Finding Floyd


I’ve misplaced and lost things along the way. Some I’ve found, others just a memory now. I used to think the most important things I lost were things I could put a dollar value on. Life has a way of teaching us that the things that have the most value can’t be bought or replaced.

When dusk settled on that fall evening and I heard my mom calling me, I knew the best part of my day was over. I grabbed my homemade flag; an old garage towel duct taped to a seven-foot crooked tree branch by my eight-year-old hands and headed home.

I shot a wary glance around our neighborhood to make sure no one was watching when I nestled my flag into the snail laden and unmaintained flower bed in front of our house.

The next day I found the kid that stole it. I beat him up and took my flag back. I discovered that a flag isn’t near as fun when you’re all alone.

I wasn’t as lucky with my Christmas bike. Once it was gone it was gone forever. Same with some guns and trucks later on in life.

Some things you lose and don’t even realize it… at first. That happened with my wallet once. Same with my innocence. I didn’t even know it was gone or missing until it was too late. It’s the inevitable taste of regret that you can’t spit out. You have to swallow it whole. Not knowing it’ll take a lifetime to digest.

A few months back I came up missing something else, not realizing the underlying cause. It was like when you go looking for your favorite book. You search high and low to no avail.

Over the last few months, I periodically posted portions of an old unfinished manuscript. It was sorta like the MC tap dancing to fill time till the main act shows up. Problem is, I lost my muse.

a very short time

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I don’t know if my muse is male or female or something else. All I know for sure is that he or she or it is gone.

Sometimes it’s not the desire or passion that keeps us going. Now and then we have to rely on perseverance… because there is nothing else.

In the down times were forced to reflect. It is in the rough patches we tend to ponder, to reflect, to count the cost, consider the reasons for our droughts.

Seven years ago this month was another time of loss. The worst kind of loss – that of a loved one. It was May 7th, 2010. My dad was taken not only to a “better place”, but the Best place. That doesn’t mean there is no sadness.

There is grieving in this life. It’s God’s way of reminding us that no one gets out alive. It’s our sad understanding that there is no perfection in this flesh. That comes after this is past.

In times like these we remind ourselves, as Believers, that the things of the greatest value can’t be lost, only Divinely separated for a very short time.


Maybe it was all the silly movies we watched as kids, maybe they’re to blame. Perhaps it was all the books what, with all the “And they lived happily ever after” endings. Maybe both of them are to blame for our silly romantic notions.

Lives that play out like a fairy tale don’t exist… except in stories. But there is beauty in the struggle of life. Even happy endings can be born in the dark.

When I was younger I yearned for the romantic notion of writing a book. I’d planned on it all my life, ever since I read the wise and somewhat romantic notion of a quote; “A full life should include planting a tree, writing a book, and having a child”.

Movies depict writing as an extraordinary joy… I guess it is if you look at it from a gratification perspective… and hindsight.

a romantic notion

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Books and movies portray the inspired writer hunched over their typewriter, or keypad these days, and a less than an hour and a half later – Voila – Presto – the next New York Times bestseller. The forlorn authors lean back, smile, lock their hands behind their heads and exhale. The birds sing and the heavens open up and the brilliant light descends as the angels sing.

It was a few months back, but it was no movie. It was a book. One with a somewhat happy ending, but I wasn’t reading it, I was writing another one.

The process is anything but romantic. It’s a downright struggle. It’s a struggle for time, a fight between spending time with family, running businesses, and plinking out some words that might grab a hopeless romantic by the heart.

There were days in the process I stumbled through them like a zombie – delirious from the lack Z’s. But the closer I got to the climax and denouement I could feel the second wind behind me and I pushed for the finish line like a marathon runner with my arch nemesis breathing down my neck.

It was at our breakfast table I typed the sometimes sweetest words in the English language; “THE END”, which doesn’t take into account the additional two hundred hours of re-writes.

I pushed back, glanced around, took a deep breath, and there was dead silence and dimness. My dog Larry was fast asleep in his bed. The skies outside the three windows didn’t split with brilliant light and the normally bright Arizona afternoon had gone dark behind menacing clouds. Then the rain started and put any romantic notion type of fire out before it could get started.

I smiled at the irony of it.

Endings only happen in stories. Real life nods its head in recognition then resumes its fight. A story is like a vacation, then it’s back to reality.

The lack of the romantic notion in finishing just another story reminded me that the only truly happy ending comes when we cross over to the other side… into the arms of The Father.


Continuation of the shelved manuscript.

My brother Bobby had a real job. He raked rocks too, but he also dug holes and planted trees. He had a boss, got paid by check and everything. My big brothers already had motorcycles. Dean’s was a Harley, long before

Men will become lovers of themselves

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they were a status symbol. Bobby had a Honda 450 that he’d chopped, even though he wasn’t old enough to drive legally. Folks trying to make ends meet see laws more as suggestions under ideal circumstances.

Bobby having his own money for what he wanted was crucial, because some things he was set on buying our dad would never have been a party to. Bobby wanted jewelry… and not a fancy watch to make sure he made it to work and school on time.

No sir, Bobby was on the cutting edge of culture change. He wanted to do what the generation of men that we followed would have fought to the death to avoid.

It was the summer of 1975. The summer Bobby, my sister Sheral, a potato, some ice, rubbing alcohol, and one of my mom’s biggest sewing needles did the unthinkable; pierced Bobby’s ear.

I don’t think Bobby was allowed to wear his earring in school, but when he did wear it, he wore it like Robert Conrad did a battery in the battery commercials back then; on his shoulder and just daring someone to knock it off. Or in Bobby’s case, just daring someone to say something about it.

Back in those days, if you were a guy and wore an earring, you’d darn sure better be able to defend yourself.

My guess is that my dad probably didn’t have that in mind when he taught Bobby how to fight to survive in the late sixties before we moved from a riot-torn Southern California.

It wasn’t planned, but about a decade later I followed suit… sort of… I had no need of ice, a potato, rubbing alcohol, not even a sewing needle. I just used someone else’s earring. I thought it might look cool with the white jacket I was sporting.

It’s not official, but if you didn’t have a potato, ice, rubbing alcohol, or a good needle, whiskey was the next best thing. I’d tossed back enough cheap well whiskey to not even give those other necessities a thought.

Those are the type of events that you regret forever, but especially that very next day…

It’s not a stretch or surprise to anyone that our society has changed, men especially. It’s possible that one of the contributing factors of the evolution of men doing what previous generations considered feminine is due to the rise in our standard of living.

Today, even what society considers full blown poor people have air conditioning in Arizona. That was a luxury back in the seventies that we went without during a rough patch.

We may not have been able to afford air conditioning, but we somehow had enough money for oversized combs, hand held blow dryers, and tight pants with platform shoes.

“Men will become lovers of themselves…”


(Continuation of manuscript from 2/26)

My dad’s family of sharecroppers didn’t make enough money pickin’ cotton for some of the basic necessities of life, never mind luxury items. Things like watches were for rich folks. Poor folks new work started before the first rain of sunlight kissed the cotton bloom and ended after the sun dropped the curtain on another day.

When the days came and those kids could afford a watch, they had one, not for the sake of jewelry, but for the need of being on time for work. There was a distinct difference between a watch and jewelry. Even earrings, necklaces, and rings were far and few between for the girls, never mind the men.

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Jewelry is the last thing on a kid’s mind when they’re in need of a pair of shoes.

When I was a kid we struggled too, but nothing compared to the harsh world my dad had known. We didn’t have jewelry either. My mom sported only her wedding ring that was worn thin opposite the humble diamond side of that little circle of devotion.

The blue collar side of the tracks that we hailed from meant spending money was measured in second-grade mathematical equations. If we wanted more – we worked.

It was the summer after sixth grade. My buddy Greg and I were knockin’ on doors in the little town that is famous for being the hot spot in the nation on occasion – that with taking the temperature down by the lake, where it’s a hint cooler.

The little town of Lake Havasu City is also famous for a couple other things; one, the transplanted London Bridge. And two, rocks. It’s some of the nastiest soil I’ve toiled in.

After the severe summer rain storms, back before they called them “monsoons”, folks front yards would be decimated. What little top soil there was, was washed to the street and whisked off toward the lake by the violent summer rains.

There are only two types of folks that knock on doors trying to sell things; greedy people and desperate people. Greg and I fell into the latter category.

Most people, like nineteen out of twenty, got downright angry for having to haul their backyards off the couch and stroll to their front door to shoo away a door to door salesman. Even more so when they’re punk kids trying to get into wallets.

Every so often we’d get lucky. We’d offer to rake the rocks in their front yards, which always turned out to be tons, for forty bucks. Plus we had to haul them off the property to boot. Since it took two, three, even sometimes four full work days, in 120 plus degrees, it was close to slave labor.

Come payday we were kings with our very own greenbacks. We did what most dumb kids did…. We peddled our bikes down to Zimmerman’s and forfeited our hard earned cash for Rock-N-Roll.

My first payday helped line Elton John’s mohair suit pocket via the album “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road”.


He sat quietly in church, hands folded, hunched slightly at the still proud shoulders. He was an aged man, one you’d never be able to judge the book by its cover.

He was tall and lean, except for his beer belly, around 6′-5″ or 6″, but with dusty cowboy boots and his ten-gallon hat, he looked ten feet tall, acted like it too. My uncle Buck looked like something out of a movie, or a nightmare to the man who he was at odds with, especially if he’d been drinkin’.

judge the book by its cover

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When I was a kid, uncle Buck was almost bald, a sun-scarred dome surrounded by circular grey hairline below. He looked worn and old even before he really was. Truth is, he looked almost the same from his forties into his seventies. I’m pretty sure he never thought he’d live that long.

Buck kept a pair of tight fitting black leather gloves in his back pocket. He didn’t wear them all the time – and for darn sure not for fashion. He only pulled them on to fight.

It was hard for me to imagine the two sides of a person as a kid. My uncle was special to me, a second dad, what you think an uncle should be.

If it weren’t for my uncle Buck I’d have never got my first dog. He knew my heart and desire. That day at the grungy stables where he boarded his horse, I never left the new litter of pups in the barn. “A boy needs a dog, Harl,” he told my dad.

After a short dissertation about my mom and work associated with a dog, uncle Buck said,”Pick yourself a pup, boy.” I looked at my dad and he reluctantly nodded.

You don’t know that gratification of giving a youngster something they long for until you’ve walked in those shoes, but I could see clearly my uncle Buck was thrilled for me.

Growing up in a lake town has its advantages, one of them is fishin’. I couldn’t begin to recall how many times I’ve been fishin’, a lot, but the majority, probably seventy-five percent of all the times in my life, was with my uncle Buck.

Like a lot of folks from that generation, they didn’t throw around words like love, but they showed it with their actions.

As a young man, when I was in need, my uncle Buck, the man the world thought was crazy and mean as the devil, was there for me. He wasn’t perfect, but no one who knew the man who called out a gang of bikers and rode his horse through a bar could grasp that he was a caring person.

Hillbillies say that “blood is thicker-‘n-water”. Maybe that’s why our uncle Buck treated us the way he did. Maybe that’s why I understand now what I never could as a kid; the dark side of a man.

I haven’t done things my uncle Buck did, but things I’m not proud of all the same. I fight the flesh, what southerners call demons, too. All of us do to one degree or another.

When I think of my uncle Buck sitting in a church, the others referring to him as “brother” followed by our last name, I’m reminded of God’s precious grace and redemption… and that you can’t judge a book by the cover.