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You would think that after cutting off the end of my finger, my story would come to an end. But it didn't!
During the last few weeks I have been reminiscing about my lifelong bumps, bruises, cuts and scars I have received. Last week I shared the gruesome story about the loss of the end of my finger to a boat lift.
My son and I were visiting Uncle Ed and Aunt Brenda for a weekend of fishing at Cedar Creek Lake in East Texas. We were several hours from home and in a place we had never stayed. It was at this location that a part of me will always remain. (Literally, not figuratively)
When the accident occurred, people around me jumped into action. A good group of people always hang around marinas and these folks really came to my rescue. I was seated in a chair near a picnic table and the remainder of my finger was placed in a bag of ice. We began our trip to Athens in an ambulance, with my son at my side and Uncle Ed following behind.
As I arrived at the hospital, the doctor began the process of numbing my finger and I must say the shot process was more painful than the actual accident. Once numbed and bandaged up I was released from the hospital with a prescription for pain pills.
"How long do I have before the numbness wears off Doc", I asked.
"About four to six hours," was his answer – and with that my son and I climbed into Uncle Ed's truck for a ride back to the lake.
As we drove down the road, I began to contemplate my situation. I am a man who enjoys the comfort of my own possessions. My own bed with my own sheets,  my own pillow and my own shower. I guess you get my drift, but I knew that the pain would be hitting me in several hours and if I did not get home right away, I could be holed up in a fishing camp, sleeping in a travel trailer for two or three days.
I knew I would not want to make the trip home once the numbness wore off. Yes, I knew I had a pain prescription to take, but since my mind was clear and with no medicine in my system other than the multiple numbing shots in my finger, I made a firm decision to head home. I asked my son to go with me, as he gave me comfort knowing he could at least make a phone call if needed.
With my hand bandaged up, completely numb and a cell phone in hand, off we traveled from east Texas headed toward Hufsmith in my 1982 Chevy El Camino. It was supposed to be a three hour trip.
As we traveled down I-45 south my mind began to contemplate the next few days and then I started to realize how much my life may change.
I had never really looked at the injury and I thought at the time I had lost over half of my finger. I soon began to realize it may affect many aspects of my life from writing, typing, shooting, playing musical instruments, working with certain tools and all kinds of other things.
As my mind pondered on these things, the unexpected occurred again! A BLOW OUT! My right front tire suddenly gave up the ghost and there we sat on the southbound side of I-45 in one of those stretches where there wasn't a building in sight.
My son was about ten years old at the time and he was not experienced in mechanical issues, but as I sat there discussing with him what our task was about to be – the Good Lord is my witness – a large black thunder cloud developed within a few short minutes and dumped a massive amount of rain on us just as we were getting out of the car to start changing the flat!
I quickly wrapped my hand in a plastic bag and started giving my son step by step instructions on what to do.
I dared not strain myself or try to use my injured hand for fear of breaking the stitches open.
The story is still not over! More remains for next week!

- Clifford

Bumps, bruises, and battle scars. For some reason I have been pondering my accident filled boyhood of 60-plus years. Yes, I know I'm not a boy anymore, but I've been accused sometimes of acting like one. I must admit that I am still a risk taker when it comes to manual labor issues, but I have learned to act a little smarter. The truth is, that my childhood injuries were really never my fault per se – well, on the other hand, I guess part of them could have been avoided if I would have been more cautious.
During my days as a teenager, I enjoyed mechanic work. My friends and I had built several mechanical contraptions during our times and as a youngster, I became a fairly good mechanic.
I had pulled the motor from my Chevrolet Bellaire and was doing a complete overhaul. I had the motor broke down and all that remained was the block.
This particular motor was a six cylinder called a straight six. I had just completed honing out the cylinder walls and had cleaned up the top of the block getting ready to begin putting the thing back together.
For some reason I had the block laying on the floor upside down and needed to roll the block over. Of course, I felt I was strong enough to do this on my own, so I placed my hands around the block to pick it up. As I got the thing about halfway off the floor, the inside of my fingers were sliced from the sharp, smooth edge I had just created on top of the block. As I felt the pressure of the motor slice into my fingers it left me with only one of two choices. Either drop the motor and probably crush my foot or take the pain and slowly lower the motor back onto the floor. I chose the latter.
Several stitches later, I had eight sliced up fingers near my palm. I remember wishing I would have asked for help. I still carry these scars to this day.
Another scar I still carry is on my left index finger. It was near Christmas in the 70's and we had just placed our Christmas tree in the house. It seems like every time I get a tree my eyes are taller than the room and I always used to get a tree that was too tall. This time I had cut a tree that was only inches from fitting into the room. The top needed to be trimmed to leave room for the angel.
As usual, I was trying to cut corners, so instead of getting the proper tool such as a saw or clippers I went to the kitchen drawer and pulled out a serrated knife. I stood precariously perched on a ladder trying to lean over the top of the tree. I grabbed the top and began a vigorous sawing motion with this knife. It slipped and sliced a nice gash into my finger just below the nail. Once again, as with the other scars, I still can see it on my finger.
A scar I do not remember receiving is one on the back of my leg. According to my mom I tried to sit on one of those pointy little oil cans as a child. The can was one of those kind seen in the Wizard of Oz movie when Dorothy is oiling up the Tin Man. I have no idea why I thought I could sit on this can. I guess I was just tired and wanted to rest. The thing stuck in the top of my leg and my mom said the can stayed temporarily stuck in my leg as I stood up. It then just slipped out.
Another story told to me is that while crawling around on the floor as a baby, I stuck my finger under a rocking chair that was being occupied by one of my family members. I know the story is true because that scar still vividly appears on my left hand.
Unfortunately I have many more stories to share of my injuries. I still carry the scars in my leg from several dog bites while working as a meter reader, another scar in my arm from throwing a throw line over handed and getting hooked in the arm while setting some fishing lines and I also have a big toe that was cut so deep while swimming in Spring Creek that the muscle no longer functions.
Next week I will share with you the story of all stories about my injuries. It will carry a warning however, because it may be a little gross to some of you.
 
- Clifford

Somewhere in the Bible there is something written that states "your sins shall find you out". Now I know that I may have butchered this up somewhat and I also know that it wouldn't take two minutes to look the scripture up, but then I wouldn't have been able to fill up this paragraph with words. The truth of the matter is that I have started this story without the foggiest idea of where I'm headed. I kind of know what I would like to say, but I'm just not sure if it will come out all right so I'm just buying time for my mind to catch up with my typing fingers. (Scary thought huh!)
I know a lot of people who have gone on vacation or out of town and they forget to act like decent human beings and they get into trouble. They think if they go to Vegas that everything stays in Vegas, but you can rest assured if you happen to bump into your next door neighbor then everything you did in Vegas will get home before you do! Now somebody is already wondering how in the world Clifford is going to tie Vegas and The Bible into one story…well, I'm not..but kind of.
My wife and I went out of town during the Fourth of July many years ago. We are celebrating 29 years in business and to the best of my recollection we have never, ever closed the doors of our operation during a normal business day for a vacation. We have always kept the doors open with employees on staff. The problem with this however, is as a business owner you always worry about your staff back home and have to continuously mix business and pleasure. We decided this time to "shut 'er down" and we did! We closed the doors at 5 p.m. on July 3rd and were gone until the following Monday morning. We sent everybody home for time off.
We went to Colorado Springs, Colo. Nothing special. Just wanted to get away and see the mountains and smell the mountain air. We had a very, very nice trip and came back very happy and relaxed.
As I was sitting in a local IHOP on Saturday morning, we had commented to the waitress that we were from Texas. Actually my wife had made a comment, formally reserved for Yankees, which lead to the Texas issue. My wife was looking for something on the menu and she said "we're not from here and down in Texas our menus are different". I laughed inside at her comment as my thoughts told me the waitress probably could care less how things are done in Texas. That kind of talk used to gripe the snot out of me back in the day, when northern folk were moving into Texas trying to tell us how things were done up north! Who cares! But anyhow, the waitress took it well and as we were leaving she said "you guy's have a good trip back to Texas"
As she turned to walk away a man next to us kept turning around and looking at me. After about three times he finally got up his nerve and spoke up and said "what part of Texas are ya'll from?" I smiled and I said "well, we come from the south part of Texas, north of Houston. I actually live in a community called Hufsmith but we are near a place called Tomball."  "Tomball", he said. "I know it well!" "You do", I exclaimed. "Yep, I live in Lubbock and I work for BJ Services. I have been to your town many times!"
So there you go. How did I tie all of this together, well, The Bible says your sins will find you out. An incident in a very far away place reminds me that somebody always knows somebody else and everybody is always watching you. Whether it be God or Man, Human or maybe an Angel, but our sins will always find us out. We all better behave. We are being watched.

- Clifford

I was thinking about my cousin Wayne the other day and it made me think about his dad. Wayne's wife recently retired and I guess he is about to move into another realm of life. I will have to watch how he handles having his wife around him all day long and see how he reacts to the probable long list of honey do's and harass… ahhh…the new full time togetherness .Just kidding! Congratulations to the two of you for the long love relationship and retirement!
Wayne's dad was of course my uncle. His first name was Freddie and to me all my life he was Uncle Freddie. Unfortunately Uncle Freddie passed away many years ago, but I still remember a story that I wrote about him several years ago.
Uncle Freddie, to me, was always a quiet man. I don't recall ever hearing him holler and I really don't ever recall him getting in too much of a hurry about much of anything, well at least until a few years ago!
I saw him, first hand, do two things that really showed me how much of a hurry he could get into! Uncle Freddie worked for a local funeral home.
Now I would really like to mention the name of this establishment, but I haven't talked to anyone over there and they may not want my type of comments mentioned in the paper. Knowing the family, I think they would all laugh, but I know comments about funerals and funeral homes are sometimes taken the wrong way, when a person is in bereavement.
Uncle Freddie was one of the persons responsible for assisting people with parking, amongst other duties. Many times I have driven by the funeral home and have observed these gentleman, all in proper suit and tie, directing traffic. Rain or shine, cold or heat they have stood for long periods of time working with all sorts of drivers. They stand vigilant at their job. A somber face, proper attire and a pleasant helpful attitude.
Some days, when I have driven by, each man seems lost in his own thoughts. They appear to be trying to reserve energy and not break into a sweat on hot days.  
On one of those hot days several summers ago, I broke the silence of Uncle Freddie's day in a very unusual way.
I enjoy messing with honeybees. I've never had a real hive before, but I have enjoyed taking bees out of trees and bushes. The hives I've tried didn't last too long and simply flew away.
One day I received a phone call from a friend of mine who said he saw a swarm of bees in front of the then Church’s Fried Chicken Place here in town. (It's now Popeye's) It was near my lunchtime, so I decided to leave the office and investigate.
I stopped in and talked to the manager who explained to me several of his customers were already in a panic and he would be real glad to have me remove the bees for him. As I investigated the hive, they were real deep into his shrubbery in front of his store and I explained to him I would have to cut out parts of his shrubs in order to remove the bees undisturbed. He gave his approval and I went to work.
After a few cuts with my hand saw I was able to retrieve the swarm tightly encased on one of the limbs. I cut the limb and placed the swarm, limb and all, into a cardboard box I had in the back of my truck.
At the time I retrieved this hive, I had no place to keep them and I thought of Uncle Freddie. I knew he had an empty hive next to his garden. I needed to talk to him right away and I knew he was working at the parking lot of the funeral home.
As I approached the lot there was Uncle Freddie in his usual somber stance passing away the moments in deep thought and concentration between cars coming in for the next funeral.
As I approached his area he began to approach my truck. I began to roll down my window to talk to him when he suddenly noticed the swarm of bees frantically flying around in the bed of my truck.
His forehead wrinkled, his eyes got big as his lips began to pulsate in and out when he said "good God boy, what you got in the back of that truck!" I began to laugh, as I had never seen Uncle Freddie show such emotion. I began to realize just how amazed a guy could really be! I mean face it! Here you are minding your own business at the parking lot of a funeral home, when this nut drives up to you with a load of angry honey bees flying around in an open cardboard box! I don't know what kind of reaction I expected from him, but I did get a kick out of his facial expressions.
I delivered the bees to his house, but after several months they decided to leave. I guess they made a beeline out of the county for fear of another truck ride in a cardboard box.
More on Uncle Freddie next week.


- Clifford

This is part two of a story I started last week named Confessions of an Altar Boy. I hope you had an opportunity to read last weeks article but in case you missed it I need to re-cap. I am describing actual events during my days as an altar boy in my childhood church.
Boys and lighter fluid are a dangerous mix.  Our duties were designed to bring honor and dignity to the church service, but if the congregation only knew the number of little devils that were lighting their candles, they would have probably passed out.
We used lighter fluid to assist our efforts in lighting the wick on our candle lighters. These were the tools used to actually light the candles before our church service. They had a long wax candle that could be controlled by a slide on the tool. I'm sure there is some religious name for these things, but I know you have seen them. They have a wick on one end and a bell shaped cone on the opposite side to extinguish the candles.
One day while using the fluid, we found that lighter fluid burned fairly cool. Now I know fire is always hot, but some fluids burn hotter than others and lighter fluid burns cool.
We soon learned we could drop a little fluid on the floor in one spot and light the terrazzo floor, but not cause burn marks. It was really cool too! A small blue flame burning from concrete was very amazing to us guys. As time passed we learned the art of writing our names in lighter fluid. Talk about having your name in lights! As time passed our little flames grew to bigger and bigger flames, almost to the point of getting out of hand.
If we thought somebody was coming to check on us we would quickly stomp out the fires with our feet. If the puddle of burning lighter fluid was deep enough, you could slap your foot on the flames and cause the fluid to splash.
This splashing would create little fire droplets all across the room. It was really neat to see the series of little drops of fire. Occasionally we would have to slap the fire out with our hands if it hit the walls.
An odd thing occurred while stomping out one of the flames. We soon learned that the UN-burned lighter fluid would stick to the bottom of our Sunday shoes and we actually had a burning foot that really didn't burn. Our antics went from burning shoes to soaking our hand in lighter fluid and lighting our hand like the guys in the movies. We called ourselves stuntmen. Sword fighting with burning fingers was a good pastime.
I know a lot of my readers are wondering who in the world could have done such things. I'll never tell. Just remember, many of the male readers of this article can relate. I will simply say many of these guys are now holding different positions in different areas of the country. Some of them are Church Elders, a couple of Ministers, past sunday school superintendents and a vast array of job duties.
I can only imagine how many people in our congregation sat through church thinking they smelled singed hair. I guess they thought it was the candles that the sweet little angel altar boys had provided for them.
If only they really knew! I guess now they do!


- Clifford