could return again but that I must keep writing in the book.

Our stories live within us and they touch everyone I have ever met and became part of their story as well. For now, I would walk down the dirt road and ponder the past few days and hope that I could return to the Blue Birds Book Store.

Coming Next – Part Three

Walking In The Past

I remember the first time I saw the light in the distance. It was even before I started school and I am sure I didn’t know what I was seeing. It was a beautiful spring morning, and, in the distance, I could see a bright light. While I felt no heat I did feel a warmth within me and I knew this light was where I came from and where I would return to.

Now that I am older, I stopped walking toward the light as fast, not seeming to be in a hurry anymore. Buddy( My Dog) and I have a favorite road near our home and we often sit on a large tree stump and look both ways down the road. It did seem that we were a lot closer to the light than we were a few years ago. It seemed to me and Buddy that if we would sit there a bit longer on that old stump that for a while where I came from and where I have been were the same distance apart.

We knew at some time we would need to go on down the road and walk a little closer to the light., but for now we will just sit a while listening to the birds singing, the crows always seem to be near but in truth we viewed them as friends. It was breathtaking that deer would walk so near to us, as if knowing we were on our way to a place they were also familiar with. They too seem to walk towards the light.

It is a good place in life that Buddy and I are, not to far from where we as children taking our first steps, yet no so close to the light that we could not stop and rest beside the road. Sometimes I can see those that went before me, but not today, perhaps not tomorrow, yet I can feel the joy of the ones that wait for me to join them.

Who am I? I would say that some already know, and some will never know. It is possible that I am just a simple man walking down a dirt road with his dog in tow.

For me that is enough maybe even more than I ever expected.

Part One: Who I Am | BIZCATALYST 360°
Part Two: Who I Am | BIZCATALYST 360°

"Perhaps I will stay here a while, walking my dog along the shore and maybe I will finish Grandfather’s painting." ...

January 1972 – Charleston

The Gallery was cold and the heater could not keep up with the biting wind just outside the door. The rain beat hard against the window of the studio. The old building seemed to tremble as if afraid of the storm. It was well past midnight, and I finally finished the canvas for Jessie Earle and signed my name in the bottom corner.

I was exhausted and I went to the back storage room and laid down on the cot, falling asleep as soon as I closed my eyes. My dreams were filled with a collage of images, the story of Jessie Earle’s life. He was a famous poet living a life of fame, friends, love, and tragedy. He too was now a story, painted on a massive canvas, the soft Sepia colors calming, healing, and captivating.

The sunrise was filled with bright bold colors as if an artist’s brush had touched the clouds. I could sense that Jessie had been there late in the night knowing that this would be the only moment he would have to see his own story and embrace the fact that he would again become famous. I could smell his Sandalwood cologne as I had many times, and, as always, I had not seen him, yet I knew he had been there taking in the finished canvas. Like a book of poems, he knew he would not be forgotten, a love filled with passion that never diminishes, he knew he would not fade away.

I turned on the spotlights and even though I painted the canvas I was in awe of its presence and its power. It seemed to have a life of its own, the stories rotating around the canvas just as Jessie lived them. I knew I was finished here, the story told, yet I knew by painting this canvas I too told my own story. It was a story of my journey that started over a year ago when I went back to Tuscumbia, Alabama and while I am finished here, I knew I had one last place to go, my home in Myrtle Beach.

Jessie Earle had as always left me an envelope with a check for doing the painting and a list of poets to read on my new journey. He reminded me that I still had a manuscript to complete, and he hoped that he would one day read my book.

The next chapter- The Shoemaker

Sepia: The Color Of Truth | BIZCATALYST 360°
Sepia The Color Of Memories | BIZCATALYST 360°
The Royal Typewriter | BIZCATALYST 360°
The Poet’s Library | BIZCATALYST 360°
Saying Goodbye | BIZCATALYST 360°
The Urn Carver | BIZCATALYST 360°
Church Bells Ringing | BIZCATALYST 360°
Church Bells Ringing | BIZCATALYST 360°
The Wayward Son | BIZCATALYST 360°

It was early 1958 and my father was taking me for a ride into town for a haircut. Daddy had the windows down and turned the radio up loud, he loved Johnny Cash, and his new song Big River was blasting on the radio. He was smiling, patting his hands on the steering wheel, and singing along.

Daddy’s favorite was George Jones, he always had time to listen to sad songs and said sad songs were like smoke in a bar and made you breathe the smell of loneliness. He would often say that there is nothing sadder than sad county songs, old dogs, lonesome highways, and the sound of a steel guitar.

In the winter of 1971, I went on the road playing music, and one of the benefits was going to late-night bars and hearing some of the best unknown singers and players who were the heart of the music. Often, I got to sit in with some of those amazing players and singers. It was how you learned your trade.

At a club just outside of Richmond, we stopped at a small Honky-Tonk around midnight. Our bus and truck barely fit in the parking lot, and we offloaded and headed straight to the door. The bar was in an old rebuilt barn, with wooden floors that sounded like a deep bass drum, a single light shining, and a singer on stage with just his guitar singing Daddy Frank. As we got closer to the stage, we realized it was indeed Merle Haggard.

He played way into the night and the sad songs rolled off his guitar, his voice like smooth bourbon. I couldn’t help but remember what my daddy always said, “sad songs were like smoke in a bar and made you breathe the smell of loneliness.”

I often close my eyes and feel the wind from the open car window and hear the sound of sad songs on the radio, those were special times, the best of times. Pop, I miss you and hope that you still listen to sad songs in heaven, and I will always think of you when I hear Sing Me Back Home by Merle Haggard.

THE ROAD TO NOWHERE

Sometimes the nowhere road takes us on a journey to the lonely places in our hearts where we find the truth about ourselves.

LEGEND HAS IT THAT PART THREE

It was a year of new things. I had to learn where I fit and how to fit. I learned that life was not as simple as living on the farm, but I faced my fear and earned the respect and friendship of a lot of new friends, friends that are still friends to this day. I also discovered the sea and the marshes and the many adventures they held. I grew a little that day, maybe more than a six-year-old should have to grow.

Fear is a crippling feeling. It is a feeling that we must face if only to conquer it. That day freed me up to live my life and to walk on that playground knowing that I could walk without fear. I started another part of my journey that day. I swore that I would always be strong, fearless, and be a dragon slayer. I also knew that I would never stand by and let anyone hurt someone because of how they looked or where they came from. Over the years I have had many opportunities to stand by a friend when they needed me.

THE WAYWARD SON

Sometimes we travel not to run from our fears but to run toward them, meeting them head-on. We travel to learn of life and the mysteries and knowledge it may teach us. My journey that summer changed my life forever. It taught me that within me I had the strength to travel the road, the knowledge to make decisions that allowed me my adventure yet kept me safe.

THE WAYWARD SON – PART TWO

Life can be faced the same way. We can be bold and fearless and learn from the many places that the tracks take us. Life provides us many opportunities if we can embrace that sense of adventure and have the courage and faith to walk through the doors that life opens. Most of all I learned how few things I really needed to be happy and that opportunities to help people be kind and caring would always be there in abundance. My Mom called me her wayward son. My Daddy just put his hand on my shoulder and smiled asking me where I was off to next.

The drive home from Boone was a time of reflection on my winter of healing at Henry’s farm. It was now a time of letting go of the pain and finally going home after several years of playing music and helping him work the farm. I knew I had been gone for too long and I missed my mom and dad. They were understanding and caring, and I was missing them so deeply, but I would see them in a few hours.

I loved driving through the country, the winding roads and farmland calmed my soul. I knew I would always love the backroads and lost highways. They would always be the part of my life that defined me, made me who I was. Like the highways, life had many turns, bumpy dirt roads and little did I know that soon I would walk a new path.

I took a side trip to see some of the old farms where I grew up. Just past Fair Bluff, seeing Spring Branch Church I knew I had to stop. I turned into the parking lot and walked into the Sanctuary. Immediately, I was overwhelmed with thoughts of so many Sundays and so many good memories. I did my first play there and I was a cowboy, still am at heart. I closed my eyes and let the memories flow. It was a good time in my life, the best of times.

It was so quiet in the church that my memories sounded loud and slowly I shook off the memories and watched the Pastor walking toward me to sit in the pew in front of me. In a soft but deep voice he asked if I was alright. I told him that as a child I was here every Sunday. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I told him about leaving the farm and moving to Myrtle Beach. Slowly with effort, the good and the bad of the past five years came out along with the joy, the pain, the loneliness, and the emptiness I felt that forced me to stop playing music.

The Church went quiet as I fought the tears that filled my eyes and finally I told him that I had tried everything without result, so I was going home to my family. He told me he was happy for me and asked to say a prayer for the journey home and then he said, “If I might ask this one more thing, try Jesus.”

He walked me to my van and I knew before midnight I would be home again, with family and new beginning.

The Seven Crows have been on this land for many years and when they first started gathering here on this farm it was a small house, a few barns, a dirt road, and a pond. Like any other family, they liked to eat their morning breakfast together, talk, and they loved the dirt road. It seemed to always have the best worms. It was a quiet place, a peaceful place, and they called it home.

The Seven liked to meet on the berm that was by the pond. It was about seven feet tall, and you could see most of the farm from there. They flew in with the elder Crow coming in first, then the four youngest, and the two mothers coming in last. They would stand in a circle, and it sounded like they were having conversations. Several walked down the dusty old road, and if you listened closely, you could hear laughter. They were never in a hurry and when they grew bored, they would fly out in the same order they flew in. They repeated this ritual several times a day, starting with sunrise and ending with sunset.

As the years past some of the forest was cleared and farms sold to make room for houses. I remember the first time I saw them, they were not the least frightened, and I would sit and watch them as long as they would stay. One morning when I left to go see my grandchildren Seven Crows were standing in their front yard. I could not say if these Seven were the same ones from my front yard but there were indeed Seven.

Ever since I was young and lived on a farm, I have loved the magical Crows. They have always been near the places I lived and greeted me as a friend. My Grandmother told me of the Folklore of the Crows saying they are some of the smartest animals you find. She told me to always be kind to them and leave them gifts and they will never forget your kindness. They also can hold a grudge passing it to other Crows and they can remember faces of people that were kind to them, more importantly, the ones that tried to hurt them. Lastly, they mourn when one of them dies, gathering around, making loud sounds, much like humans.

For me they are my friends and they also live in my stories and memories. When I see them, I always feel that I am among loyal friends. It is said they can prepare for the future, and I would love to know what they are preparing for, yet my knowledge is not like my Grandmother, and I may never know all there is to known about The Crows.

Part One

The Owl And The Crow | BIZCATALYST 360°

Part Two

The Crow And The Deer (Part Two) | BIZCATALYST 360°

Unused IdeasIt is possible that ideas, hopes, and dreams live in a place where anyone can go. They are like the vast shelves of books in a bookstore. Are our unused ideas like books in a used bookstore still there but just forgotten and waiting to be remembered?

Lost HighwaysI like the lost highways, where time has passed by, leaving its mark then moving on. A moment captured in time, then forgotten. I like the sound of gravel crunching beneath my boots and the sound of a rusty sign swinging in the wind.

I like the intensity of looking into the old men’s eyes that sit in front of the old gas stations and seeing their journey written on their souls.

The ViewWe spend a lifetime striving for all that we can get from life. Often at the expense of missing all the meaningful things that life gives us as gifts. How many times have we promised our self that we would get up early and watch a sunrise, sit out on a porch, and listen to the rain or walk down a country road with someone you love with dogs in tow? We never know how many tomorrows we have left. Choose today to find those moments.

Legend Has ItLife cannot give you courage. It has to come from within. It has to be something that you have faced in life and conquered. Fear is something you must face often in life. It has many faces. It can be personal, business or the fury of nature. Regardless of what it is, life has given you the tools and the knowledge to face anything. It is up to you how you face your fears or rather embrace your courage. As my sister always told me, in life, be strong, be courageous, and be a dragon slayer.

Stories are best when they are shared. We learn by listening and sharing tales of our journey. Each of us has a story to tell, a bit of knowledge to share that will help us along our way.

The Crow flew over the fields and forest toward the river wanting to see his friend. The first time he saw the deer it was just a small fawn and was all alone near a creek. He was afraid, extremely hungry, and wandering the forest looking for his mother. He had seen his mother cross the highway telling him to wait for her to come back. Sadly, she never came back, and it was up to the Owl and the Crow to raise the fawn.

The Crow flew high over the forest, wetlands, and fields looking for a place for the fawn to live and be safe. The forest provided nuts, shrubs, and security. The ponds and lakes had water and the fields had many grasses. Each day the fawn got bigger, and the Crow flew over to the pond where he would always bring the deer treats from bird feeders. Then one day the Crow told the Owl that they needed a name for the deer. The Owl being wise and the Crow cunning, they decided to name him Benny, the name of the old farmer where the Crow and Owl met every morning.

It was the night that Benny feared the most, the sounds, the predators, and most of all, the loneliness. The Owl watched over him during the long winter nights. A silent friend yet one that would always be nearby. Benny always looked forward to hearing the birdsongs knowing that soon the morning would light up the sky with pastel colors and the new day awakening the forest.

The Crow was flying over the forest and near a field, he saw deer drinking from a pond and he flew back to Benny telling him to follow him and hopefully find some new friends and become part of the herd. He wandered slowly over to the herd eating the grass from the field. He gradually came closer to the deer and finally, a doe came close enough that they touched nose to nose.

Benny had finally found a family and was able to be a part of the herd. The Owl and the Crow were always near but they knew they had done the right thing. They would talk often about Benny at their early morning fence post.

Read part one:

The Owl And The Crow | BIZCATALYST 360°

January was cold and stormy in the Lowcountry and the winds coming off the ocean and marshes were always misty and cold. The full moon would crest across the dunes at Huntington Beach working its way to Brookgreen Gardens where the Veil will open above the ancient oaks. At midnight he would see Rose again, and for a few hours, they would be together.

He parked his car in the grassy area near the entrance gates. The wooded area had many paths and he knew he could walk hidden until he got past the ticket entrance. It was quiet at night, and he heard a white owl hooting in the distance. Feeling the chill, he pulled his coat collar up around his neck knowing the owl would show him where the Veil was open. He felt a strong anticipation knowing Rose was waiting for him under the live oaks.

He walked quickly now as he saw the shimmering of the Veil and the shadow dancers seemingly floating across the sidewalks. As he passed through the Veil, he saw Rose standing near their favorite oak tree. He couldn’t help but notice that she wore all white, even her pearls and hat. They embraced and headed over to where the jazz band was playing and people were dancing. He looked deeply into her eyes telling her how much he loved and missed her.

Rose smiled and held him closer, saying that soon they would be together for all eternity. He knew that he was growing older, and it was getting harder and harder to get to the Veil. He could see the light that danced around her head as she took him by the hand and walked toward the stairway that led to the river. The closer they walked to the river he saw his hands seem to shed the many years and when they looked into the fountain, he could see his hair was no longer grey.

Rose told him that she had watched him from behind the Veil and she was so sad that he never remarried. She was happy when the Veil opened on the Harvest Moon so they could be together for a very few hours from midnight until the first light of morning. It was a magical time those hours, filled with a love so powerful that the Veil would open for them to spend what seemed like moments before Rose had to let him go back across where they would be apart until the Veil opened again.

Tonight, she told him of the tears she shed each time they were together. Rose said there were no tears in Heaven, and it was only here that she could cry. He held her close as the dawn grew nearer. Rose said this night was special and they would walk toward the light together. The light was just beyond the live oaks down the old brick stairs leading to the river.

They walked slowly knowing they would be together for eternity. An Angel waited by the boat that would take them across the river to live in the light, never to part again.

The strength of their love allowed them a love without end.

Amen

Read the complete series from the links below.

Shadow Dancers | BIZCATALYST 360°

The Shadow Dancers | BIZCATALYST 360°

The Shadow Dancers | BIZCATALYST 360°

The Value Of A Good StoryI would sit by the creek reading. In my mind, I traveled on great journeys, fought in great battles, went to the moon, and rode with notorious outlaws. I was hooked on learning and wanted more. I had a library card by first grade. By twelve I was reading Henry David Thoreau. By sixteen my quest for knowledge took me out of school and set me on my quest of learning. I spent five years on the road playing music.

Life In Black And WhiteIn life, much of what we do is not as black and white as it seems. Growing up I often heard the old saying that life is a simple as black or white. Life is not black and white. It is a palette of vibrant color like a Van Gogh painting. It is laughter, joy, and song. It is full of texture, smells and many feelings. It is full of love, kindness, giving and compassion all these colors, the spectrum of life.

Every Window Has A ViewHow often do we look out the window to see the view? To pause and take a look allows us to see things we miss when we walk by the window and just take a glance. It allows us to slow down and truly see. It allows us to pause, reflect and understand the views we see in life. Every window opens to a different view and a different opportunity.

Autumn Of Our LifeWe start life as children full of learning and imagination and we progress through school, work, and careers. We work hard and devote ourselves to creating a life yet to come, a life that we dream about. We often call life a journey and that brings to mind many places and things over a long time. While I realize that we certainly have cherished memories along the way, the Autumn, when we have time just for the things that we love, is but a brief moment. The time it takes to walk down a dirt road.

December 1971 – Charleston

December can be cold even in the deep south. I spent most of October and November looking at photos that I could use for the canvas. The studio was cold, and the light was a challenge. The wind and mist from the harbor were brutal making my early morning walk to work something I dreaded and the late-night walk was often just as bad. The fog would start rolling in around midnight when I would make my journey home reminding me that Charleston was the home of many ghosts and spirits. They roamed the cobblestone streets after midnight looking for the ones they left behind.

As I walked past the Thomas Street House, I saw Rebecca at the window working on a portrait. I didn’t want to distract her, so I walked on to the carriage house and opened the door to a warmth and the smell of coffee and fresh baked bread. I never knew if it was Jessie Earle or Rebecca Lynn who always left food and coffee for me. It would seem rude to ask, yet it would have been nice to be able to thank the bearer of such kindness.

I spread all the photos out again trying to solve the problem of how I could paint a canvas as large as the one I would need to include all the images. It was late and I knew the morning would come all too soon. It was not unusual for me to find the answer hidden within my dreams. As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear Rebecca Lynn playing her cello, a gift that opens the veil where our dreams live.

The night, while filled with dreams, couldn’t keep me awake. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filtered throughout the house, and I finally got ready for work. The coffee was on the table with brown sugar pecan rolls. I picked up the envelope by my plate knowing it would be from Jessie Earl. In his best calligraphy, the note said, “Your dreams were not wasted, the solution to the large canvas was simple. The canvas is like a story in that it takes many chapters to become a book.”

I was anxious to get to the gallery and start the day. In my mind, I could see many smaller paintings depicting the images from the photos. When put together they became one canvas telling the story of the many chapters. They could be displayed as a grouping or as one massive canvas. I had never seen it done but I knew it would be breathtaking.

When I got to the gallery there was an envelope on my easel with several photos of Jessie’s boat on fire and a few with his face bandaged. This answered many questions and explained why I had never seen him face to face. I squeezed out the sepia with a touch of dark brown and burnt orange to give the canvas vibrance. I walked the room with the brush in hand until I knew it was time to put the paint on the canvas and create.

The next chapter- Sepia The Color Of Healing

Sepia The Color Of Memories | BIZCATALYST 360°
The Royal Typewriter | BIZCATALYST 360°
The Poet’s Library | BIZCATALYST 360°
Saying Goodbye | BIZCATALYST 360°
The Urn Carver | BIZCATALYST 360°
Church Bells Ringing | BIZCATALYST 360°
Church Bells Ringing | BIZCATALYST 360°
The Wayward Son | BIZCATALYST 360°

For my Beautiful WifeI spent many years alone, and I wondered if I would love again then you came and stood by my side, your heart touched my heart and love awakened and the darkness passed.

My heart felt broken, like an open wound and I hurt from loneliness, yet your love healed my wounds and loneliness became a forgotten emotion.

You made my life whole and because of you, I found a love that will last to my last breath, a love that lasts forever.

The WriterHe was a local hero for a while holding court with a new generation of apprentices. His books were local Lowcountry gothic novels. He loved Edgar Allen Poe, Hemingway, and Harper Lee. As the years passed people’s interests changed and his books sold less and less. He came to sit at his table by the window every day. For a while, his love from Charleston came to be with him and he was happy but in time she too faded away. He had no children, so he became a recluse spending his days at the café. He lived in a nice apartment over the café, a benefit from the success of his first book.

A Cottage By The SeaIt has been a while since I have been to my cottage by the sea. The cottage is warm and welcoming with a breeze blowing the curtains. In my favorite leather chair by the window lays a book that I didn’t finish, a story of the sea and of great adventures of old. The book, a companion, a friend, a door to walk through, or a page to turn. It lays there waiting just where I left it, waiting for my return. The bookmark still there between the pages where the story was interrupted.

The Empty RoomThe empty room is silent the only noise is the creaking of the chair as I move to pick up a tin container. It is an old tin with a Norman Rockwell painting on the lid. The one of a boy and his dog. Inside I find some marbles, baseball cards, an old black and white school photo, and a check yes or no love letter. I feel like I am eavesdropping on these moments in time and the stories that still live here.

The Quiet ManDaddy believed in doing. He was not one for talking. I spent a lot of time with him in the fields and later riding with him when he drove a truck. He taught me about life by showing me and being an example and a testament to what he taught. I learned by watching and listening. I think the one thing he said the most was to use common sense.

It was a rainy November morning, and I knew I had to go back to the abandoned village I discovered a few weeks ago. I still had the letter that I found in the mailbox on my last visit. I sent a copy of the letter to the publisher that sent her the letter, but I hadn’t heard anything back. The wind blew hard today but I knew I would walk down the old dirt road and open that mailbox once again. I had to know more about the letter Victoria had received saying her poem had been accepted.

I could feel my heart pounding as I walked toward the rusty mailbox, hesitating and then slowly opening the box. It held a single envelope, a sepia color with no stamp attached. I walked toward the old porch filled with many emotions touching both my head and my heart. The porch creaked as I walked across the plank wood and sat down in the rocking chair staring at the envelope. Finally, I opened it and saw the most beautiful calligraphy handwriting I had ever seen.

SAYING GOODBYEVictoria

I sat on this porch in the early spring of 1945 knowing that in a moment I would walk down that dusty road waiting for the bus that would take me to Lillington, where I would catch the train to Savanna, Georgia. I would start a new life, new hope, and a new job teaching Literature and Poetry in a private school.

The train ride was long, but it was inspiring to see the country and towns along the way. In 1945 the south was filled with farms growing cotton, tobacco, and corn. I could see the farmers planting the fields in hopes of a good harvest. I knew I would miss our farm but getting a book published and a teaching job took me away from the life I was living in a small North Carolina community.

I will say goodbye for now and spend my time relaxing and reading poetry. Perhaps I will send you another letter. How does it feel to get letters from heaven? I will send you more when the time allows. Time is different here. It is like a dirt road where you can walk in many directions. This day I will remember the time when I walked off the porch with only my hopes and dreams.

After all, letters from heaven are very special, blessed, and given only to the few that believe.

Chapter One: Letters From Heaven | BIZCATALYST 360°

It was a cold December day, and I was a bit sad. It seemed like a long, lonely drive as I always took the back roads instead of the interstates. It had been a while since I visited the old homestead and while it always awakened good memories it was a sad lonesome and abandoned place. It was my home for many years and some of my most cherished memories were made on that old tobacco farm.

I was coming to a town near the South Carolina North Carolina state line and while it was at one time a busy town filled with people it was now deserted. The buildings were boarded up, the sidewalks cracked and dirty. My daddy purchased his first car here and at harvest time we brought our cotton and tobacco here. It was a place of friends, families and you could feel the joy and hear the laughter, but not today. The only sound was the cold wind blowing down the empty street, almost a ghost town.

As I came across the bridge, I noticed the river was frozen in places. I stopped at the red light looking right toward my old home and then looked left seeing an old storefront bookstore. The sidewalk in front of the store was power washed, the windows clean, and Christmas books were in the window. It was the only store open on the street and I was sure I had never seen this bookstore. I grew up here and would have remembered this place as I loved books. Growing up daddy would take me to the library in Myrtle Beach to check out books for two weeks. It was a special time for us, just me, my dad, and a good book to read.

I opened the glass doors and walked inside. The old wooden floor had a nice deep bass sound as I walked inside toward the man sitting by the window writing in a leather journal. It was beautifully embossed with an image of an old tobacco barn. That awakened many memories from my childhood days on the farm. The man looked up and said, “Welcome to The Blue Bird Bookstore.” He told me his name was Tabias Hammond and he wrote stories for people. A chill ran through my body, and I knew he went to school with me in 1959 before I moved to Myrtle Beach.

I kept in touch with him until I was sixteen and for some reason he stopped sending letters. On a visit to the farm in the late sixties I stopped by the Hammond farm and was told he had taken a drive late one night and never came back. Yet here he was sitting in a bookstore I had never seen before. I asked him how it was possible that he was here. He took a pause and stared out the window. In a quiet almost whisper he asked that I take a seat by the fireplace, and he would tell me his story.

Tabias HammondIt was late one night, and I was driving over to see a friend just past Fair Bluff. The rain stopped suddenly, a dense fog appeared, and I ran into one of the oak trees just as I crossed the Lumber River. I was not hurt, and I found myself in a bookstore filled with books but none of the books had anything written in them. A note left on the counter told a story about living books, and I would write stories for others until I found my own story.

I asked him how he was here, and he said that he was here but in a different place. A place of living stories, a place where lost stories are found. I asked him about the bookstore, and he told me it was only here for the people that believed in storytelling.

Tabias asked me to relax by the fire and tell him my story. He took out a calligraphy pen and dipped it into the inkwell then holding the pen on the first page the words appeared as I talked. It seemed that hours passed before he put down the pen. He told me to take the book and come back when I finished reading what I wrote in the book.

I thanked him and got in my car. Driving away, in my rearview mirror I could see that the bookstore was gone.

Part Two coming soon.

The Living Books

The night was slowly slipping its way into the morning when the rooster started crowing and the songbirds awakened the new day. The sunrise broke the tree line just beyond the pasture filling the sky with a collage of colors. I crawled out of bed to get dressed and I felt more than ready for a shave and some heavy clothes. I put some cut wood in the potbelly stove to get some warmth in the house. March had arrived but the nights were still cold, and we were still getting some snow flurries just before dawn.

I put some water on the stove for coffee and cracked two eggs in the skillet, throwing in some cheese, bacon, and bread to toast. It was noticeable to me that I had gained a few pounds and grew muscles too. It wasn’t a fancy farm, there was wood to chop, animals to feed and I always walked the perimeter of the farm in the mornings with Henry’s cattle dog. He had become a constant companion and guide.

I could feel the new strength in my body and my mind had more clarity. I was writing stories again and the work had given me more stamina.

I felt the healing in my heart and I felt hope again. Soon I will be ready to leave the farm and say goodbyes to my friend Henry. It was time for me to find my way home.

It has been almost three years since I have seen my family. Perhaps it was time to pick up the axe and chop wood a spell, then load up my Chevy van and start down the dirt road, and head for the Carolina shores.

Henry pulled up near the back door, seeing that I was loading up he smiled and walked over, giving me a long hug then handed me a letter from my mom. I opened it up and all that was written was two words.

Come Home!

Henry waved goodbye and I headed out with tears in my eyes and a heart aching to go home. Blasting on the radio was the song Rambling Man by The Allman Brothers Band. A good start indeed!

Coming soon Part Four – Home

Roosters Crowing And Train Whistle Blowing | BIZCATALYST 360°

Scars, Bars, and Blues | BIZCATALYST 360°

The winter was here to stay for a while. The snow was deep, and the winds blew hard, bending the pine trees and blowing with a dusting so bad that you could barely see the fence near the barn. The storm blew through the night and by morning the fields and forest were covered with a blanket of snow. It was quiet, a hush covered the land with the only sounds being tree limbs breaking, the hoot of an Owl, and the Crow cawing.

The Owl and the Crow had been friends for many years. One haunted the night and the other scavenged the day. They met here at dawn just as the night was passing and the sun slowly broke the horizon, painting the sky as if an artist’s brush was touching the clouds with bold red, softer yellows, and pastel blues. As with every morning, they came to rest on the old fencepost to share stories of their adventures and enjoy a few moments of friendship.

The farm was old now, after four generations the last of them packed up and drove away, never to return. They remembered the farmer planting sunflowers by the fencepost so that we would always have something for us to eat. In the winter his wife made suet cakes to help us get past the cold winters. She had drilled little holes into the fencepost and filled them with the suet cakes. They knew they would always be grateful for her feeding them.

The farm was abandoned now, yet the old Owl and Crow still met there at sunrise every morning. They too, were old now and they missed the rooster crowing, and the children getting excited when they came to rest on the fence. They wondered how many mornings they had left, perhaps as long as the fence was still there.

They used to fight over the fencepost, then year by year they became friends, and people were always amazed to see an Owl and Crow sitting on the fence together. As the snow gathered deeper around the fence and the temperature dropped even more, they parted ways hoping that they both would still be here when the snow melted and the trees filled with leaves.

They spent a lifetime as unlikely friends, but lifetime friends they were. Perhaps we can learn a lot from two friends sitting on a fence post.

At twenty-one, he opened for a famous country singer and he was well-received. His music was filled with storytelling about forgotten loves, old dogs, dirt roads, lost highways, and life on the road. He was one of the few Troubadours left in country music, and he was a throwback to a better time. His singing reached deeply, making you believe he was living the pain and heartaches. Everyone said he was the real deal, the big thing, and he was for a time.

He sold out in big arenas, and often when he walked on stage, he didn’t know what city he was in. The backstage was filled with people he didn’t know, all wanting something from him. After two years of being a road warrior, he was just outside of Memphis playing in a packed house and when he went on stage the crowd was so loud that he couldn’t even hear the chords he was playing, or the words he was singing.

At the end of the show, he walked downtown near the interstate with a duffle bag and a guitar slung over his shoulder. He stuck his thumb out and a big truck with Montana license plates pulled over the driver asked, “You heading to Montana looking for work?” and he said “yes” and climbed into the truck, shutting the door, ending one life and beginning another.

It was late November, and the snow was deep. In Montana, the ranch foreman made his last rounds before calling it a night. The barn felt like heaven after walking the farm and checking all the buildings. The horses were quiet, too quiet, and he could feel that something was wrong. As he opened the stall, he saw the wrangler they called Troubadour who would pull out his old Martin and play some cowboy songs.

He wasn’t moving in the sleeping bag and the foreman knew he was gone. He sang his last song after supper and now there would be no more. It was rumored that he had been a famous country music singer and was rich, yet he slept in the tack room near the horses and had a simple life, a life well worth living.

They sent his meager belongings to the family, a beautiful handmade saddle, a well-worn Stetson, his priceless Martin, and a steamer trunk with all his gold records packed inside. The true treasure was several moleskin journals filled with forgotten songs. He had signed a document so his wife and family would receive all the royalties he had made from his records and all future sales. He also signed a note that she would be the executor of his estate and owner of his record company.

He was a legend in the music world, but all he ever wanted was to be a Troubadour, a singer, and a guitar player. The world changed and he walked away. There was no place for a country music singer in Nashville.

He always loved cowboys and he became one of the best. He was a simple man asking for nothing but a good horse and a trail to ride.

The Ghost Rider Series – Chapter FourThe morning fog was coming in from the marshes, heavy, thick, and limited visibility on the back road to the old church. After another night dreaming deeply of Peter sitting by Heaven’s Gate smiling and shaking his head, telling me I still had work to do, I knew I had to have coffee and work so I could shake the night from my mind.

It was difficult riding down the narrow dirt road, the truck bouncing and the fog laying low, so it was hard to see the trees just a few feet off the side of the road. I could hear the preacher hammering and cutting boards. I finally made the clearing and was surprised to see scaffolding rising from the front of the church. Blake was already there sitting with the preacher and between the two the steeple was rising higher and higher as they added boards.

I grabbed the thermos of hot coffee and met them at the tent where the sketch of the steeple was spread on a table made of sawhorses and plywood. I asked the preacher what his name was, and he said, “John, they used to call me Deacon John and now most folks call me preacher.” We heard people coming down the road, dozens with hammers, saws, mallets, paint, and everything needed to raise the steeple high in the sky.

The day grew long, the work hard, the fellowship inspiring and the spirit touching all of us. People were bringing food, the choir stood near the graveyard and sang, people pulled out guitars, fiddles, and snare drums. The crowd swelled and became a congregation of hope, the hope that come Sunday they would have a service here near the Glynn Marsh. Their steeple would reach high, and the church bells would ring loudly calling all to hear the preacher, a single soul believing that he could raise the steeple, and indeed he did.

I slowly headed toward my truck, thanking people along the way for helping. My day over and a joy filled my heart, my hope tonight would be to keep Heaven’s Gate out of my dreams as I still had more to do.

Read more:

The Lost Highways | BIZCATALYST 360°

Heaven’s Gate | BIZCATALYST 360°

The Steeple | BIZCATALYST 360°

I don’t pray that much anymore. I figure by now God knows who I am and what I have done in my life. He helped me plenty in my younger days and I still hold that help close to my heart and soul. I don’t drink Bourbon that much anymore but every now and then I like to feel the warmth going through my body.

I still go to church on Sundays, but I sit in a pew way in the back row. I sit quietly not so much listening to the preacher but feeling the peace and contentment of my old age. I do prefer to sit by the river with my old dog, feels the same as church to me.

I don’t have as many friends, I lost a few along the way and hopefully, they are waiting to greet me when it is my time. Most of my friends I have known all my life and I cherish each and every one of them. Some of us meet from time to time and have coffee and conversation, talking mostly about the old days. We were the wild ones living large and owning it, but that time has passed.

I don’t mind being in this part of my life. I watch the new day unfold, painting the sky with colors as if an artist touched the clouds with his favorite brush. The birds sing like a soundtrack for the new day. I have my wife and family near, not to mention an old hound dog with beautiful brown eyes and a loving little group of three called the poodle pack.

It has been a long life and now it’s time to sit by the window and read or watch the birds. It is a peaceful time, mostly I try to touch the memories I have made and give them life by writing them down and sharing with others the things I have seen and done.

For now, I will sit here with Buddy my dog, and watch the sky light up again as the sun slowly sets one more day with the colors of life painted in the clouds.

Part One: Who I Am | BIZCATALYST 360°

The old house was deserted, forgotten and the silence was unbearable. I couldn’t feel the memories that usually haunt these abandoned houses. The broken glass crunched under my boots as I walked toward the fireplace; a ray of light from the setting sun touched the mantle and illuminated a portrait.

The beauty of the painting took my breath away. It was enchanting, filled with mystery, and from another time. The plaque on the wooden frame said only “The Sisters.” I took it off the wall and held it in my hands. It felt as if I knew them.

The sound of their voices danced within my head telling me that I had met them, talked with them, and danced with them both. I closed my eyes as within a dream. I knew that I had loved them both, yet I knew I had walked away because I could only marry one of them.

I held the portrait close to my heart and left the abandoned house to its ghosts. I knew I had to find out where the sisters were and what became of them.

Perhaps, I will find that story; and if not, I would write a story telling them how much I loved them and how I lost them both.

It has been ten years since they both came here together. It was a place they would go every September to escape the noise of the city. The cottage was weathered, the wood a sea gray from the storms that pound the shore year after year. It was their time of year and a time that very few people were on the barrier island.

He drank coffee every morning when the sun broke the horizon with colors of gold, orange, and deep purple, the colors of love and beauty. He would take her hand and walk over the dunes to stroll along the shoreline finding shells.

She always sat in this wooden chair, a book in hand, and deeply immersed in the story. She said reading inspired her to write and how could she have known that she would never write this last story? It would go unread, an ending never completed.

He came again after all these years hoping that the chair would still be there, and it was, still resting in the sand near the sand dunes. Her initials were carved in the chair arm, still recognizable. He rubbed his finger across the wood, and felt such longing for her smile, to look into her eyes one last time.

As the sunset dipped into the marsh, he knew it was time to leave this sacred place, a place where he shared so much with his beloved wife. He knew then that he would never return again, never read the ending of her story.

The only thing left were the memories to comfort him in these twilight years. Often it is these memories that live with us for a lifetime, always cherished and never forgotten.

The October winds grew stronger as the night fell. It would be a cold night, windy, chilly, and dark, and moonless. Only a few days ago the trees were heavy with leaves, red, orange, and bright yellows. Tonight the leaves fell from the trees like snow in a blizzard. They covered the yard and were crisp and made a crunching sound when I walked the dogs across the yard.

We would sleep good tonight, snug under quilts after cups of hot chocolate, cookies, and scary movies. The wind gusted hard and shook the windows, the lights flickering and the sounds of broken branches falling soon faded into dreams and deep sleep. After all, dreams tell us stories and this was my dream this night, this night of cold winds, broken branches, and fallen leaves.

One by one the leaves fell carpeting the ground, yet one had weathered the storm, and when the night faded, and in the quiet just before dawn, the leaf held to the branch. It had been there since early spring, the first leaf on the old oak. As time passed the leaf welcomed others and soon the tree became a shade tree.

The spring passed, the summer recently gone, and the tree barren but for the last leaf. It held on through the stormy night and the dawn found the yard buried in brightly colored leaves. The breeze came in gusts each one stronger than the last until it finally let go.

The leaf floated in the calming wind, twirling slowly and even rising back up toward the oak. The morning held no sounds and for a long moment it balanced on the breeze then slowly landed within the garden, the finishing touch to the collage of colored leaves.

I awakened early, brewed some fresh coffee, looked out at the leafless tree, and said out loud to my dog I wonder what happened to that last leaf. Feeling a bit sad, I sat by the window and watched the birds land on the barren tree.

October 1971 – Charleston

It was after midnight when the bus let me off on King Steet. The fog was rolling off the harbor, thick, wet, and cold. The carriage house was only a few blocks from here. It was small and tucked back behind my friend’s Thomas Street house, but it was perfect for a writer or artist. I walked slowly down the street taking in the feeling of Charleston, a town said to be filled with spirits and ghosts that walked the deserted streets at night. I heard a horse’s hooves clacking loudly on the cobblestone street, yet the fog made it impossible to see anything. I walked with my head down going as fast as I could toward the Thomas Steet house.

The carriage house was behind the big house, and I was eager to get inside. I could see candles in the windows and upon opening the door the warmth of the fireplace. Just inside the door was a steamer trunk with an envelope laying on top. From the handwriting on the envelope, I knew it was from Author Jessie Earle Grant. It was a bit unsettling that he managed to get the truck here before I even made it to Charleston; however, I knew I shouldn’t be surprised. I stood there staring at the trunk, knowing as bad as I wanted to open it, I was tired from the long trip and all I wanted to do was unpack my duffle, close the book on this night and get some needed sleep.

The night was filled with dreams tinted with the color Sepia. I could see a party on the lawn by the river. The band was playing Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, and the master Count Basie. The wine and champagne flowed freely, laughter, romance, and passion filled the air. Jessie Earle was there reading his poetry and the crowd gathered close. As in most dreams as he was reaching out to kiss the beautiful lady beside him, I then awakened, and the dream faded into the mist.

As I slowly shook off the cobwebs of my dreams, I smelled coffee and heard plates being put on the table. I slipped on my jeans and a sweater and headed downstairs. I had yet to see Jessie and I was hoping this was the day, but he was not there. The table was set, orange juice, shrimp and grits, strawberries, and chocolate crepes with whipped cream on top. After my long journey to Charleston and the small amount of sleep, I indulged in all of the breakfast delights.

Jessie left a handwritten note on the table, and I opened the envelope. In his best calligraphy, he wrote that he hoped I would enjoy the breakfast. He said, “I know that you are probably wondering how you will have time to write. Perhaps you need a bit of inspiration.” I walked into the parlor and opened the steamer trunk. It was filled with photographs of Jessie as a child with his family, school photos, and pictures of him with a beautiful woman. The last envelope had many images of him on the island near Beaufort, at parties on his boat and several of him alone. It stood out to me that he was sad, deeply withdrawn, and alone.

Jessie had left another note asking if I would do paintings of the photos, the memories of his life. The last line of the note provided the answer to my question, telling me that I could write the story while painting the images using what I saw to create a collage. The photos were many and it came to me I would create a large canvas in Sepia the color of memories.

I was excited to get to the art gallery on King Street, and I put on my best artist clothing, an old pair of white painter’s overalls. I took my Royal typewriter in case I got inspired. As I headed out the door, I noticed the window open in the main house and the owner Rebecca Lynn Grant was painting a still life in watercolors. It was filled with pastels and warm browns. I paused for a moment but decided to go to the art gallery and introduce myself to her when I came back and hopefully see the painting.

When I opened the door to the gallery I was overwhelmed at the paintings, the many artists working on different subject matter. I knew then that Jessie’s memories would live on.

These are all the links to The Dirt Road Chronicles

The Royal Typewriter | BIZCATALYST 360°

The Poet’s Library | BIZCATALYST 360°

The Lost Poet | BIZCATALYST 360°

Saying Goodbye | BIZCATALYST 360°

The Urn Carver | BIZCATALYST 360°

Church Bells Ringing | BIZCATALYST 360°

Church Bells Ringing | BIZCATALYST 360°

The Wayward Son | BIZCATALYST 360°

"The dirt road opened to a field where three roads converged. My eyes went to the old church with the steeple missing." ...

"They say that you can never go back again, yet if you can write a story, if you can reach back and touch those long-ago memories you can go back again." ...

"I am sure that I will spend more days in that chair, write many more stories and spend many days on the lost highways with my dog." ...

"It was a beautiful morning for the ride to Pawleys Island, spring was still lingering so the weather was beautiful." ...

"Life gifts us with poets, writers, storytellers, artists, and troubadours. They are the chosen few, a band of hardcore troubadours that travel the lost highways together." ...

"A single light pole lit a sign printed with the words “Heaven’s Gate” and an arrow pointing even deeper into the forest." ...

"Life gifts us with poets, writers, storytellers, artists, and troubadours. They are the chosen few, a band of hardcore troubadours that travel the lost highways together." ..

T he morning mist was burning off the water as the sun broke through the oak trees that lined the inlet and salt marshes.

"Life gifts us with poets, writers, storytellers, artists, and troubadours. They are the chosen few, a band of hardcore troubadours that travel the lost highways together." ...

It was a crisp October night, and the full moon was reflecting off the creek. Daddy asked me if I was finished with my homework because he wanted to look into something he saw down the creek a little way. I said sure and grabbed my barn jacket and met daddy by the kitchen where […]

"We knew that we were seeing something so very beautiful that it would always be with us, something we would never forget." ...

"I looked out over the fields and saw the sunrise breaking the tree line. It truly was a new day, a new beginning with boundless possibilities." ...

"The highway gives more than we imagined, more than an adventure, more than just possibilities and in the end, it will take our innocence." ...

Once upon a time when the full moon rose above the treetops. The street was dark and most of the streetlights were out, trash littered the sidewalk, yet he walked on ignoring the danger in this run-down section of the city. The moon was almost full, and midnight was getting closer with each step. The […]

The Writer The Writer may with words enchant us with the beauty of the sunrise coming up over the ocean turning the water into a collage of colors both bold and soft. Within those words, you might hear the waves crashing the shore, and the gulls calling from the vibrant sky. For that moment you […]

It was a cool March morning, a gentle breeze chilled the air, and the grass was covered with dew. I poured a thermos to the rim with freshly brewed coffee. I called my dog, Buddy and he jumped into his place on the back seat. It was a good morning for exploring the backroads and […]

In the early morning when the first pink clouds appeared in the sky, you woke me from my slumber. You put your fingers to your lips, and we snuck out the back door. The morning dew covered the melons with beads of moisture. They were cold and wet. You picked up a few and thumped […]

March 1971- Beaufort, SC It was a sunny March morning, and the sun was rising, making the waterway sparkle and take on a golden tone with hints of lavender and peach. I caught a ride with a truck driver just after midnight and made it to the downtown historical district. I had always loved Beaufort […]

It is often said that we should let go of the past and move on, leaving it behind. This sounds good and leads us to believe that from that point on life will be great. Perhaps the past is not in a hurry to be forgotten. It could be that we have not learned our […]

It was a warm April morning, and the skies were dark in the distance. A low rumble could be heard, a reminder that storms came without warning this time of year. The road was full of ruts and potholes and the going was slow. The years were kind to me and yet my most memorable […]