In 1987, I traded a pork’n bean and banana sandwich diet (along with my independence) for Pat, a firecracker gal from Arkansas who stood 5’1” and smoked Virginia Slims.

It was a good swap. I got a beautiful and intelligent wife, and also two step daughters, Harley and Lucy (names changed). Unfortunately, they were afflicted with a dreaded curse. They were teenagers!

I quickly learned that Pat’s stress level could be measured by the number of Virginia Slims she smoked in our house, and how fast she nervously twisted a tendril of her long black hair. It was a dead giveaway that “Little Mama,” as the girls called her, was about to take to the war path.

We made a pact. “I’ll discipline my girls and you won’t have to be involved,” she said. Great news! I’m an only child and my experience with young girls was limited to my daughter; precious little Shannon who was age 7 when her mom and I divorced. She was blonde and blue-eyed with a cute pony tail and would climb on my lap and say sweet things to me. “I love my Daddy” and “my Daddy can do anything.”I didn’t know honey from bee droppings when it came to girls. I didn’t know that sweet little girls grew up and became hellions. I was ignorant of teenager hell.

Harley was three years older than Lucy and didn’t want her in her room and, especially didn’t want her wearing her clothes. “Don’t touch my stuff!”

Otherwise, they appeared to be well mannered, sweet and courteous young girls; that is until one evening at dinner. I was enjoying a platter of pork chops, mashed potatoes, peas, and gravy when Harley accused Lucy of entering her room. Lucy denied it. “LIAR!” Faster than Ali could throw a right hook, Harley struck Lucy with a pork chop. POW – BAM – BANG Pork Chops were flying. Little Mama sent them to their room and fired up a Virginia Slim. “I’m soo embarrassed,” she said. “I don’t know what got in the girls. They are usually sweet girls.”Hmmm, I was beginning to doubt that.

Later, Pat and I arrived home to see the only tree in our front yard decorated in white. “Somebody’s rolled our yard!” she exclaimed and fired up a cigarette. A cursing investigation revealed that Lucy had been in Harley’s room again and borrowed a sweater. Harley retaliated by throwing all of Lucy’s underwear out a second story window where it landed in the tree.

Pat was proud of her blue LTD Ford that she got in the divorce settlement. It was the apple of her eye. She kept it washed, shined, and serviced and planned to drive it for many years to come. Harley asked to drive it to the beach during spring break and carry her high school buddies. Pat reluctantly agreed. “I don’t want one scratch on it,” she warned.

Several days later, Harley returned and the blue Ford looked like a speckled guinea, white spots dotted the lower half. Little Mama fired up a Virginia Slim, twisted her hair and interrogated Harley. “Uh-uh, I parked near a construction site where there was some sand blasting,” Harley said. “If that’s true, why aren’t white specks on the top?” asked Little Mama. It wasn’t until years later we learned the truth: they were driving in the salty surf. “YEE HAW! GIMME ANOTHER BEER.”

Not long afterwards, Pat slammed into a rock wall and buckled the hood where rain water collected and birds bathed. The Ford was tough, but not tough enough. Lucy was learning to drive. She begged to drive one block to visit her friend, Julie. Minutes later we were called. “Come quickly! There’s been an accident.” We arrived at a war zone scene.Lucy had taken out a basketball goal, plowed into the back of Julie’s car, and pushed it through the garage wall. The old Ford had finally come to a violent end.
It was during this period that Little Mama developed her immutable rule regarding teenagers – never give a kid an equal break.

Her teenage daughters sent Little Mama reaching for a Virginia Slim on many occasions, but it was nothing compared to what an upcoming Auburn Tigers game did to her psyche. By 6 p.m. on Friday evening, she was hot boxing cigarettes. By 9 p.m., she was racing to the bathroom with diarrhea.

But it was Lucy skipping classes that sorely tested Little Mama’s resolve. We had no idea until the school counselor called and informed us. Little Mama developed a plan. She decided to go atomic. Each morning, she drove Lucy to the front door of Grissom High, marched her down the hallway and into the classroom. “This is my daughter, Lucy,” she announced to snickering class. “She isn’t responsible enough to attend class.” Talk about embarrassing her! She picked up Lucy in the afternoon, using the same method. Lucy begged her mother to stop and promised to never miss class again. And she didn’t.

When a young high school thug drove up in front of our house with his thug buddies after being warned to stay away, Little Mama took action. She grabbed her grandpa’s old .32 revolver and charged out the front door, waving the pistol and swearing loudly. “GET OUTTA HERE, YOU LITTLE S.O.B.S!” They peeled rubber fleeing the scene.

I’m happy to report that both daughters graduated from college, Harley with a medical degree and Lucy with a Masters’. They are both married and have teenage girls, who are no doubt afflicted with the same dreaded curse their mothers had – teenage hell.

The law of Karma is also an immutable law – what goes around comes around. Good luck ladies.
By: Jerry Barksdale

Peroxide a magic potion

Elk River–Last Sunday night I went to bed with a tickle in my throat. I gargled with Mama”s magical potion-peroxide. Mama swore by it. Get a cut, rub it on. Need to become a blonde, rub it on. Bad breath, mouth canker sores and sore throat, rub it on. I woke Monday morning with a cold, the first I’ve had in two years. I was diagnosed with “something else” a couple of years ago which just about killed me. I thought it was flu, but my personal physician said, “No, it’s something else”. Pray you don’t ever catch it. Anyway, I dressed in my “beer drinking” stretch pants, stoked a fire, levered back in my Lazy Boy knock-off and read all day. I finished a bio on Gen. Jimmy Doolittle of WW11 fame, then started Between Black and White, a legal thriller. It was written by my friend and fellow Huntsville lawyer, Robert Bailey. Great read and set in Pulaski, Tn. Feeling much better this morning. A cup of Seattle Best, dark roast # 5 is almost as good as a swiggle of peroxide.
S-o-o long until tomorrow.

Author’s Note. The following story was inspired by Barksdale’s recent historical novel, Revolutionaries & Rebels.

Athens, December 1864. That terrible war is in its fourth year. It’s cold, snowing and folks are hungry. Barns lay in ashes, and where fine homes once stood, there are blackened chimneys. Cotton and cornfields are overgrown with brambles, bushes and briers. Yankee soldiers occupy Athens.

To add further insult, they torched the courthouse a few days ago. Hardly a bird can be heard chirping. Just last week Yankees showed up at our place and stole my mare, most of our corn, all the chickens they could catch and took the meat from our smokehouse. What an awful time it is. I wake up at night and wonder how we survive. And Christmas is just around the corner.

In spite of all, Ma has declared we’re going to have Christmas, just like always, Yankees or no Yankees. Ma is a determined woman.

“They can whip us, but they’ll never conquer us,” she says.
Pa sits in front of the fireplace and worries – and for good cause. My brother, James Greer Barksdale, and brother-in-law, James Martin Newby, were captured at Missionary Ridge last November and are prisoners at Rock Island where Confederate are starving, freezing, and dying of disease and trigger-happy guards.

Two other brothers, William Coleman and Dudley Richard, are fighting with General Hood’s Army in Tennessee. We just heard they suffered over 6,200 casualties at Franklin. And they are retreating back toward Florence. Oh, how I hate to think of their misery.

Another brother, Robert Beasley, is riding with old Preacher Johnston’s Partisan Rangers over in Madison and Jackson County. The Yankees call him “Bushwhacker” and have put a price on his head.

I’m Thomas Barksdale and I live with Ma and Pa, along with two sisters and a passel of nieces and nephews about three miles east of town on the Athens-Fayetteville Pike. We’ve been living in the same log house since moving from Fayetteville in 1833. Oh, I forgot to mention, older brother George and his family live down the road. George drives the stagecoach from Athens to Fayetteville.

I’d be off fighting like my brothers, but I can’t hear thunder. Ma said I got an ear infection when I was a baby, and it left me nearly deaf.

Last night, after going to bed in the loft, I heard Ma tell Pa, “I can’t stand the thought of our boys not being here for Christmas. We don’t have decent food to eat, nor presents, not even a tree.”
“I’ll think of something,” said Pa. “Now go to sleep.”

Next morning, Pa took charge. “Ma has declared we’re having Christmas, and by crackies, we are,” he said.

I was dispatched to Swan Creek to snare rabbits and squirrels. My nieces were told to search the barn and woods for eggs, and the boys ordered to dig dirt from beneath the smokehouse and boil it down for salt.
“I’m gonna walk to Athens and ask Aunt Sallie if she can spare a dab of flour,” he added.

Sally is Ma’s older sister and married to postmaster, Robert D. David. They have more than most folks.

Ma brightened. “We’re gonna have squirrel dumplings for Christmas?” she asked.

“Yep, and a Christmas tree too,” Pa boasted.

That afternoon Pa returned from Athens with enough flour to make dumplings. After the children went to bed he sat in front of the fireplace and made corncob and shuck dolls for the girls and carved whistles for the boys.

“I heard in town that Hood’s Army is starving and freezing,” Pa said. “They’re leaving a trail of blood in the snow.”

Ma walked in and overheard the comment.

“Ohh Lordy! I can’t stand the thought of our boys suffering. We don’t even know if they’re dead or alive.”

Christmas Eve morning, Pa and I went with the children, looking for a Christmas tree. Ol’ Luther wobbled in front of us, sniffing the ground and dragging a bad hind leg. Last year a Yankee shot him for no good reason. The children were excited.

“Pa, cut a tall one.”

Finally, after a couple of hours of wading through the woods, Pa was give out and chopped own the first cedar tree he saw. The day had been fruitful. Two rabbits and six squirrels were snared; a handful of salt had been retrieved, and the children found two dozen eggs.

Ma spent the afternoon rolling out dumplings and cooking meat in a black pot hanging in the fireplace. It sure did smell good. When Pa lifted the lid Ma ran him off with a ladle and warning, “Stay outta that! It’s for Christmas!” My mouth watered thinking about dumplings and cornbread.

I erected the tree and the children trimmed it and decorated it with popcorn rope and pine cones. It smelled wonderful.
“Uncle Thomas, it don’t have a star,” my nephew, Luke Newby, complained. I carved a star and attached it to the top. “But it is isn’t silver,” he said.
Christmas Eve Night, with snow falling, Brother George and his family came over and we gathered in front of the fireplace and Pa read from the Bible about the birth of Jesus and told the children about the three wise men bringing gifts.
“That’s how Christmas came about,” he said “and why we exchange gifts.”

Pa shushed us. Then he prayed long and hard that all the boys were safe and would soon return home. Afterward, he shouldered his fiddle and played a mournful tune, one we all knew. George’s baritone voice sang, “Silent night, holy night, all is calm, all is bright…” We joined hands and sang along with tears streaming down our cheeks.

“Y’all sing louder so I can hear all of it,” I said.

Then we sang it again.

It was just past midnight – Christmas morning – and bitter cold. A north wind whistled between the chinked logs, sending shivers up my back. Pity any poor soul outside tonight. I pulled the quilt to my chin and was almost asleep when I heard Ol’ Luther barking and snarling.


Those devils were back again. I cupped my good ear and listened. Someone was in the yard. More barking and snarling. Then I heard a thin, plaintive cry.

“MA! PA!” The voice was familiar. It couldn’t be!

Pa got up and lit a candle. I scrambled from bed. Outside, Pa held the candle high, and it its soft glow, stood a bedraggled man with a scraggly beard.

“Who is it?” Pa demanded.

“Pa, it’s me, Dudley Richard. I’m home.”

Ma came out the door and stared at the man. “Dudley Richard?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yeah Ma, I’m home.”

Ma rushed toward him, arms outstretched. “My son, my son!”

Pa was trembling, tears running down his grizzled face as he hugged his son. I hardly recognized my brother – even ol’ Luther didn’t. Dudley was ill, half frozen and starving. He hadn’t eaten since leaving Hood’s Army two days earlier near Lexington, Alabama
“The Lord has given me a wonderful present this Christmas.” Ma said. “My son is home.”

Soon the household was awake and hugging Dudley. Everyone was too excited to go back to bed. Pa stoked a big fire in the fireplace. Ma declared it was dinner time, no matter that it was only 2 a.m. We gathered around the table, and after Pa thanked the Lord long and hard, we ate squirrel dumplings and cornbread until we were full. Then we ate some more.

Ma declared it was the best Christmas ever. And it was.
By: Jerry Barksdale


Misspelled Chronicles. Sorry about that. As soon as I learn to edit, I will do so. Thanks to Teddy Wolcott, I just learned to make a paragraph. I’m making progress, considering I planned to shotgun my new Dell only last week.

Cornbread Chronicles

Elk River. I look out my window and see sleet falling. Whatever is customary. Over the years I’ve written hundreds of stories and columns for our local newspaper. Several years ago a woman reader wrote the Editor about a column and said, “It’s the sickest thing I ever read”. I’de love to meet that lady. She may be the only woman who understands my condition..
Journalist and friend, Karen Middleton suggested that we select the “best” columns and put them in a book. Okay with me. My daughter, Shannon suggested a name–“Cornbread Chronicles”. We have sold many since then.
Recently, Betty Jones West, retired teacher at Tullahoma, Tn. suggested that I put Cornbread Chronicles on audio. Another great idea. Betty went to work on the project and Amazon will have the audio out early 2017. I hope you like it.
For my closet writer friends, remember that every story must have drama. No drama-no reader interest. You must create conflict. Problems-problems and more problems. Things just get “worser n worser”.
It’s cold outside. I plan to build a warm fire in my fireplace , sit in front of it and read. Stay warm–and happy. More later. S-o-o long until tomorrow.

Christmas Party

From the banks of Elk River—.Last evening my good friend(and sometimes redhead) Pat and I attended the Limestone County Bar party. It was held in what was once Ben Jaffe Dept. Store on the eastside of the square. I thought about Mama. In the 50s she had sold shoes there for $30 a week. At the time I was at Athens High and working 70 hours a week at McConnell Funeral Home. I earned $30 a week. Mama said, “I’ll put food on the table if you will take care of your needs”. And that’s what we did. That was also when my dream to become a lawyer first appeared. Thanks Mom.
It was mostly a young crowd that gathered around the bar sipping wine. What a bunch of wimps! Back in the 70s, we gathered at the Athens Country Club and drank real alcohol, stuff that would kill you liver in record time. This young crowd of lawyers are not keeping up our reputation of “drinking out of the same bottle”. Our noble profession is suffering. Also, back “in the day”, when Limestone County was “dry”, Mr. Bruce Sherrill would agree to drive across the county line and purchase booze for our party, provided the DA wouldn’t prosecute. It was a great arrangement. I’m sure the common folks would’ve love to had such a deal.
Tomorrow, I’ll tell you about my new audio book, Cornbread Chronicles, which will be on the market soon. Until then, s-o-o long until tomorrow. And make yourself happy.

Finding my power spot.

Dawn is cracking on Elk River and I’m sitting in my old stuffed brown chair preparing to write. It’s my power spot. My writing routine hasn’t changed since 1985 when I first began writing. First, I make coffee; Seattle Best #5, dark roast. It’s the best. My writing desk is a coffee table book of western photographs given me by my daughter, Shannon 23 years ago. It works just fine. I lay it across my lap, grab a sheet of blue-lined school paper and I’m ready. I always write in long hand. It works for me. When famous writer, Dorothy Parker was asked where she writes, she replied, “In my head”. I have my own power spot where I write. Have you ever noticed that dogs have a power spot? When I lived in Huntsville, I rose at 5am and sat on the west end of a faded blue couch–never the east end. I wrote several books and many columns on that old couch. I don’t have it anymore. My ex took it! Had she not done that, I could’ve been a better writer. I think she gave it to the Salvation Army. Sure wish I could find it. More about that later. The sole purpose of this blog is to promote my literary career. Coke advertises because it works. Maybe this will work for me. If you are reading this, it’s already working. Thanks. In the pantheon of literati, I’m comparable to a tadpole in a mudhole-small. Check out my list of books. This website is still a work in progress. Bio will be added. S-o-o long until tomorrow.

Maiden Blog

Welcome to the debut of Jaybird Journal. Recently everything has been going my way-downhill. First, my credit card was cancelled on the day I departed for Taos, New Mexico on a ten day vacation. Someone in North Dakota had charged $6.30 on my card. I’ve never been to North Dakota. We encountered 100 mph winds and the wings began flapping like a goose in flight. I ordered a scotch. The hostess wouldn’t accept cash. Printed on the bill was “legal tender for all debt”. Buying a scotch creates debt! My vacation was going downhill. I returned home and got a root canal and cap. There went $2300. I was hacked, my new credit card number was stolen, along with my email and fb. Had to purchase a new Dell computer and all the add-ons. There went another $1000. And I don’t know how to start a paragraph! Will someone please tell me how?

11-4-2016-11-08-58-amRetirement gives me time to think about matters of great consequence. Recently, while kicked back in my Lazy Boy knock-off and admiring my big toe, I experienced an epiphany – a great moment of truth: I have solved the answer to the age-old question of why the chicken crossed the road.

November 4, 2016 – Athens Now – Jerry’s Journal

11-4-2016-11-08-58-amIt was 1935, smack dab in the middle of the Great Depression, when she showed up in the East Limestone community and occupied an abandoned sharecropper’s shack near our house. I was 10 years old at the time, but I remember it well. No one knew her, nor any of her folks, nor where she came from. She just appeared one day with a pack of cur dogs. She didn’t attend church, didn’t associate with neighbors and didn’t appear to have a source of sustenance. She didn’t even have a name so far as anyone knew. Folks just called her “that old woman.”

Mama worried that she didn’t have enough to eat. Daddy was bent over the breakfast table sopping up “Hoover gravy” with a biscuit while Mama poured coffee. “I hate to see anybody go hungry,” she said.
“Lot of folks are hungry these days,” Daddy said. “I’ve eat so much Hoover gravy my socks slide down my legs.”
“Well, at least we have something to eat.”
“If it don’t hurry up and rain we’ll all starve to death,” Daddy said. “There won’t be enough cotton to plow under.”
Mama examined the calendar hanging on a nail on the wall and flipped the pages. “My word! It’s been two months since we’ve had a drop of rain.”
Daddy stirred molasses in his coffee to sweeten it and took a sip. “Didn’t that old woman show up about two months ago?” he asked.
After breakfast Daddy hitched up the mules to our wagon and headed off to cut firewood for the cook stove. Mama scooped cornmeal from the bin into a paper bag, then we went to the garden and picked a mess of peas, squash, okra and tomatoes.
“Com’on Punk’n let’s take this to that poor old woman up yonder,” she said.

It was July 3rd and scorching hot. The cotton plants were drooping in the heat and little clouds of dust rose from our footsteps. The sharecropper shack was tiny with a rusty tin roof and tar paper siding and sat on a foundation of stacked rocks. No one had lived there in years and weeds had grown waist high.
We walked up to the front porch and Mama called out: “YOO HOO! ANYBODY HOME?”
A pack of hounds scrambled from beneath the shack, barking and snarling. After sniffing us, they backed off. The old woman, wearing a ragged black dress, pushed open the torn screen door and looked us up and down. She was bent over with age like a crooked old tree. Her eyes were black as tar; curly hairs grew on her pointed chin and nose, and long gray hair fell past her hunched shoulders.
I moved closer to Mama and I clutched her arm.
“What’che want?” The old woman demanded.
Mama held out the sack of cornmeal and vegetables. “We’ve got plenty and I hate to see food go to waste,” she said. “Cornbread sure would taste good with fried okra and squash.”
The old woman eyed us with suspicion.
“Here, please take it,” Mama said.
The old woman inched out onto the front porch and snatched the sack and disappeared inside the house without a word.
The next day it came a gulley-washer rain. Mama rejoiced and said the Lord sent rain because we had been kind to the old woman. The same day, Bossy, for no apparent reason, didn’t give any milk. The cotton crop was saved, such as it was, but we had no milk to drink.

When the rain stopped, Army worms came marching across our cotton patch eating the squares that would eventually develop into cotton bolls. Bossy, didn’t give enough milk for Daddy’s coffee. Our neighbor’s cow also stopped giving milk. “It’s that old woman, I tell ya,” Daddy said. “Our problems started when she showed up.”
Later I was fishing in Johnson Branch when she appeared out of the woods and offered me a hunk of cornbread. “It’s mighty good,” she said. I refused it and ran home.
One of the Smith children, who lived nearby, went missing. The following month another child disappeared. They were never seen again.
Late one night I woke when I heard Bossy bawling at the barn. Daddy fumbled around in the dark, slipped on his overalls, and went out the back door holding a lantern. I snuck from my bed and peeped out the window where a quarter moon illuminated the landscape. When Daddy neared the barn, I saw a pack of hounds run off. Later that night I overhead Mama and Daddy whispering. “My word!” Mama exclaimed. “Don’t dare tell that young’n what you saw. It would scare ‘em to death.”
The following week the old woman was spotted near Fairmount School on Nick Davis Road talking to children walking home. She was seen giving a hunk of cornbread to Sally Turner. Sally was a beautiful child with blue eyes and red hair, but the other children made fun of her because she had a terrible limp. A kicking mule broke her femur which wasn’t properly set. Little Sally disappeared and was never seen again.
Later, Bossy woke me bawling. Daddy dressed and loaded his 22 rifle and slipped out the back door. The moon was full. I saw Daddy shoulder the 22. POW-POW-POW. Dogs scattered. One dragged off in the bushes and disappeared. Again, I overheard Mama and Daddy whispering. “Them dogs have been sucking Bossy dry,” Daddy said. “That’s why we don’t have any milk.”
“My word! I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Mama whispered.
“Yeah, and there’s more dogs than before,” Daddy said.
“Where you reckon they come from?” Mama whispered.
“I don’t know, but there’s one less. I shot ‘em in the hind quarter.”

Several weeks later, hunters discovered the old woman’s body in the woods. The coroner determined that she died from “natural causes.” No family ever came forward and the investigation ended. Afterwards, Bossy began giving milk and no more children disappeared.
Years later, I stopped at Vinson’s store on Nick Davis Road to drink a Coke and catch up on local news from the “spit and whittle” club who were sitting on the front porch. They were discussing the drought – it hadn’t rained in over a month – and boll weevils were eating the cotton crop.
“It got just like this back in nineteen thirty-five,” a fellow said.
Abner Allen said his cow had quit giving milk.
“That’s odd, mine too,” another fellow said.
Shortly, a middle-aged, blue eyed, red headed woman, followed by a pack of cur dogs, limped up and went inside the store.
“I’ll swear,” Abner said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say that’s Sally Turner who disappeared forty year ago.”
“Reckon who she is?” someone asked.
The woman emerged carrying a sack of cornmeal. An alarm went off in my head. Somewhere in my memory… yes – yes! Now, I remembered. Fear shot through me and the hair on the back of my neck extended like a wire brush. That old woman was back.
“For God’s sake,” I said, “Never – never take cornbread from her or you’ll end up on all fours and scratching fleas.”
I don’t accept cornbread from strangers. And neither should you.