GOOD MORNING, FRIENDS

A REMEMBERAMBLE for February 12/2026

Good morning! Good afternoon! Good evening! I think that covers those of you who are reading this later in the day. Yesterday went well, we got a bit of rain that we needed, but we need more, but must always be mindful to be thankful for the rainfall we do get. A friend and I went to the Rustic Grill outside of Swainsboro, which is a very good place to eat, for their lunch buffet. As a side note, their weekend nights' seafood buffet is so very good. But getting back to their lunch buffet, it too is very good. The fried chicken, mac and cheese, squash, rice and potatoes and gravy, meat loaf, and other things were very good. BUT! They had one of my very favorite foods, good homemade chicken pot pie. I do love a good chicken pot pie. It was perfect, the right flavors, texture, and seasoning came together just right. I was like Snuffles from Quick Draw McGraw getting a treat. I was thinking today about some of the things from my childhood that stood out in my memory. Some were mundane, some almost epic, because in my family things happened that most folks never experienced. I mean odd things, as far back as story-telling goes in my family, on both sides, there have always been wild or surprisingly unique, violent, hair-raising, criminal, or even slightly interesting tales passed along that seem a bit over-the-top, even more than the most prolifically southern of families would be able to dredge-up. We had a good many people enter our family's sphere of existence in funny, scary, or puzzling ways. Mama and Daddy lived in Wrightsville and moved to a small rented house in Swainsboro about the time I was born in 1958, that brought our household population to nine. Mama and Daddy had each been married and Daddy had a son, Paul (Paul lived with his mother in Pooler), and Mama had been married to a man named W.T. Dickens during the war, and had three daughters, Carol, Peggy, and Sandra Dickens who lived with us. Carol was the oldest, I was the youngest, she was eleven years older than me. I was just over three years old when we moved from there to another rented place just west of Swainsboro on US 80. The little house in town was on Herrington Avenue, just one street over from the "quarters," as they said then. I can remember a good bit of our lives before I was even two years of age, and I understand that many folks do not believe me when I say it, and I understand their doubts, as it is unusual. Two events from when we lived there have stayed with me even from the tender age of two years or less. One, was when I as well as my brothers Randall and Joseph, were too young to start school, and were at home. It was almost time for the school bus to drop our sisters off in front of our house, when mama saw from a window, what looked like someone hiding in the shrubbery right beside the driveway where the school bus dropped them off. She called the police and they found a man who had escaped from the mental asylum and was hiding in the bushes plucking hairs from his head and splitting them with a razor blade as he waited for my sisters to get off of the bus. Yep, I know that just gave you the heebie-jeebies, and it scared mama almost to death. The other event was not long after that incident, one Saturday morning, we heard gunshots, and a bullet actually grazed my sister Peggy's leg, so we all ran inside, and a black lady came running to our house crying, blood streaming from bullet wounds in her neck and back, screaming as she ran from a man who turned back when he saw her running to our door. Daddy was gone and he did not let mama drive nor have a car, so mama opened the door for her to run inside, then closed and locked the door. She and my sisters had the lady lay on the floor and they put pillows under her head, and sat on the floor with her as mama grabbed the phone to call for help. Back then there were no county ambulances nor trained medical technicians, and the only ambulances were operated by the funeral homes. They would keep an older Caddy or Lincoln hearse with a red flashing light on top, a cylinder of oxygen, and some bandages and such. The strategy back then was for the funeral home driver to load'em up and drive like heck to the hospital. The white mortuaries would only pick up whites and the black undertakers only served the black community. That Saturday morning when mama called she got no answer from the black funeral homes, and the white ones refused the pick up. She had called the police and they had not shown up so she called them back raising hell telling them to hurry and get the lady but they said they could not do that. I remember mama telling them that yes they would and hurry up about it because they better not let this lady bleed to death and die on the floor. Mama was mad but mainly it was heartbreaking to have this poor woman terrified, bleeding and crying and not be able to really help her. The police came, drove her to the hospital and she survived. Her husband who had shot her was sent to prison and I think he died there. I remember a Saturday morning weeks later the lady walked to our house to thank mama, and offer to work for her the rest of her life to repay her for saving her life. Mama was down at the Friendly Grocery store buying groceries, and my sisters assured her she had no debt to mama or them. I will end this with us still living there on Herrington Ave., on my next rememberamble and we will move to the old place on US80 and for a little while you can move there with us as we tell tales from US80, even as we leave Herrington Avenue behind. Y'all have to remind me to write the second part of this next time so I will remember. "God bless." "Thank you."

Numbers 6: 24-26, KJV

we boyz three babee conway, lil merle & me