My grandfather was driving us back from Broken Bow. It was late on a Saturday night. At least it was late for me. My bedtime was usually 8 o’clock. It was at least 8:30, and I was tired.

My grandfather was a blacksmith. He went to Oklahoma each Saturday for an auction a woman named Barbara held. It was unusual for a woman to be running a business at that time. It was also unusual that someone was still a blacksmith.

Blacksmith ...

The last few years of my dad’s life, he would often say, “I don’t want to learn anything new.”

He was serious.

I would show him something new on a cell phone, or the latest item that was all the rage, and he wasn’t impressed.

“That’s nice son, but I don’t want to learn anything new,” he would say.

How could you not want to learn anything new, regardless of your age? Well, I’m starting to see things his way.

I was dragged, kicking and ...

People used to drive over the river and through the woods to grandmother’s house each holiday season to give thanks, eat, visit, and play games.

Playing games with family members you seldom see outside of Christmas gave you the opportunity to remember why you only see them during the holidays.

A marathon Monopoly game with your half-deaf uncle and your cousin who eats Cheetos and wants to be the banker, is a reminder of how good you’ve got it. Even if you ...

My first car cost $500. It was a 1966 Ford Mustang, white with red interior. Thanks to my father, I could work on it.

That’s no longer the case with automobiles. Unless you have three degrees from MIT and a trunk full of computers to plug in under the dash, it’s the rare individual who can fix his own car. And that’s regrettable.

After the automobile became affordable for the masses (thanks to Henry Ford), auto repair became a way for dads ...

My sister and I couldn’t read yet, so even though the TV guide sat next to my father’s chair, we never had any idea what was coming on TV during the weekend.

On weekdays, we knew what was on. Unlike television programming today, the networks generally left television shows alone so that people could find them. On Monday night, there was Gilligan’s Island, The Lucy Show, then The Andy Griffith Show.

And The Andy Griffith Show was one of our favorites. Especially ...

It wasn’t so long ago that people who could afford to decorate the outside of their house were limited to a few strands of Christmas lights. Sometimes, it was all they could afford. Other times it had to do with a dad’s patience.

Today, people put up light shows that shine all over their house and front yard that are timed to music, and can often be tuned in on a car radio by those who drive by to see the ...

Christmas toys used to be simple. They fell into a handful of categories. For the most part, boys got army stuff. Girls received dolls.

A recent online check of top-selling toys proves this is no longer the case. What kids receive on Christmas morning these days is not G.I. Joe or Barbie. Matter of fact, I don’t really understand what most of it is.

There’s a photo of me that my mom took when I was around three. I received an army ...

They call it Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, or OCD. I’ve always had it, even before it had a name.

Well, maybe it had a name in fancy academic circles, but in our tiny little red brick house on Beech Street in Ashdown, my dad just called it, “afflicted.”

First, let me say that I’m not making fun of people with OCD. That’s the job of the writers on the TV show, Monk. Even if I am making fun of OCD, I get a ...

The journey the average Southern dad must take to arrive at his annual Thanksgiving meal is one filled with roadblocks and relatives. But with some effort, he can successfully navigate it.

Today, dad drives the family vehicle to a destination that mom negotiated in advance. But once upon a time, there was hope.

When dad was a kid, his parents loaded his sister and him into the backseat of the Buick and everyone went to grandma and grandpa’s house. It was an ...

A child wrote his name and address on the cover of the book. The writing is printed, not in cursive. So, he was young.

Most children know better than to write on or in a book. The child must have valued the book greatly and didn’t want anyone else to try and take it.

I know for a fact that he valued it. That child was me.

Published in 1964, the book “Ribsy” is about a dog that becomes separated from his family ...