Come Out, Come Out, Yo House Is on Fire

By Terry Powell

This volume contains some of his earliest experiences and relationships.
Later volumes will fill in the gap between then and now. Sometimes
philosophical, sometimes imaginative, sometimes whimsical, he weaves his
way back through his boyhood. There is always a fresh new face to meet just
around the next bend, tag along and enjoy the journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 14, 2010
• ISBN: 9781465331984

Terry Powell

Thank you for your interest. I reside in New Jersey with my wife and three children and have a BS in Management from Rider University. I'm an ex-soldier who still keeps close ties with many friends who continue to serve. In order to feel connected, I tend to visualize my writing into a screen play of sorts, so as much as I like to include a bunch of detail in my stories, I dont necessarily believe that quantity always equals quality--page-count wise. Big books have always been alittle overwhelming to me, as they are to most casual readers, so my only goal in doing this is to keep the chapters relatively short to make the AVERAGE reader feel accomplished, throw some lessons learned in there to make you go "hmm", and a pinch of faith because as a man of faith, I can only hope that you'll open the Good Book in addition to one of mine anyday.

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Copyright © 2010 by Terry Powell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

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Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

I began writing this when I was about five years old. That was about the time I began asking the important questions about life. Questions like, why do doodlebugs always fall for that same old line, come out, come out, yo house is on fire!

During those days of milk and honey I never doubted that all my dreams would come true. As a little boy I rode tree limbs through foreign lands, I marched with an army of magic animals stuffed with dreams, I lead a platoon of fearless explorers through the ghostly shadows of death; I sailed, I soared, I conquered, I celebrated.

Upon my return home from my journeys, mama combed clean my cow licked hair, and scanned my sun bleached hide; one by one she extracted the hitch hiking band of gypsy fleas that were always a part of each adventure.

My greatest foe was the dreaded sleep monster, and I whipped him to a nub each night before sprawling exhausted, but undefeated, amidst my comrades. At day break, I would arise excitedly and salute my squadron of merry soldiers, all single filed and perfectly aligned, all anxious for my first command. What a life!

I had a very happy childhood. In fact, it makes me happy now just to reminisce those days. I am tempted to have myself hypnotized to once more relive each fantasy, and revel in the joys of my youth. Perhaps the process would reveal just where it was that I stepped off the happy trail.

In reality, I need not be hypnotized, I know like most people that there is seldom a sudden burst of life’s balloon. I lost my zest for life little by little. To me, it seemed that life leaked down very slowly, like an old football I once had which each morning was a shriveled and crumpled remnant of what it should be. I simply grew tired of pumping and patching and finally threw it aside.

As my personal dream bubbles began to burst, I held tightly to those remaining until half a century had deflated the entire stock. Even then, with no dream of my own, I pressed on, helping others pursue theirs, and hoping that would suffice.

It worked for a while, but with no way to regenerate the energy that comes only from a deeply personal and passionate hope, I ultimately settled in a shady spot with the only desire I had left, for the world to go on and leave me alone. It was there in that lonesome spot that I sat and assumed Eternity would eventually overtake me, and usher me into a better place.

This writing records how I came to leave that lonely spot and begin a new and different journey, a journey of restored hope, a revived sense of wonder, and an ever growing fascination with new realities. I welcome you as a traveling companion as we travel along through the pages ahead… tp

CHAPTER ONE

I was born on back street in Pelham, Georgia, next to Pope’s Shoe Shop. It was just before Christmas, 1946, according to record. All information relevant to my early existence must stand on my mama’s veracity as I paid little attention to facts back then.

Her veracity is still in tact. Over eighty years has passed and she has never uttered a lie. She has had many opportunities, times when a small, white lie would have been an easy option, but she refused to allow it. Often, when I so desired the comfort of a lie, I would go to mama to find it, and be sorely disappointed, and made to swallow a harsh dose of reality. I learned eventually, if ever I hoped to enjoy the company of a liar, I must locate a lesser person than my mother.

Mama reports that there were no earthquakes, eclipses, or comets accompanying my birth, just the colic which settled in as my companion, and tagged along for nearly two years, inspiring her to request a rebate from Dr. Brim, and encouraging her to wait four years before birthing another.

My most distant memories do not stretch back to those ancient days of the colic. A man does not remember well his deficiencies. My earliest recollections accumulate around a trinity of childhood affections, namely: cowboy boots, dogs, and doodle bugs.

Perhaps my hankering for top quality cowhide came from the original smell that wafted from Mr. Pope’s shoe shop into Dr. Brim’s little clinic, configuring my virgin system; or perhaps my small mind reasoned that boots are essential to the dress code if one intends to be a cowboy; but more likely it was simply a person of influence who inspired the cowboy motif; whatever the reason, a collection of wrinkled photographs consistently present me in varied garb, but always with cowboy boots, often little or nothing else but boots.

Way back before the cultural burden of saddle oxfords, penny loafers, and Hush Puppies, I detested the idea of anything on my feet but dirt. Way back before the desire to impress young women diverted my manly inclinations, I had a severe aversion for shoes. Like most of my early friends, I hated shoes.

I recall us stuffing our shoes in a thick camellia bush on the way to school, and retrieving them on the way home, running barefoot all day unfazed by hot asphalt, rocks, sticks, briers, glass, and the disgusted looks of our teachers. The soles of our feet resembled gator hide. When Sunday came, when my life and limb were in jeopardy, when my mother called me by my full name, I pulled on my boots.

Boots were my saving grace as a child, saving me from having to wear shoes. Today, as I tiptoe twenty feet on tender, sissy feet to take out the trash, my mind often flashes back to the tough little cowboy I was back in my earlier days.

Though we left our shoes in the bushes, we took our dogs with us. We had all sorts of dogs: bird dogs, bulldogs, hound dogs, yard dogs; no pedigree was required, just an insatiable desire to chase cats. We rarely rejected a companion for any other defect.

I remember well the names and faces of the many dogs I loved as a boy, but none so powerfully as Speck. Speck was so named because of his solid white body and one tiny, black, dime-sized smudge on his forehead. Michelangelo could not have produced a more creative paint job, and everybody said Adam could not have stuck a better name on a critter. That announcement brought a smile to both our faces.

As mysterious as was his random, black speck, was his arrival. One day, out of the blue, Speck showed up, full grown and ready for action, like a supernatural gift from above. It seemed that he just came to visit and stayed. I had moped around without a dog of my own for