No Excuses. J. Larry Simpson I

To my Father Walker Eddins Simpson. He taught me how to be a man and go my own way. To my Mother, Janice Victoria McCollum Simpson, who’s loving and happy spirit gave me much of my internal and outgoing personality. She never knew a stranger….and of course, never spoiled me.

To my God, Lord and Redeemer Jesus Christ.

Thanks

To Elizabeth my daughter, who typed the hand-written manuscript, then reviewed it with me and typed it again! There would be no book without her;

To Jeanie my sister, for being my cohort in many adventures;

To Marie (Langford) for rejoining our lives after sixty-one years and finding some irreplaceable photographs we had never seen, some used here;

To Alice, Barbara, Doc, James, Elaine and my wonderful grandparents;

To my old-best buddy Harry Warrens whose story is the largest in the book;

To David my good brother, much like Daddy;

And to all who have been a part of my adventures.

Story 1

Life on the Road

The fire was roaring on this cold November day as we gathered together to enjoy—yeah, even rejoice for our many God-given blessings as family.

Just getting back from taking clothes, canned goods, and such to a wonderful local Christian center, which help those less fortunate, we stoked the fire, added some oak logs, and talked, some softer and others louder.

“Pass it to me, boys,” I barked as Caleb spun the old-faded football straight toward me. Snatching it out the cold air with my left hand, pulling it swiftly to my stomach and covering it with my right arm, I took a step or two as if to run.

“Here I come,” I said loudly, scratchily crying and “hobbled” a few steps with a reminiscing dash for a touchdown.

“We’ll block for you, Granddad!” Walker (named after my daddy) shouted, catching me as I fell to safety into his strong sixteen-year-old arms with Joe Mac standing close by.

As I managed my way back to my warm chair, in this thirty-nine-degree sweet afternoon with the sun beaming, the grandsons traveled, grinning with me.

“Fffuuaah,” blew out of my mouth while I plopped down recklessly into my half broken-down faded green-and-yellow summer chair.

Micol Anne was looking way off through her daddy blue eyes all the way back to Mississippi, softly singing with Ricky, her husband, picking his old guitar to Jimmy Reed’s “Baby What You Want Me to Do,” playing on my well-used jam box.

“Boys, Granddad could do it!” Joe announced as Tony anxiously spoke up, “Dad, we’ve heard you tell some of your old-time stories. Tell us about traveling with the trailer and Granddaddy’s green Ford truck, where you lived, the Mojave desert, the muscadine highway, Harry, Marie, Aunt Jeanie, Hoppy, and all the others.”

“Son, son, it was ‘Happy!’ Sure, sure, tell us the stories.”

And all began to gather in a little closer.

“Keep the fire hot, and I’ll need some black—I said, black coffee.”

“Come on, Granddad,” Regan insisted as Tara, my youngest, and her three girls, along with Hannah snuggled in a little closer.

Piersen couldn’t be here because he had to work on that heartfelt day, but my Sandy put her warm hand of love on my aging shoulder.

Lizzie, also so sensitive and caring, said, “Dad, it’s black, double black and hot as fire, enjoy.”

*****

First, Dad bought a big 1950 Buick and a thirty-two-foot trailer. Two adults and four children, ages six to five months, all riding in that car, and the gray house on wheels trailing us relentlessly and weaving just a little.

In the next ten years, we would live in nine states, and I would attend fourteen more schools.

Life on the road brought a world of good people—some hard times and an education all its own.

Trailer people are often considered less than “house” people. Some are. We weren’t.

Both Dad and Mother were raised in God-fearing homes. Dad’s people were landowners, farmers, the salt of the earth. He was raised by a progressive college-educated mother and a grandfather who read his Greek New Testament every night. Granddaddy Eddins died in 1930. A very stately gentleman taught Dad to be a little man, and Grandmother taught him proper decorum.

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No Excuses. J. Larry Simpson I

No Excuses

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