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.