My Upcoming Book: Growing Up Free

[September 12, 2026]  This is the day many of my readers have been asking for.  I’m officially announcing a new book, due out sometime late next month.  Assuming all goes well, expect it to be published and out on Amazon.  I still have a few hurdles to overcome, but I’m making progress.

The title will be: “Growing Up Free: What a 1950s & 60s Southern Childhood Taught Me About Manhood.”  That should sound familiar.  Over the past couple of years, I’ve written a number of articles about growing up in those decades of the Baby Boomers.  I hope you find them entertaining, and perhaps you can laugh along with me.

Those were simpler times.  Maybe yes, maybe no.  I tried to address that in these stories.  Let me know what you think of the outtakes.  They are here for entertainment purposes.  And, they will give a glimpse into my life before I went into the U.S. Army.  See if you can figure out if growing up during these two decades in the South helped me be a better Soldier or not.

Why “outtakes?”  At first glance, they may seem like rejects from the book; stories that I chose not to be part of the book or somehow I just didn’t think were worthy enough.  Well, maybe true.  I could add them back but I decided that they are better by standing alone without context.

The following outtakes are in rough form and I will be editing them, mainly to make them shorter.  I like quick and clean stories over something long and drawn out.

So, here are my ten choices (maybe more to follow at a later date and before publication).  Enjoy:

Outtake 1: Watch Out for that Mangy Dog

I didn’t give him much notice until he chased me home one day.  My Mom had given me the proper warning, “Watch out for that mangy dog.”  Rabies was real, although looking back, I don’t think he had the disease.  I loved dogs then, and I love them more today, perhaps because I’m less busy, or simply because the years have taught me how much company a quiet animal can keep.

He was smallish and genuinely ugly. Hair had come off in irregular patches, leaving stretches of dull, pinkish skin. He was mostly “skin and bones,” as Mom would say, and he drifted through our neighborhood on the west side of town like a gray ghost no one had claimed. I was young and dumb in the purest sense of both words. I knew almost nothing, least of all about mangy-looking dogs that might carry disease. Best just avoid them when you can.

Avoiding a dog that regularly worked your part of a small town was not always possible. I wasn’t exactly afraid of him, but I wasn’t friendly either. He might have been a “she-dog,” though that seemed unlikely; the females I knew always looked pregnant. In the wilder corners of my imagination, I decided he must have been abandoned by some heartless family; too old now, no longer useful. “Dog” bothered no one. That fact alone felt sad.

I nicknamed him “Dog.” Unoriginal? Completely. But the name fit the same way my granddaddy simply called his tomcat “Tom.” It wasn’t pejorative and it wasn’t particularly kind. It was simply accurate. Besides, anything without a name is more likely to seem as if it never existed. Dog did exist. And after a while, he answered to the name.

The first time I spoke it out loud I was halfway down the alley behind the liquor store, a half-eaten biscuit in my pocket. He was limping along the fence line, head low.

“Dog,” I said, not expecting much.

He stopped. One ear, what was left of it, twitched. He looked at me the way an old soldier looks at a stranger who somehow knows his rank. Then he came closer, cautious, still ready to bolt. I broke the biscuit in two and set one half on the ground between us. He waited until I backed up three steps before he took it. That became the pattern.

Over the next weeks the distance between us shrank. I learned he would not come into our yard if our screen door was open, as if he understood the difference between public ground and private. He never barked. He never growled. On hot afternoons he would simply appear in the shade of the oak tree across from our porch and lie there, watching the street with the patience of something that had already outlived most of its expectations.

Mom noticed, of course.  “You’re feeding that thing,” she said one day, not quite accusing.  “Just scraps,” I answered.  She studied him for a long moment. “He’s not long for this world.”

I already knew that. The patches of bare skin were spreading. His ribs showed, more each week. Yet he kept showing up, and I kept saving the ends of sandwiches and the last of the cornbread.

One late-summer evening a car full of older boys came through the neighborhood throwing bottles. One of them bounced near Dog and shattered. He didn’t run. He simply stood there, trembling a little, and looked toward the porch where I sat. I walked out, put my hand on the bony ridge of his back for the first time, and stayed there until the car was gone. His skin was hot and dry under my palm. He leaned into my touch.

After that, he began waiting for me at the corner when I walked home from school. We never went far together (he didn’t have the strength), but we covered the same neighborhood blocks every afternoon in companionable silence. I talked to him. I told Dog about the fight I’d almost gotten into at recess, about the teacher who smelled of peppermint, about how Dad’s old 12-gauge shotgun still leaned against the closet wall. He listened the way only dogs can: without judgment and without interruption.

The last time I saw him, the leaves were beginning to turn. He was lying in his usual place under the Oak, but he didn’t rise when I called. I sat down beside him in the dirt. His breathing was shallow. I stroked the few patches of fur that remained and told him he was a good dog, maybe the first time anyone had ever said the words to him. He closed his eyes. Sometime between one breath and the next, he left.

We buried him that evening out in the woods, in the soft ground near the fence where he used to walk. I put a flat rock over the spot so I would know where he was. No name. Just the rock.

Years later I still think of him when I see a stray moving carefully along a roadside. Most people look away. I usually stop. Because once, a long time ago, a mangy dog on the west side of town taught a boy that sometimes the ones who look like they have nothing left to give are the ones who give the most, simply by staying close until the end.

Outtake 2: And There It Was … a Butterfly

And there it was … the Dotted Checkerspot butterfly that my friend David and I had been searching for ever since his mother first told us about it. The year was 1968, and the world around us was changing dramatically and quickly. That turbulence formed part of the background for why two boys would spend long summer days collecting butterflies.

Our parents regarded the hobby as harmless enough. At least we weren’t out throwing rocks at the police, stealing cars from local residents, or marching in protest of the war in Vietnam. We were young, restless, and a little rebellious, yet hunting butterflies somehow felt right. We were driven to it in a way that still puzzles me slightly, even now.

Butterflies are a reminder of beauty. In mounting the finest specimens we found onto poster boards, we were collecting beauty itself. Human beings are drawn, almost naturally, to beauty in all its forms. Oddly enough, we had to euthanize the insects before we could display them. David’s mother suggested the word “euthanize”; it softened the blunt reality of what we were doing and let us avoid the harder word “kill.”

My brother and I shared a bedroom that was truly ours. Mom kept it clean because we were not especially tidy, yet we still tried to improve it in our own crude way. Displaying those colorful butterflies was my attempt to make the room a little more beautiful, a small counterweight to the disorder of teenage life.

These insects had entered my world by offering pure visual beauty at a time when so much else felt ugly. Racial strife, political tension, war, drugs, and violence filled the news. Traditional values of family, God, and country seemed to be slipping into freefall. Against that backdrop the Dotted Checkerspot stood out as something quiet and ordered.

Jordan Peterson has observed that beauty connects us to something beyond our limited, cynical, or resentful perspective. It pushes back against the sense that life is merely short, dismal, and tragic. Establishing a relationship with even one beautiful object or space can expand outward into the rest of life. Making something beautiful is difficult, yet “amazingly worthwhile.” Great beauty can embody a collective aim that reaches beyond any single lifetime and serve as a quiet call to adventure or higher orientation.

The Dotted Checkerspot is a small-to-medium butterfly marked by a checkered pattern of orange, black, and cream. The underside is especially distinctive, showing neat rows of pale dots and spots against a more muted background. Its wingspan usually measures between one and a half and two inches. These butterflies favor open grasslands, foothill ridges, and mountain meadows. We found them in the open prairies around Abilene in central Texas.

Like so many boyhood pursuits, butterfly collecting gradually faded as we became older teenagers. Cars (and the challenge of making them faster), girls, and the restless desire to become someone better than we currently were claimed more of our attention. College followed soon after. Only then did I realize I should have spent more time mastering math and science in high school rather than chasing butterflies across the prairie.

I never collected butterflies again, and that decision was sound. Still, I gained a lasting appreciation for them—not only for their place in the natural world, but for their quiet power to bring a little light into ordinary days.

I have never regretted those hours spent in search of that beauty; the Dotted Checkerspot.  You may have seen one yourself.

Outtake 3: Growing Up in the 50s and 60s

There was nothing at all like it; not before and not since.  Growing up in the 50s and 60s was like trying to wrestle a pig in a muddy ditch; it’s very personal, dirty, and you’re happy it’s over.  Describing those times is like stepping back into a black-and-white photo of nostalgia.  Yet that raw mix of struggle forged a generation ready to question everything and chase new horizons.

Many have attempted to paint a better picture of those decades, but have come up short. It is reasonable to give them a pass since those times saw some of the most dynamic historic events ever recorded.  Yet, for a few of us, having lived during that era in the rural South, we were insulated from the massive changes happening all over America.

That era tells a story of freedom, revolution, responsibility, and resilience.  It also exposes the underbelly of those times; the self-indulgent, immature, and a pining blindly for the past.

Those decades stood out as a powerful time of expanding individual freedom in America, driven by the Civil Rights movement, counterculture rebels challenging norms, fierce anti-communism, and the dismantling of Jim Crow laws. This shift freed people to chase personal dreams, shed discrimination’s chains, question authority, roar across the country on Easy Rider choppers, or embrace nature by hugging trees—blending hope, rebellion, and cultural upheaval in a time of both progress and turbulence.

We witnessed a massive revolution that reshaped daily life, mixing breakthroughs with unintended consequences. Satellites reached space, humans landed on the moon, the polio vaccine saved millions, jet travel boomed with commercial aviation, the interstate highway system connected the nation, early computers emerged, the birth control pill transformed society, sleek sports cars thrilled drivers, and music exploded into diverse new styles—fueling optimism and accelerating cultural shifts.

The 50s and 60s were a great time to be alive.  We baby boomers lived through that wild mix of turbulence and hope, which forged our generation—bold enough to break the rules and build a better future, yet nostalgic for simpler times.  We thought our future was unlimited, and that it was our destiny.  Let freedom ring, I have a dream, Ich bin ein Berliner, make love not war, and power to the people. We had many idealistic slogans.

These decades were also a time of fear and apprehension.  Bobby Dylan sang that The times are a-chagrin, in what some saw as the iconic “anthem of the 1960s.”  Change was good, we thought.  Change would bring about a safer, more peaceful, less tragic world, as we all tipped-toed through the tulips in which people could be free.  That idea would fail, and fail miserably as the Vietnam War surged (“the draft” became a dirty reality) and Communism began its long march throughout Southeast Asia and parts of Latin America.

The American Dream became more attainable with opportunity and innovation and the rising tide of economic development.  A spirit of hope and resilience defined the era, inspiring America’s global leadership and cultural dynamism.  Despite its challenges, it forged a generation built upon a foundation of family values and Christian principles to build a bigger, brighter future.

America is still the place where a kid who grows up poor can still make it.  Loretta Lynn, in her popular country song “A Coal Miner’s Daughter” sang it best:

• Well a lot of things have changed since a way back then
• And it’s so good to be back home again
• Not much left but the floor, nothing lives here anymore
• Except the memory of a coal miner’s daughter

Outrage 4: The High School Broad Jump

That was me standing in a line of about seven other young teenage boys about to participate in the broad jump at Cooper High School in 1968.  It would be my first track meet for all of us on the JV team.

I would be in five events for this first track meet, but it was the jump that made me love the sport.  I was about to experience an unforgettable event  worthy of remembering.

The 1968 track season ran from March through May, just before the weather started getting too hot, and Abilene, Texas (which sits on the edge of humidity) was fortunately and pleasantly dry that day.

Like so many of my teammates, we were more interested in the girls than our performance or weather, and it showed.  That was to be expected for boys coming of age.

My broad jump distance, now called the long jump, was just under 20 feet and nowhere close to a record but pretty good for the time.  Our  head coach also put me in for the 220 and 440 yard run, shocking me because I’d never run this distance before, and I was embarrassed in the event.

There was this cutie red head who was watching us from the bleachers.  I smiled.  She smiled back.  This is the kind of event that makes the hard workouts worthwhile.

Our track team was UIL 4A state competitive and so we were popular; not me but the seniors were like rock stars.  I was hanging onto their coattails.  But hey, I was there.

Sometimes participation itself has value. Better to be in the arena and lose than to have never tried at all. And that has been part of my personal philosophy of life. There may be a payoff; fame, glory, money, or just the smile of a girl.

I never knew her name. But I was in the arena.

Outrage 5: Swim with Snakes, Not With Alligators

Call me crazy, but I’d swim any day with snakes in a river, as opposed to swimming with alligators.  City folks might not understand why, so I’ll explain what I mean.  But first, remember this rule: to swim with snakes, not with alligators.

Snakes are just trying to swim and won’t bother you because they’re going from one point to another.  Alligators, on the other hand, are cruising that same river for a meal.  And you don’t want to be that meal.

As kids, we used to say, “Swimming with snakes is okay.”  But “swimming with alligators means you’re chomp chomp.”  Get it?  This is all about knowing where you are and who you’re around, knowing the game, and acting properly.  Like a comedian who can read the audience, you just gotta know your environment.  Success will follow.

The time my military driver and I rolled up on an Iraqi Army checkpoint, we had about a dozen or so guns pointed at us.  I wasn’t nervous, but I understood that just being a military ally didn’t mean they wouldn’t shoot me if I moved quickly and unexpectedly.  I read the environment correctly and backed away, despite having legal access to what they were guarding.

I knew from this incident that it’s one thing to exercise discretion, it’s another to be right and dead.  I chose discretion.  A Filipino civilian later that same day would learn the hard way with a gunshot to the gut. Those with the guns were the alligators, and I wasn’t going to swim in their territory.

On another day, these same Iraqi soldiers with their guns might be snakes in the river.  I had to learn the difference, read the environment, and act appropriately.  Read it wrong and bang, you’re dead.

Outrage 6: My First Realization I Was Not “Smart”

Learning your limitations can be tough on the ego. My first big clue that I wasn’t “smart” came in 7th grade history class. The teacher assigned us to memorize the Preamble to the U.S. Constitution.

We couldn’t argue with him. Memorizing stuff was normal back then—like learning the ABCs, counting to 100, or saying the Pledge of Allegiance. I didn’t like it, but I was just a kid from the Deep South.

The Preamble has 52 words. We learned it sets out the Constitution’s main goals and guiding principles. The teacher made us practice saying it after gym class.  We had no idea why.

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”
 —Preamble to the U.S. Constitution, approved September 17, 1787

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t memorize those 52 words. I’d always mix them up and spit out nonsense. If Candid Camera had been there, I would’ve been the laughingstock of junior high.

Kids who struggle with this often have learning difficulties like dyslexia, ADHD, or working memory challenges.  Back in the early 1960s, I was just “dumb.”  I had trouble staying focused. Maybe it was a mental thing, or maybe I was just distracted by what was happening outside the classroom or thinking about playing with my dog.

Later in school, I worked hard to find other ways to learn. Counterintuitively, discovering my weakness eventually helped me. It pushed me to use different strategies, tools, and my strengths. I turned out to be good at understanding processes and systems. Once I put information into those systems, I could remember much better.

When you realize you’re not “smart,” maybe it’s time to start looking at strategies to overcome the weaknesses you possess.

Albert Einstein gives us a hint in how to overcome not being smart, even though he was a genius.  “It’s not that I’m so smart, it’s just that I stay with problems longer.”

Outrage 7: Snuffy Smith’s Laughs: the Sunday Comics

Back in the early 1960s, us kids grabbed the Sunday paper for one big reason: the comics. Right in the middle sat Snuffy Smith, the lazy hillbilly from Hootin’ Holler. Yes!  I could identify with him.  He was just like my Grandpappy Smith from a small, cozy town in Louisiana with no traffic light.

Snuffy, with his corncob pipe and baggy pants, always dodged work, chased moonshine, and yelled at his wife, Loweezy. His goofy schemes and wild chases made everyone snort with laughter. Those bright Sunday pages turned a boring morning into pure fun.

Snuffy wasn’t alone. Other 1960s strips, like Beetle Bailey, showed a lazy soldier dodging drills and making his sergeant mad. Peanuts featured kids like Charlie Brown turning everyday fails into smart jokes. Blondie caught Dagwood in kitchen messes and nap troubles. Hi and Lois poked fun at family chores. Li’l Abner mixed hillbilly life with big, silly adventures, just like Snuffy. All these strips filled newspapers with colorful gags anyone could understand.

The reading level must have been around second grade; that’s when I started reading them. Maybe I was looking at these cartoons even before I could read. I might have been at the “See Dick and Jane” level, but Snuffy Smith was more fun.

This kind of humor sure packed real power for us kids. It flips on a “play state” in your brain; trust, fun, and unity with others. Laughing at Snuffy’s dumb plans or Beetle’s army flops made a young kid’s boring days easier.

Humor builds toughness, raises your status, and shields you from bad stuff. Even simple cartoons connect you to beauty and meaning. These drawings aren’t just doodles; they show us that life needs joy, not just work and food. Reading them trains your eyes and heart to spot the funny side everywhere.

Why did these comics work so well? Simple drawings popped with color. Stories lasted one panel or a short strip; no long books required. Snuffy’s hillbilly talk and wild faces delivered a quick grin. The same went for Peanuts’ wise kids or Blondie’s silly home chaos. You laughed, felt better, and faced the coming week stronger.

This is the gift of art: it opens doors to trust and truth. Fake laughs flop, but real ones from honest goof-ups like Snuffy’s win every time.

Humor’s advantages shine. It eases stress, brings families together around the paper, and teaches kids to roll with the punches. Art in these strips shows that beauty hides in everyday messes.

Snuffy dodging chores reminds us not to take life too seriously. Beetle’s laziness shows that even bosses need a chuckle. These old favorites still prove that humor and art make you tougher, happier, and more alive.

Next Sunday, hunt up the funnies. Snuffy is waiting with his dog, Ol’ Bullet.

Outtake 8: They Called Him “Two by Four”

A buddy of mine in junior high school went by the name “Two by Four.”   I have no idea why he was called that but rumor has it that he used a 2×4 piece of lumber to beat up a guy trying to steal his girlfriend.  The year was 1966 or 67.  The town was Harlingen, Texas (roughly a 15 minute drive to Mexico).

His real name was Juan, but because there were so many Juans in south Texas, Two by Four was a way to stand out.  His nickname generated several theories about his personality, but I think it was his appearance.  Two by Four always dressed in rags.  Yet, he was huge, not fat but muscular.  And he liked working with his hands.  No one made fun of him, either.  The implication was that he would beat you up (or his friends would also) if you said anything about his name.

One day we were riding around in his brother’s 1949 Chevrolet coupe when Two by Four suddenly pulled over in a neighborhood with several new homes being built.  “Hey, watch this.”  Where had I heard this before, usually before something dumb happened?  An instant before I could speak up, he was out of the car and headed straight for a new house that was framed, but that’s all; no walls, except for a roof.  Construction materials were laid all about.

Two by Four was pulling himself up into the exposed rafters, and hung there with one hand.  That dude was strong.  “My buddy is here and I want you to meet him,” he said in a Tex-Mex accent.  Or something like that.  His buddy was a real live monkey, sporting what looked like a mustache!  Later, I would find out this was a long-tailed macaque, and treated as pets in some crazy folks’ homes.

The next thing I know, the monkey is in the car with us and Two by Four driving around town with the windows down and the monkey climbing around the inside of the car and hanging out the window bearing his teeth and screaming at pedestrians.  “Great!”  I thought for sure that the sheriff would pull us over but that didn’t happen.  Fortunately, after about what seemed like hours, but likely ten minutes, the monkey leapt out as the car slowed to let someone pass.

Two by Four abandoned the car in the middle of the street, and started chasing the monkey down Main Street.  People’s heads turned and they pointed at the spectacle.  I was horrified.  All I needed was the Sheriff or someone calling my Mom or, worse, my Dad, to say I was kidnapping that long-tailed creature; screaming like he was being tortured.  The monkey was too fast, and got away, making all sorts of disgusting noises.  The last we saw of this monkey was when he ran into a women’s clothing store.

The following day in class, Two by Four stopped me, and said not to mention the monkey to anyone.  Yeah, for sure, I would never say a word.  I was scared that we might get thrown in jail for having a monkey in a car.  The fear was unrealistic but kids don’t know better at that young age.  Both of us were maybe 14 or 15 at the time, and Two by Four had only been driving a couple of weeks (yep, legal driving in Texas at 14).

Students were talking about an escaped monkey somewhere downtown that had gone into a store while terrifying women and young children.  Now that brought a smile to my face.  “Knock off that smirk,” Two by Four said.  We would just play dumb and keep our heads low.  And of course, Two by Four couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

By the end of the day, we were both in the Principal’s office being questioned about an escaped monkey.  The staff threatened us by calling the town Sheriff who would surely throw us in jail.  I was scared.  Two by Four treated the school staff like it was a joke.  Surprisingly, this must have paid off because we were told to get back to class.  All this over a lost monkey?

This wasn’t over a lost monkey.  It was about something more sinister.  A recent outbreak in rabies had been reported and monkeys can carry the disease.  The fear of locals was real.

We never saw the monkey again.

Two by Four’s friends called me “perrito.”  Today I know that it means “little dog.”  At the time, I had no idea.  At least that was better than Juan’s brother who was referred to simply as “caca.”  And even I could figure that out, and most folks didn’t like him.

The towns’ folks forgot all about the incident.  And Two by Four and I were nobodies again.  There are some advantages to being a dumb kid.  This was one of them.

Outtake 9: 55 Kid’s Lessons

Some folks will find a bit of humor in the fact that I did learn some things growing up.  All this knowledge was gained despite my less-than-stellar school performance. I also had a serious lack of focus on those things that bored me (but were nevertheless important) and I was involved in a few escapades. Many of these rules for a kid’s life, I learned the hard way and now I’m sharing them.

Growing up, I only learned these 55 kid’s lessons, slowly, sometimes painfully, but always usefully:

1. Speak right, or you might get held back a grade for being a “retard.”
2. Get yourself some close friends who are smart and tough.
3. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.  Wrong!
4. Teachers are there to help you, so give them your attention.
5. School can be good for you, but only if you apply yourself.
6. The first step to good grades is to stop gazing out the window.
7. Being a scary-cat can be forever.
8. When your little brother (or sister) hits you, do not hit him back.
9. Don’t light the fuse of a firecracker while holding it in your hand.
10. Learn to spit into a bullseye, throw a knife, whistle, make a slingshot, pitch pennies, find a four-clover, roller skate, and do tricks with a yo-yo.
11. If your father throws you into a lake to teach you how to swim, try not to panic.
12. You won’t be picked first in school for team games, just don’t be last.
13. Learn how to start a fire, but also how to put out a grass fire.
14. Pigs, cows, and donkeys are smart and can remember. Don’t make ‘em mad.
15. Dogs make the best companions. Get a dog.
16. Learn how to fish, hunt, swim, ski, row a boat, navigate, and live off the land.
17. Learn how to read, write, and do arithmetic.  Don’t cheat.
18. Get involved in sports.
19. Practice good sportsmanship.
20. Don’t pull girls’ hair or try to kiss them without their approval.
21. Do not fear the school Principal.
22. Take a bath regularly.
23. Stay fit. This requires effort.
24. Treat others as if they were your mom and dad.
25. Get to know your grandparents.  You owe them everything.
26. Your parents are to be treated with the utmost kindness and love.
27. Your siblings are forever, so create as strong a bond as possible.
28. Learn to share your toys.
29. Never talk behind someone’s back; they will find out, then there’s hell to pay.
30. Have heroes – real heroes, not cartoon superheroes.
31. Smile more, have a firm handshake, and hold your head up high.
32. Go to your school’s games and don’t leave early. Loyalty matters.
33. Be prepared for the unexpected. Use your brain to figure it out.  Be ready.
34. Something will always go wrong. You must at least try to fix it.
35. Never let a bully intimidate you. It’s better to go down fighting than be a wimp.
36. Fear can be controlled with effort and practice.
37. Let people know where you stand; that should always be on the  right side.
38. Act like someone you would like to be.
39. The world is full of fools, charlatans, idiots, and thieves.  Don’t be one.
40. Don’t get cocky or be a show-off.
41. Be extra good to your family, friends, and neighbors.
42. Learn how to fistfight the biggest kid because you will need that ability.
43. Know how to deal with bullies. Snitching on them doesn’t work.
44. Never lie, cheat, or steal.
45. Don’t throw dirt clods at hornets’ nests.  They are faster than you.
46. When going out to milk the cows, watch out for rattlesnakes.
47. Be ready to scrape your knuckles when fixin’ Doodle Bug tractors.
48. Say “yes sir” and “no sir” and “thank you.”
49. Going barefoot and shirtless is fun.
50. Don’t be freaked out by the sight of blood or experience of a broken arm.
51. Learning the hard way is stupid.
52. Resist peer pressure to conform to the latest fads and fashions.
53. Praise God. Never forget Him. Follow His lead.
54. Practice telling good stories.
55. It’s better to be poor and have good people around, than to be rich and have no one.

Outtake 10: Why I Needed My Sisters

I was sitting on the living room floor with my hand-made kite working away, making modifications to get it to fly correctly; I had failed earlier that day, which was frustrating.  I was the only one in my small group of new friends who couldn’t get his kite to fly successfully.  I was maybe 10 or 11 years old.

The next thing I knew, my sister Terri was sitting off to the side looking at me.  If there is one thing I learned growing up, it is that we boys need our sisters.  Indeed, I needed my sisters.

She is four years younger, so at the time, she must have been six or seven, small in stature, always a happy girl, but quiet and unassuming.  Like so many times in the past, when I was building something, she would ask me what I was doing.  No matter what or how busy I was, I told her.  She would smile, rarely saying anything.  This time, however, she asked with the straightest face, “Will it fly for me?”  I sat there thinking that I wanted to make her smile again.

I believe that a major role of a sister, for her brother, is encouragement.  Just by her innocent question, I was inspired to continue working.  I think she was, unintentionally perhaps, demanding me to mature, to be more than I could be.  She was doing that so I could do what was proper to get my built-from-scratch kite up in the air.

Earlier the night before, there had been a huge thunderstorm, and all of us kids were scared, thinking that our house might not withstand the hard rain and wind.  We sat together.  Mom and Dad spoke softly to keep our frightened minds off the storm.

After putting cooking pots on the floor to strategically catch dripping water from the ceiling, they asked Terri what she wanted to do, maybe play a game.  She said she wanted to see the kite “in the heavens.” That was a miraculous comment from her, being so young, but it gave me a sense of pride, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint.

As I got older and accumulated friends, I did not appreciate my sister’s help and encouragement as much.  Especially that I was a bit of a disagreeable kid, that may be part of it.  I was probably an ungrateful little rugrat, sometimes a little monster too, maybe a tad uncivilized and may have ignored my little sister.  She recently told me I once sat on her and farted purposely.  I don’t remember, but she assured me that it did happen.  I don’t recommend that sibling tactic.

Looking back, my less-than-stellar behavior was something I regret.  It took me until I left home at 17 to reevaluate my place as a brother.  And I think, in part, it was because my youngest sister Paula, 12 years younger, brought me back to the understanding that both sisters were there to encourage me, which is no small matter for a boy or a young man.

I needed my sisters.  All of us boys do need our sisters.  And men need their sisters, always.  That’s a simple facet of life, a lesson lost in modern times that emphasizes the devaluation of the relationship between boys and their sisters.

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Please read my books:

1. “55 Rules for a Good Life,” on Amazon (link here).
2. “Our Longest Year in Iraq,” on Amazon (link here).