Return of the blogster

Just how long has it been since I blogged? Who knows? For sure, too long. But here I am again, journaling/writing/scribbling whatever you want to call it. Feels good to be back in the blogosphere. Launched this blog in the early 2000s, but for some reason got away from it. But today it's so long Facebook and hello blog! 

 Feels good to be back. 

 If anyone is out there that's reading this and was one of my faithful blog readers from years ago, feel free to post a comment and let me know you're following along. More from the old blogster very soon. Later.

Saying goodbye to a dear neighbor and friend

I lost a good friend last month.

Her name was Nell Warwick Thomas.

She was my close neighbor for about 20 years in Rock Hill in the Tall Oak Villas condo community.

Nell would have been 102 years young in August.

(I say young because even in her latter years, Nell remained spry, alert and active).

Interesting that she was born in 1918—in the Spanish flu pandemic—and she died in the current coronavirus pandemic.

Here are a few of my memories of Nell.

1. She loved riding with me to Wendy’s to get a chocolate frosty. Nell and I shared a lot on those little evening adventures in my VW Beetle.
2. I don’t think she ever, ever missed church. She truly loved the Lord. In all the years I knew her, you could count on Nell being in church just about every time the church doors opened. She also supported many an evangelist. (I know this cause I saw the letters she mailed them).
3. She looked forward Monday through Friday to going to the Rock Hill Senior Center. She made lots of friends there and created all kinds of things—including cards, pictures, trinklets and little keepsakes for her friends and family.
4. And speaking of family, wow did she ever love them! You couldn’t be around Nell over a few minutes before you heard about her two sons, her sons’ wives and all her grandchildren. She was dearly fond of them all.
5. I didn’t keep a tally, but it seemed like many times when a noteworthy political candidate or official visited Rock Hill, Nell met with them. I’m pretty sure, for instance, that she got her picture taken—and published in the local newspaper— with former S.C. Gov. Nikki Haley.

6. As public as she was, Nell dearly treasured having her own little private space—her one-bedroom condo at Tall Oaks. And she often told me that she especially liked not having anyone living above her or below her.
7. Nell religiously stayed away from egg yolks. She watched her cholesterol level and diet more closely than anyone I ever met. She urged me only to eat the egg whites, NOT the yolks.
8. The woman looked forward—and then some—to getting her mail. I know this because her mailbox was just a few inches away from mine. Many times I’d see Nell eagerly fetch her mail and sit on the stoop and read it right then and there in the common area. So entranced was she with getting a letter that Nell often forgot to close her box, leaving her key in it.
9. She professed, when I first met her in 2001 (and on many occasions after that) that there were three things in life that she didn’t want: a job, a dog and a man. (But I think that changed when she met her best friend David, who died a few years ago).
10. Nell could whip up a mean (delicious) dish of pistachio pudding. She knew this was one of my favorite treats and brought me many a bowl.
11. For many years, Nell, a registered nurse, took long walks through the residential area close to Tall Oak Villas. She became acquainted with just about everyone on those streets she walked. And if she happened to miss a few days of walking, some of those residents would begin to worry about where she was.
12. She shopped a lot at the nearby Dollar Store and opened my eyes to how many essentials you could get from that place.

Nell Warwick Thomas, who was born in a global pandemic and died in one, definitely lived life to its fullest. I believe she enjoyed every single one of her 101+ years on this earth. She taught me a lot and left me with countless indelible memories. I’m confident I speak for her neighbors and for her friends and family when I say that we are sure she is, as the opening of her obituary stated, “in the arms of her loving Heavenly Father.”

Farewell, Nell. You will always be remembered.

Retreat to the mighty Atlantic Ocean

Nothing like a global pandemic to make you appreciate the little things in life that many of us too often take for granted.

The things that really matter.

Like dogs, family, nature, health.

I’ve written a couple of freelance articles about the coronavirus and I’ve paid close attention to what others have said about it.

And, of course, I’ve endured this dreadful affliction—so far being virus free (to the best of my knowledge).

One place I can always go for solace—now that I live just a few miles from the beach—is the Atlantic Ocean.

Nothing like spending a little time, alone or with your loved ones, and taking in the magnificient splendor of the sea.

It always looks different.

Some days the ocean is fairly calm—with waves lapping up gently against the shoreline.

Other days the waves are huge, roaring, loud—crashing against the beach.

And yes, it gets hot (even sweltering in South Carolina) but there always seems to be a refreshing breeze at the beach. And more often than not, a cool breeze.

I’ve been to the Gulf of Mexico, and yes, the Gulf is scenic. But it’s not really an ocean in my opinion. Nothing about the Gulf approaches the powerful, ever-changing Atlantic Ocean.

Come to the ocean just to take in the beauty and majesty of something that seems as vast and overwhelming and mind-boggling as the universe itself.

Come to the ocean just to think and wonder and imagine.

Come here to be amazed and stirred in the depths of your soul. Get lost (while you also get browner by the second) in your peace and meditation.

Take it all in with sand between your toes and the salt air filling your lungs.

There’s no substitute for the magical ambience of the mighty Atlantic.

Then, if you’re alone, return home to your dogs and loved ones and share, as best you can, what you’ve just experienced. It's too good, too emotionally and sensuously overpowering to keep to yourself.

The Atlantic Ocean: it never gets old.

Haney Howell

Said farewell this past weekend to my old friend and colleague Haney Howell.

Haney, who died earlier this month, was eulogized fondly three days ago by many who attended a Memorial Service in his honor at Winthrop University.

So no need for me here to repeat any of what’s already been said.

But yes, he was definitely a legend in broadcast journalism.

And yes, no one was his equal when it came to storytelling—a skill he parlayed skillfully into his teaching.
And yes, many a student loved him—not necessarily for what he knew (albeit Haney was an encylopedia of information about journalism, broadcasting and the Vietnam War) but for the man he was.

He always had time for students. Loved connecting with them and helping shape their lives.

The man from the tiny railroad town of Copper Hill, Tennessee, never met a stranger.

And for sure never “got above his raisin’,” as they say in the mountains of East Tennessee (where I’m also from).

A few things you didn’t hear at the Memorial Service but stuff I remember about Haney:

1. When he interviewed for a faculty job at Winthrop College (yes Winthrop was a college, not a university, in 1988), the chair of the mass communication department asked me to escort Haney to the president’s office. The president was Martha Kime Piper, and I recall walking Haney over to her office (“the Vatican” as I used to call it) on that warm sunny day. Haney, who had flown down to South Carolina from the cold confines of Minnesota, seemed happy and upbeat as we made our way to Tillman Hall.

As we walked, I asked him what he thought about Winthrop. A prolific traveler all his life, Haney told me he was really ready to settle down and be a teacher. He shared with me that he was tired of so much moving around and ready for stability.

The feisty, always personable President Piper invited me to sit in on his interview, which I did. In reviewing Haney’s vita, I recall her commenting, “I see that you’ve done quite a bit of traveling.”

When Haney nodded yes, she asked him how many countries he’d visited.

Haney told her seventy.

Raising her eyebrows, President Piper responded, “And what has been your favorite?”

He said India.

2. Okay, on to my next personal recollection of Haney. Because he and I were both Vietnam-era U.S. Air Force veterans, we often harkened back to those years (the late 60s and early 70s). Haney worked in air traffic control (in the tower helping pilots navigate the skies and stay true to their flight plans). I, on the other hand, was in aircraft control and warning; they called us “scope dopes.” We were not in a tower but we tracked and kept a record of the aircraft that Haney helped navigate.

Haney would often remind me that he got out of the Air Force with four stripes—as a staff seargent, while I was discharged as a buck seargent (three stripes). So yes, he outranked me, and danged if I ever knew how he earned those stripes so fast, because rank was extremely hard to make during those days in the Air Force. So I had a Ph.D.—while my friend/colleague Haney didn’t—but he still always outranked me.

3. There’s this curious thing called “tenure” that you get in academia when the higher education powerstructure thinks you’re worth keeping around long term. I’m sure Haney, as I had, had been fired somewhere along the line in his earlier career in the mass media. That’s just the way in seems to shake out in the media. Sooner or later, you offend someone with your reporting or writing or something happens or there’s a budget cut or a change in management and they cut you loose.

Not so much with academia. So the day that Haney was awarded tenure at Winthrop, I remember him bouncing into my office with a big smile. “You know, Larry, if I can just keep my nose clean, I’ve got a job for life!” he said. It was a day, for sure, for him to rejoice.

4. Haney and I always shared the fact that we were not academics in the pure sense of the word, but rather Air Force vets who happened to be media refugees. We were proud of our military service, but I also thought that Winthrop sometimes undervalued that aspect of our lives. Haney, even if deep down he felt the same way, never complained. Instead, he seemed utterly content to be a respected professor at a small southern college. He did make it a point, as I did, to always try to be present at the Veterans Day celebration organized by the good folks at Dacus Library. And I seem to recall that he was the featured speaker at a few of those occasions.

Well, those, for what it’s worth are some of my personal thoughts on the man that touched so many lives during his time on this planet.

We will never forget Haney Howell. There will never again be another like him, and somewhere, even now, I suspect he’s making a difference in a good way.

Rest in peace, my colleague and friend.

Pet peeves

Getting toward the end of the year and time to take stock of some of my pet peeves.

Here are 11 things I wish I didn’t have to put up with:

1. Bad grammar. Come on folks. Just learn the English language. It’s not that hard. Learn how to correctly punctuate, spell and write a complete sentence that makes sense. And PLEASE learn the correct usage of lie v. lay, affect v. effect, their v. they’re, and the list goes on.

2. Don’t tell me about your aches and pains and sicknesses and diseases and what doctor you’ve just seen or that you’re going to see. I DON’T CARE. No one else does, either.

3. With a few exceptions, I don’t care about your children or grandchildren or great grandchildren. (The exceptions are my own children and grands). Don’t show me their pictures or report cards. Don’t boast to me me how smart they are or what they’ve just learned how to do. Keep all such conversations within your own family—PLEASE.

4. Don’t sit at the end of a pew in church or at the end of a seat row in a movie theatre. Move your behind to the middle of the row—PLEASE. It ain’t that much to ask. (Oops, I forgot about the grammar guideline…)

5. I don’t care about your dogs or cats, because I have my own two dogs, and they are more than enough for me to be concerned about. (I’ll redouble my efforts not to brag about them).

6. I don’t care much about TV shows you’ve just watched. Don’t watch much TV myself. Exceptions: Football games and national news and maybe the National Geographic Channel and the History Channel.

7. Don’t show me pictures of places you’ve just visited. I DON’T CARE WHERE YOU’VE BEEN, and don’t tell me to check out your Facebook page. I rarely ever get on Facebook—gossip tool that hurts a lot of people.

8. Don’t tell me about your Christmas bonus or any other kind of salary bonus you’ve just had the good fortune to get. I’ve never gotten a bonus in my life.

9. Don’t drive in the left lane unless (and that’s a big UNLESS) you are planning to turn left or you are passing another vehicle. I call people who hug the left lane LEFT LOONIES.

10. Don’t NOT answer a text or email I send you. Reply, reply, reply…

11. Quit using so many exclamation marks!!!! (See what I mean?)

A Thanksgiving I'll never forget

Every Thanksgiving I harken back to that memorable Thanksgiving holiday I spent working at the Air Defense Control Center at Clark Air Base in the Philippines.

It was many years ago but some things a guy never forgets.

Here’s what I remember about it.

An American woman—an officer’s wife as I recall—brought me a big feast of turkey with all the trimmings.

I had just completed my work shift, and I guess she noticed a skinny, hungry airman.

I had never seen her before. Didn’t even know her name, but there she was.

With a delicious home-cooked Thanksgiving meal just for me!

Every Thanksgiving I go back to that day.

When a kind, good-hearted, generous soul truly made my day.

It happened at Clark Air Base in 1968.

I’ve wondered in recent years—especially on Thanksgiving— who she might have been or what I did to deserve such kindness.

One stranger helping bring happiness to a skinny, shy airman.

Maybe a wink from God to help me get through the holiday in a place thousands of miles (and a giant ocean) away from home.

A hug can go a long way in this old world

Sarah, a student in an online course I'm teaching for Winthrop University, brought the following heart-warming video to my attention.

Being a "regular" at the VA Hospital in Johnson City, Tennessee, I can relate to this:

One Texan hands the mantle to another Texan

How do you replace or succeed a pastor who’s been at the helm for 38 years and practically founded the church all those years ago in Johnson City, Tenn.?

You don’t.

But you help to continue that well respected house of worship—Grace Fellowship Church—along its journey. A church whose slogan is: "Everybody's welcome. Nobody's perfect. Anything can happen."

Matt Murphy, recently named the new pastor of GFC, finds himself in that “to be continued” voyage.

He’s the successor to the irreplaceable Tom Oyler, who 38 years ago began leading GFC. (I’m not even sure it had that name 38 years ago, but Tom, now an emeritus pastor, has had a big hand in shaping and growing the church over that time span.)

This Sunday morning was Matt’s ordination. At least that’s what I’ll call it.

There he was up on the stage with his family, as Tom, along with seven elders flanked him and gave him his charge.

Leading this church is not a job, as Tom noted, but more a solemn responsibility.

As a packed, solemn, quiet sanctuary looked on, one tall Texan—Tom Oyler—passed the baton (rather the “spirited sword”) of church leadership to another Texan, Matt Murphy.

Elders laid their hands on Matt’s white shirt-clad shoulders and prayed.

Then came hugs, handshakes, backpats and a loud applause from the congregation.

Tom Oyler, truly a beloved legend in the Christian ministry in Johnson City, stepped aside, and then it was all about Matt as he preached a sermon about the church’s mission of “building a community” and serving the broken and reaching those who don’t know Christ.

He made a good point about East Tennessee being one of the most densely churched regions in the U.S., with perhaps a thousand churches in the Tricities area. And yet though we live in the Bible Belt (I would call it the “Buckle of the Bible Belt”) too many folks still don’t know Jesus.

One more point about Tom Oyler.

He’s one of the best and most profound speakers I’ve ever listened to, and I’ve been attending GFC for a few years. My iPhone is full of notes from his sermons, and some of what he’s said may have even found its way into a few of my novels.

I bumped into him in the lobby of GFC a few weeks ago and congratulated him on being named “emeritus pastor.” I shared with him that I’m an “emeritus associate professor.”

“Doesn’t mean a thing, does it?” he said with a laugh.

Back to Matt Murphy.

He will do well. He, too, is a gifted speaker. Good sense of humor. Knowledgeable about the Bible. Has something to say and says it well. (Maybe that’s a Texas thing?)

Congratulations, Matt Murphy.

And to Tom Oyler: You are definitely not done. I ‘spect the church and Matt and other key figures at GFC will be leaning on you aplenty for guidance in the coming months and years.

Note: That’s a picture of Matt Murphy in the plaid shirt with this blog post. The bespectacled guy in the blue shirt is Tom Oyler. Pictures came from website of Grace Fellowship Church.

My long lost cousin

I had not even thought about him for many years.

They called him "Little Charles."

He was my first cousin--the son of Charlie and Jess Timbs. (Charlie Timbs was my dad's brother).

Never met Little Charles.

Never had the chance because he went missing while serving in the U.S. Army in 1964.

Little Charles never came home.

All I ever heard about him while I was growing up was that he went out to sea on a ship, but when they called roll (or whatever they do in the Army), Little Charlie didn't answer.

They searched high and low.

No Little Charlie.

No body.

No trace of him. Not a clue as to his whereabouts.

So what happened?

No one knows.

I do know that his parents went to their graves without any answers.

Fast forward 54 long years to today--May 28, 2018.

I'm driving slowly through the Veterans Administration Cemetery at Mountain Home VA Medical Center in Johnson City, Tenn.

Just killing time, taking in the expanse of tombstones/markers--every single one of them decorated with a small American flag. Moseying around in my car waiting for an annual Memorial Day service to begin.

For some reason I stopped.

I looked out the driver's side window.

And there was a marker with the last name "Timbs" on it.

Of course, I stopped!

Why did I just happen to cast my eyes toward that particular marker--of the thousands of flag-decorated markers that grace that hallowed cemetery?

What happened all those years ago to my cousin Little Charlie?

Some questions will never be answered.

Uplifting scene at my favorite grocery store

You never know what you'll encounter when you go to the grocery store.

Especially my favorite grocery store in the whole world--the big Food City store on State of Franklin Road in Johnson City.

Sparkling, clean floors there.

Aisles and aisles of anything you'd want to eat. Everything neatly and attractively organized.

Customer friendly employees and a very capable store manager who knows how to run a top-notch grocery shopping mecca.

Hats off to the folks at this Food City store.

In the picture are two helpful Food City employees. With them are a woman and her dog.

Thanks, Food City folks, for helping this woman.

(I noticed when I entered the store a few days ago, that the woman with the dog got immediate assistance with her shopping).

Good folks--these Food City employees.

My new novella

News blurb from yours truly: I’ve just finished a manuscript for a novella. Has 23 chapters and an epilogue.

I’m now in the editing phase. I have a working tentative title, but I'll likely change it. So I’ll hold off announcing the title till I’m certain what I want to go with.

My new novella is about a serial killer in the mountains of East Tennessee. It involves a county sheriff, forensic science, a local community newspaper (something I like to think I know a tad about) and a dog.

More to come but know for now that this will be my third novel; first two were co-written with my friend Michael Manuel. My work this time, however, is solely my own. (Michael, you’re off the hook.)

Who will publish it and when?

Good questions.

My dad used to say that anyone can write a book, but it takes a genius to sell one. How true!

Stay tuned.

Tribute to my Uncle Leland

They buried my Uncle Leland Walsh two days ago.

He was 100 years old.

Had led a good, fulfilling life as a member of “the Greatest Generation.” That’s what noted journalist Tom Brokaw has written of those—such as my Uncle Leland—who endured the tribulations of the Great Depression and then gone on to selflessly serve our country in World War II.

Leland Walsh was my dad’s sister’s first husband. Dad always liked visiting him at his residence in the Stoney Creek community of Carter County, Tenn.

“Come back. Don’t stay away so long,” I can still hear Uncle Leland saying as we’d head up for home.

Uncle Leland loved for people to visit him. He loved his family. He had long been divorced from his first wife—Novella Timbs Peters (who passed away late last year)—and he had remarried.

But he never forgot my “Aunt Vell”; and I’ve heard tell that he still loved her after all those years of being remarried and then losing beloved second wife Ethel to death.

As recently as a few years ago, after he’d lost Ethel, Uncle Leland wanted one last kiss and hug from Aunt Vell. I urged her to go up to Stoney Creek and give it to him.

She never would do it.

At his graveside service Friday morning—at a pastoral cemetery in rural Butler, Tenn.—Brent Nidiffer, minister, recalled how Uncle Leland had been a veteran of the U.S. Navy and served as an elder in his church.

He always put his faith and family foremost in his life.

A gentle mountain breeze caressed the little cemetery where Uncle Leland’s flag-draped coffin was laid to rest. It happened under a cloudy sky that threatened rain. But the rain held off.

A military honors color guard stood at attention, then fired three shots into the air.

A crisply dressed U.S. Marine corps private sacredly and carefully folded the flag and presented it to my first cousin Larry Walsh “on behalf of the president of the United States.”

The graveside service—simple but profound—ended with a solemn prayer—thanking the Lord for Leland Walsh’s life and requesting comfort for Uncle Leland’s grieving family and friends.

Farewell, Uncle Leland (pictured as a strapping young man with this blog post).

Ode to Andy

This is a remembrance for Andy.

He was an adorable bichon frise who touched a lot of lives.

Brought love and playfulness and joy to everyone he came in contact with.

He died from cancer—leaving his owners and many others broken hearted.

I didn’t know you, Andy, but I’ve heard you were a great little dog.

Being a bichon, you were a step above a dog.

I can attest to that because I have my own bichon frise—Michael Jackson.

From your picture, you remind me of him.

Smart, always up for a snack or a squeeze toy or cuddling from a human. Not exactly the most sociable with other dogs but seemingly always comfortable in the company of people.

Can’t stand the thought of losing my Michael Jackson, as I’m sure your owners could hardly bear losing you.

Must have been one of the saddest days in the world when Andy, who lived in Georgia, passed.

Tears and hugging and prayers, I’m sure.

And guess what else?

There Andy was—gloriously up in the sky—the day the little guy died.

As if he were on his way to Dog Heaven.

Andy’s pictures and moving likeness of his shape in the clouds appear with this blog post.

So long, Andy—the dog I never met.

But surely the dog that will never be forgotten.

Close call at the veterans hospital

Close, as they say, only counts in three things: horseshoes, hand grenades and dancin’.

Now there’s a fourth.

Making a phone call in the hot, unbearable sun on a bench at the entrance of the Mountain Home VAMC in Johnson City.

Right out of nowhere, in the middle of my phone conversation a couple of days ago with my co-author and friend Michael Manuel, I blacked out.

As in fainted.

Lost consciousness.

Entered into another dimension of nothingness that I never ever want to visit again.

It happened a bit after 2 in the afternoon—after I’d had glowing reports from the doctors at both my appointments earlier in the day.

I’m thinking I’ve got the rest of the day free. I’m going to split this popsicle (leave the premises and get on to my car and do whatever).

I’d had a good lunch.

Felt good. Looked good (I think). Acted good (hard for me but I tried).

Then that phone call before leaving the hospital.

I went outside to the front entrance of the building for a better signal.

I’m talking. Jawboning with Mike. Swapping lies. Sharing whatever other mindless stuff you share on a cell phone.

Had been chatting for about 15 or 20 minutes. It was hot outside—really hot. In the low 90s, I’d say. But I was in quasi shade about 40 feet from the front door of the building.

And then my world and mind went blank.

For how long?

Not sure but might have been 5-10 minutes.

Then I “came to”— dioriented and dizzy and scared, my world spinning, my legs rubbery and wobbly.

I got my bearings, barely, and staggered back into the air-conditioned hospital. Tried to walk, but couldn’t. Sat back down. Tried again. Clutched anything I could get my hands on while I moved. But then gave up and plopped back down.

Saw a nurse and asked for a wheelchair so I could make it back to the far end of the building to valet parking.

But she wasn’t game. Told me there was no way she’d let me drive.

Found me a wheelchair and rolled me to the ER.

Man, they work fast and efficiently and professionally in the Mountain Home VAMC ER! No messing around. They took me right in. Asked me dozens of questions. Connected me to wires and computers and all the rest of the stuff they tether you do when you’re in crisis.

Read me my “rights”—sort of.

Doc: “If your heart stops, do you want to be revived?”

Me: “What do you mean?”

Doc: “Do you want us to do chest compressions and intubate you or whatever else we need to do to get you breathing.”

Me: “Yes.”

Doc: “Do you have a living will?”

Me: “Yes, I have an advanced directive on file here.”


Hours later, they still didn’t know what had happened.

The suspected gremlins: dehydration, a reaction to one of my heart medications, a pesky UTI (which they discovered while I was in the ER).

And then—on the day that had started out so well—I was admitted to the hospital.

To a part of the place called C-1.

Wow, did they ever pamper me!

By “they,” I mean primarily the nurses on C-1—Renee, Jackie, Amy, Felicia.

Angels all of them. (I love my veterans pajamas).

Didn’t stay on C-1 very long. Got discharged the next day. And they still don’t know for sure (my opinion) why I blacked out.

But if you’re going to go dark, what better place than a big VA hospital?

Thank you again to the docs, nurses, my family and to everyone else who helped me.

I’m glad I’m a veteran. An old USAF veteran but still one who got exceptional treatment at the Mountain Home VAMC.

Y’all are the best!

Never, ever give your best friend Tylenol!

Many of you at the Johnson City Dogpark have noticed my beloved bichon frise Michael Jackson.

That’s him—with his brother Joe (my sheltie)—in the photo with this blog post.

(We named him Michael Jackson because we got him eight years ago on the day the King of Pop died.)

He’s 27 pounds of adorable, romping, playful fur.

One person recently told me a bichon is a “step above a dog.”

Well put.

But I almost killed Michael Jackson two nights ago.

He had a fever in the middle of the night—about 1 a.m.—and I gave him a 500 milligram crushed tablet of Tylenol in a spoonful of peanut butter. Actually forced him to swallow it cause he was so warm.

For whatever reason, my wife Patsy awakened about one hour later and decided to Google “dogs and Tylenol.”

We were shocked and horrified to discover that Tylenol is extremely deadly toxic for canines!

So we got dressed, scooped little MJ up into our arms and hurried to Robinson Emergency Animal Hospital.

Yes, we were told, our bichon frise could have died.

Yes, a dog that ingests Tylenol can suffer massive kidney and liver damage.

Yes, “Jackson” (as we call him) needed to be hospitalized, medicated and put on an immediate IV.

Two days, a lot of anguish and several hundred dollars later, our beloved dog is back home and doing pretty well. He’s not 100 percent back to his old self but we hope he’s getting there.

Moral of the story: Never give your dog Tylenol.

A friend, a regular at the dogpark, also told me yesterday that grapes or raisins or dark chocolate can also be deadly for a dog.

So be careful—fellow dog lovers—what your pet swallows.

Dogs don’t always benefit from what helps us humans.

Secrets to the Airstream

About our 1969 Airstream Tradewind:

Setup: Unhitch trailer. Unhook 2-inch ball. Crank up jack. Note the level bubble on side of trailer. Bubble should be in middle if trailer is level. Also note level bubble above propane tanks near tongue of trailer. Everything level? If so, apply screw jacks to back bumper and tongue. No need to put jacks under frame. Level blocks go under tires if they are needed.

Leveling trailer important for the A/C and refrigerator.

First thing to do is connect to electricity. Pigtail cord is stored in back bumper. Plug cord into campground outlet. Might have to buy an adapter to fit RV outlet.

Trailer has a 30-amp breaker located in bathroom oak cabinet; has its own little gray box. This 1 breaker will cut all 120-volt power to whole trailer.

From 30-amp breaker, power feeds to front of trailer to cabinet on R side of control center (above bed). Grey box has 3 breakers. 1 breaker is dedicated to A/C. Other breakers run electrical outlets on right side of trailer and left side of trailer. Also one of the breakers supplies power to the power converter.

When 120-volt power is one and converter is on, converter is supplying power to lights and charging battery and radio up front.

2 small fuses located next to converter (in panel on side of trailer and near back of trailer). Each is 30 amp.

When hooked up to 120-volt power, this supplies power to A/C and all receptacles (outlets).

The 120-volts goes to converter, which breaks it down to 12 volts. All lighting in camper and radio is 12-volt. If lights go dim, something wrong w converter; check fuses.

Water:
Hook up water hose. 2 water sources on trailer. Water source from campground is shore water. Hook up water hose to back rear of trailer. (Put water filter between hose and hookup location, located on lower part of fram on back L side.

Then open back hatch (compartment that has battery). On L side is an orange orange valve. If lever is vertical, it’s off. To turn valve on, lever will be horizontal; this releases water into trailer. Pressure gauge is to right of orange lever; pressure reducer valve is set for 50 psi.

Water not flowing. Test it. Make sure water pump in center control panel in front of trailer (above bed) is off. The button for this is the 3rd button from L. It’s the only button that has an old label marker. Turn button on if we want to use water from fresh water tank.

Check hot water heater. See monitor in bathroom on wall to R. If red light is on, power is on to hot water heater. If light not on, go outside and open hot water heater door (rear side of trailer) and see on/off switch. Turn switch on if red light inside trailer is off.

Rear bumper. Open compartment for storing sewer line. Look for RV sewer hookup. Hook one end of sewer hose to RV sewer intake; hook other end of sewer hose to trailer. Once that is locked into place, open the black (sewer) holding tank on trailer. Do this by opening central compartment rear door. To lower L side, see a black T handle. Don’t pull out; pull up! This releases door for sewer wast to travel from black holding tank of trailer to campground septic tank. (Be sure to put freshener in black tank of trailer).

Fresh water tank: will water in this tank go stale? Combat this by adding freshener to fresh water tank. Maybe add a tablet or 2 of freshener.


Radio:
On R side of battery compartment, there’s a fuse panel. Has little glass round fuses in it (30 amp round fuses). Some of the fuses are rectangular with 2 little prongs at their base; others are little cylindrical fuses) Buy some extra fuses just in case.

Radio is 12 volts. Has a removable face on front. Make sure radio is off. If radio is on, it’s drawing power from battery.

SRC is the source button on radio. Hold SRC button down to turn radio off. Also has buttons for seek/tune to change channels.

There’s an ejectable face on radio. Lower R hand black button. Push button in to eject the face. Radio face pops out and kills power to radio lights.

Gas:
2 propane tanks. Between tanks is regulator. Has a black switch (little lever) that regulates gas from 1 tank to the other. Keep tank knobs turned on.

Plumbing:
Drain system for winterizing Main water drain is in closet to R of hot water heater. (See 2 valves). There’s also a drain for fresh water tank—located in little box next to head of bed.

Buy a fire extinguisher!

Farewell to Crawford Alexander

We buried my brother-in-law yesterday.

His name was Crawford Alexander.

He was 68.

Same age as me.

His name was Crawford. Same name as my son.

He had two daughters. Same as me.

He loved journalism—same as me. He was a prolific reader of the local newspaper. He read every single word—from the front page to the back page. Because he read so much he was always INFORMED and SMART about what happened in his community and the rest of the world. Nothing took him by surprise.

Years ago, Crawford had worked and lived in Charlotte, N.C.—same as me.

He loved dogs—same as me. For a long time he and his beloved old labrador retriever “Bill” were best friends. Did he ever love that dog! He talked about Bill and even reminisced fondly about Bill’s granddaddy.

He died Wednesday shortly after I visited him in ICU at the Johnson City Medical Center.

He had become ill earlier that day. So ill and weak that my sister Cheryl called 911.

They rushed him to the hospital in an ambulance and tried desperately to save him.

But to no avail.

He departed this world late Wednesday night.

We are all still in shock. Stunned. Baffled.

Because Crawford was always the strong one—the one our family called upon to lift, move, haul or do the heavy (sometimes backbreaking, unseemly) work of taking care of our parents when they became hill.

Who you gonna call?

It was always Crawford.

My sister shared with me that when he suddently fell ill—after being so healthy and strong and vibrant all his life—Crawford asked her “What happened to me?”

“I don’t know, honey,” (or words to that effect) she responded through tears.

Today, one day after his funeral service—where his coffin was wrapped in an American flag—we are all asking why. Why Crawford? Why at this time? Why did he have to die? Surely he had 10, 20, maybe even 30 more years or longer left to live… (After all, his father lived to be 94).

When my sister Cheryl asked me to say a few words at where we laid Crawford to rest, I tried to think of a song that would define their marriage.

For they had been together only a few short years—after tying the knot, as I recall, in Boone, N.C.

But WAY, WAY, WAY before that, Cheryl and Crawford had been sweethearts as teenagers.

Then life happened. They followed separate paths. Had gotten married to someone else and then divorced.

And then, just a few years ago, found each other again.

The romance was rekindled. They were happy as two love birds who’d somehow bumped into each other after decades of being apart.

Suddenly they were chirping and flapping their wings joyously and soaring high. Taking trips together, taking care of a household together, dreaming together, building and remodeling together, making a blended family work, leaning on each other.

And, most importantly, loving each other.

Ok, back to that song I mentioned earlier. I recited a few lines of it yesterday at Crawford’s service. It’s by Johnny Cash and June Carter. Here tis:

Mom's Day

Mom, I know you left this world in July 2013. But you are still with me.

You were there that very first breath I took.

I was with you the day you died.

And so many, many years in between.

You were the best mom in the world!

Loving, kind, sweet, gentle, giving, selfless.

I heard a sermon today. Minister says Mother's Day is joyous. But it's also painful for some.

Yes, I hurt that you're gone.

But I'm still forever grateful and honored you were my mom.

Happy Mother's Day 2017, Mom!

(With this blog post are a few photos. The single is of my mom--Dixie Nadine Jenkins Timbs. The group shot, from left, consists of some other wonderful moms: Elizabeth Timbs Sherling, Nell McQueen (not a mom but still one of my favorite aunts of all time); my mom; Dorothy Timbs Yeung.)

And here's a video showing Mom in her younger years.

Beard net

Saw something yesterday at a pizza place I'd never, ever seen before. (And I thought I'd seen it all!)

A man behind the counter--obviously in charge cause he was handling the money and barking orders to his fellow employees working the dough, sauce and ovens--had a hairnet on his beard.

I learned later that evening that he was actually wearing a "beard net."

Who knew?!

Did that person really say this?

A neighbor told me she recently visited a restaurant in Johnson City, Tenn., called The Mediterranean.

One of the servers there shared this startling tidbit with her.

"A customer asked me what my ancestry was and I said Muslim."

"Are you a terrorist," the man asked the young Muslim woman.

"No," she said, keeping a lid on her anger. "Are you a member of the KKK?"

Way to go, Muslim server woman!