Tag Archives: inspiration

Monday Morning Ramblings

I started the last chapter of book three last night.  That’s staggering to me.  I’ve finished three other manuscripts, and each one is a unique experience.  When the last line is written, there’s a moment of disbelief quickly followed by a rush of euphoria.  Weeks, months, and in this case years of hard work are finished, and even though there will still be editing and polishing, the framework of the story is complete.  It’s a feeling that I can only compare to the birth of  my children.  Obviously, their births are more profound, but the feeling is similar.

So sometime either this week or after I take the kids back to Jacksonville, I will complete this book, and I will get to experience for the fourth time in my life that sensation of accomplishment.  I have a suspicion that this one will be more special than the others.  I don’t know what the emotions will be specifically, but I’m certain they will be intense and overwhelming.

My hope is that this book is better than the first two.  The overall story has reached its zenith, and I do feel more mature as a writer.  Hopefully, the book is as compelling to my readers as it seems to me, but you can never tell.  Often, when a writer feels really good about a piece, readers don’t have the same connection to it.  That’s why I’m a little leery.  I feel like it’s a strong manuscript, but I’m worried how others will take it.

Stay tuned…

Tuesday Morning Ramblings

I’m almost finished with chapter 13 of book three, which means only one more to go.  Once I’m through with 13, the final one will be much easier to write because it’s not so intense.  Last night, the enormity of finally finishing this book hit me and nearly overwhelmed me.  I was truly a different person when I began writing the first chapter.  My life revolved around being a father and provider.  Today, while being a father is still my focal point, the reality is that I live alone, and the intense roller-coaster ride of these last three years has forever changed the person I am.

In some ways, those changes are for the better.  I now see that a person cannot change no matter how much they hope for it; some wounds are too deep to heal.  I also understand more clearly that love and compatibility are too different things, and love alone is not enough to sustain a relationship.  From the separation from my kids, I have learned just how much inner strength I have.  Unless you have endured that pain, you cannot understand it, and while there have been times that I’ve wanted to lay down and quit, my inner resolve has not allowed me to.  That’s good to know about myself.

Not all of the changes are for the better.  I am a somewhat colder person than before.  My trust is damaged.  I have less patience for people’s bullshit.  I am much more angry and bitter.

When I look back at who I was 32 months ago when I started this book, the distance feels enormous, but here I am writing the climactic scene exactly as I envisioned it.  I can’t believe the fruit didn’t rot on the vine.  When I do finally finish the rough draft of this manuscript, I will celebrate, and then I will go get my kids and play with them for a couple of weeks.  No matter what else, I am a blessed man.

Saturday Morning Ramblings

Slowly but surely, the land is transforming from an overgrown tangle of honeysuckle and thistles to a usable piece of property.  I’m keeping as many trees as I can for the shade and the CO2 factor, but the honeysuckle I will try to get under control over the next couple of years.

I have a lot of plans for the property, and so far, my dad is on board with the things I want to do.  For starters, the building where my parents had their ceramic business will be gutted, cleaned up, and converted into an indoor, hydroponic growing facility for organic vegetables.  The building has sat dormant for probably twelve years because when my mom’s health gave out on her, they had to shut down the ceramic shop, so cleaning it up and getting it usable will take some time.  I would like to try to get far enough along to buy one unit and do a test crop of tomatoes over the winter.  If that goes well, then we’ll expand as we can until the building is to capacity.  We’ve also talked about a few other crops on different parts of the land, but we haven’t decided on those yet.

Another aspect of my plan involves installing solar panels on the roof of the building to produce energy.  Eventually, I would like to make the farm self-sufficient, but that will take time.  For now, I just want to capitalize on the southern facing rooftop that gets about four to five hours of direct sunlight every day.  Thinking long-term, the investment now could really pay dividends down the road as energy costs continue to climb.  One cool thing I learned is that Sharp has a facility here in Tennessee that produces solar panels, so we’ll more than likely go with them.

I’m sure some of you are shocked to learn that I’m starting up a farm because all you’ve known of me is the English teacher and the writer, but I’ve always had a yearning to do this.  Growing things is stamped on my DNA.  My mom could grow rice in the desert, and up until my dad, who grew up in that period when America was transforming from an agricultural to an industrial nation, my family has farmed for generations.  I fully expect to continue teaching and writing for several years, but I need to supplement my income with something that is long-term and sustainable.  I’ve been mulling this over for several years, and I’ve finally decided that it is the most feasible course I can take.

That’s all for now.  Time to get back outside.

www.thirdaxe.com

Late Night Ramblings

I’ve written on here a few times about the turmoils I’ve been through, and I’ve tried to remain open and honest about my feelings.  Life has dealt me a few serious blows, and a couple of times, I’ve thought that I was down for the count.  I’m not ashamed of my status, despite being fairly poor and barely scraping by.  I work hard, my child support is paid in full every month, and my sons have insurance.  And if I have to do without a few creature comforts to continue to be a decent father, that’s fine by me.

I’ve made some terrible choices with women.  I don’t know if I’m just attracted to the wrong ones or if the wrong ones are attracted to me or if I’m just meant to live alone, but I do know for a fact that I need to break the cycle of allowing myself to get involved with women who want to play games behind my back, reward my loyalty with betrayal, and dismiss my love like yesterday’s trash.  I’m too decent of a person to continue to allow myself to be treated in those ways, and even if I have to live alone for the rest of my days, I will not settle for anything less than a positive, healthy relationship if I ever do get involved with someone again.  And I have the internal strength to live alone as a self-sufficient individual.

For the first time in two and a half years, I feel like I’m almost to my feet emotionally.  The women who have betrayed and wounded me the worst will never again control my life.  They had an opportunity to nurture my love and grow old with it for shelter and protection, but instead, they chose to turn on me and betray it.  In the long run, that’s their loss, not mine, and even if I remain alone, I am better off without their negative anchors weighing me down.  And when I lay my head on the pillow at night, my conscience is clear enough that I don’t have much trouble falling asleep.

My books may never be successful, but I do not regret the risks I took to get them on the market.  I would take that chance again every single time.  While I may not have succeeded, it wasn’t from lack of effort.  I have no regrets and will carry my head high even if I never sell another copy because I had the discipline to complete them, the courage to put them out there, and the guts to pursue it will everything I had.  I didn’t stand on the sidelines hoping for something to happen.  I put my ass in the fire and tried to make something come to life.

And I’ll take a hundred million failures over a lifetime of passivity.

www.thirdaxe.com

Sunday Afternoon Ramblings

I’m taking a break from the worst of the heat, eating a bite of lunch and cooling off by my fan.  I’m nearly done with the hardest part of the job, which is clearing a pile of rubble near the old springhouse.  About thirty years ago, my great, great uncle died in a house fire on that spot.  Firefighters extracted his body, and pretty much all that was left of the home were the bricks and stones.  For some reason, my grandfather decided to have all of it pushed into a big pile and then left it there.  I was a kid at the time, so I don’t remember why he did that, but for all these years, that pile has sat there, becoming a mound for sumac and honeysuckle to thrive on.

When I first made the decision to clear the land, one of my first objectives was to clean up around the springhouse.  It’s some of the best land on all of the property and, other than the pile of rubble, was always well-kept and beautiful when I was a kid.  As I cleared away the honeysuckle and sumacs, I decided that the pile needed to go, too, so for the last week or so, I have worked steadily to remove it.  The job has been much more than I ever expected it to be.  Over the years, a lot of thick, fertile soil has built up in the pile, making it difficult to get out the chunks of brick and stone.  Because of all the large chunks of those, it’s hard to dig in it with a shovel.  Also, I’ve been trying to recover some of the bricks that are still in pretty good shape, so I’m being fairly careful as I go through it.

Yes, it would’ve been much simpler to get a Bobcat and just level it, but a big part of why I’m doing this is to lose weight and get healthier, so the exercise has been fantastic.  Also, and this is hard to explain, but there is something about doing it by hand that feels more respectful and dignified for the property.  Preston and Rico may be the only two who get that.  It’s not about speed and efficiency.  It’s about connecting with a place that my great, great grandfather worked by hand.  I may be romanticizing it too much, but that’s how I feel.

Once last thing.  I meant to announce this the other day and got too busy with school.  The Ramblings of D. A. Adams is now over one year old.  Thank you to all of you who read this blog regularly.  It means more to me than you can know.

That’s all for now.

Saturday Afternoon Ramblings

Dad rented an Outback Billie Goat, which for those of you who don’t know is a walk-behind brush cutter, and we’ve been working all day on clearing the land around our old springhouse.  Not too long ago, the land was in pretty good shape, but then Dad started having trouble with his riding mower, and the people who started cutting the grass for him wanted too much to do that section also, so before you knew it, a couple of years had passed and the entire area was overgrown.  I feel partially responsible because I should’ve been helping out more along the way, but I’ve been dealing with my own shit.  Until recently, the yard just didn’t seem all that important.  Now, I understand that I might be in a better place emotionally if I had focused on this work, but that’s a different topic altogether.

To the point, we now have a pretty good mess to clean up.

The Billie Goat is a neat little machine.  It cuts pretty well and is fairly easy to navigate.  The only difficult thing is that even though it’s self-propelled, on slopes, you have to wrestle it quite a bit to keep it moving in a straight line.  If I were in a little better shape, that wouldn’t be a big deal, but as it is, I’m pretty whipped right now.  I’m feeling every single one of my 37 years.  Still, it feels good to help Dad out like this.  He’s gotten to the age where he simply can’t do the things he used to, and it bothers him.  I can see that he’s happy watching the land come back into shape.

One bit of excitement, after I cut a path with the Goat, Dad mows behind me on the rider to cut it to a normal length, and at one point, while I was cutting along the creek bank, he waved me to him and showed me that he had just run over a copperhead, slicing it to ribbons.  I had just finished walking through that same area a little bit earlier with the Goat, so it gave me quite a chill.  For those of you who don’t know, snakes and spiders mess with me.  I had a really bad experience with a wolf spider as a boy, and snakes are just fucking sneaky, creepy bastards.  I’ve been extra careful since I saw its pieces wriggling on the ground.

So that’s been my day.  I lost my membership to the cool kids club years ago, so I’m not worried about what anyone will think of me clearing land, and even though I don’t exactly feel like a literary giant as I wrestle with the Goat, I’m feeling fairly content with who I am and what I’m accomplishing.

www.thirdaxe.com

A Memory of Rex Dockery

I was sixteen the first time I heard the name Rex Dockery.  It was during football practice my junior year of high school, one of those perfect October days I’ve only been able to find in East Tennessee.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the wind carried the scent of impending winter, and the mountains loomed on the horizon like folds of purple velvet.  Buddy Saulsbury, our defensive coach, was flying somewhere for an award or a banquet or something.  The other coaches were teasing him about the flight because he had never flown before.

“That’s why Rex Dockery is no longer with us,” Coach Chrisman had said.  “He died in a plane crash, you know.”

I don’t remember Coach’s reaction, other than that he was a little nervous about the flight, and I’m not sure why Rex Dockery’s name stuck with me that day.  It might have been the crush I had on Kim Dockery, a neighbor who was a few years older than me, but that’s the only logical connection I can come up with.  For whatever reason, I remember Chrisman saying his name on that fall afternoon at football practice in East Tennessee.

Walt Bragg was our offensive coach, and if my memory is correct, he was the first black, high school coach in our county, but I cannot quote that as fact.  I do know that when he became the head coach of the other high school, he was the first black head coach.  Coach Bragg was known for his explosive personality.  If you made a stupid blunder or went through a drill half-assed, he would grab you by the facemask, shake you around, and let everyone within a half-mile know that you messed up.  On the other hand, if you made a big hit or a great play, he would grab you by the facemask, shake you around, and let everyone know that he liked what you did.

When I received my Bachelor’s, I went to his office at the other high school and thanked him for bringing out in me the drive to put myself through college.  He taught me not only to show up and do a job but also to show up with the attitude that whatever came before me was conquerable and that I should take pride in myself and my endeavors. He taught me to do any job with the willingness to invest my soul into it.

The next time I can remember hearing Rex Dockery’s name is when I received the Rex Dockery Memorial Scholarship to Walters State Community College in 1990.  I was seventeen and at the point of having given up on going to college at all.  My parents didn’t have the money to send me, and playing ball in college was no longer an option because of an accident.  That scholarship came at one of the lowest points of my life, and without it, who knows where I would be today.

My mother made me write a letter of thanks to Coach Dockery’s widow.  Other than Mrs. and Dockery, I can’t remember her name, but I wrote the letter, and to a teenage punk it seemed corny and silly and sentimental and all of the things I abhorred.  Now, I wish I had adequate words to thank Rex Dockery and his widow for that scholarship fund that definitely kept me from a life of menial labor and probably saved me from total self-destruction.  The more mature me doesn’t give a damn if it’s corny or not.  The fund that she set aside for that scholarship has had one of the most profound positive impacts on my life, and I wish there were a proper way to thank her.

When I finished at Walters State, I received a transfer scholarship to the then named Memphis State University.  At the time, I had grand visions of being an artist of some sort and foolishly held myself “above” the sentimental, but I still loved the game of football and took the free opportunities to attend Tiger home games as a student.  The transition from a small town in the Appalachian Mountains to a large city in the Mississippi River Delta was difficult, to say the least.  Early on, I was miserable for many tangible reasons: the ugly and flat terrain, the absurd density of people, the brutal heat.  I hated the urban environment and disliked the general education courses.

In short, I was homesick.

Then, at a game one Saturday evening, I noticed something on the program: Rex Dockery Field.  It wasn’t much, but recognizing that name so far from home lifted my spirits just a bit.  Somehow, it made Memphis more familiar, even though I knew nothing more about him than that he had died in a plane crash and that I had received a scholarship with his name on it.  From that point on, Memphis became more of a home to me.

A few years ago, while back home during spring break in graduate school, I went to see Coach Bragg.  I was surprised by how well he had aged: very little gray, no real wrinkles, the same friendly smile.  I have seen other teachers from my high school who show the years.  At that point, Coach Bragg seemed to have hidden them somewhere.

At the time, I was thinking about coaching and asked him for advice.

“The best thing you can do is ask lots of questions the first couple of years,” he told me.  “That’s what I did.  Of course, I was a little different.  I was at Texas Tech, and we ate, drank, and slept football at the college.  We would have a staff meeting for a couple of hours in the morning, then break into specialties for meetings until lunch.  Then, we would meet with the players for an hour or so before going on the field.  Then, of course, we spent two to three hours on the field trying to teach the players everything we had talked about all day.  It was a lot of work, but Rex Dockery was a good coach to work for.”

“Who is Rex Dockery, Coach? You know, I won that scholarship and have been trying to find out for years.”

Coach Bragg turned and pointed to the wall.  There was a clipping of the Morristown East High School football team from 1969, the year they won the state championship, Coach Bragg’s senior year.

“He was our coach when we won the title.  He left a few years later to coach in college.  I can’t remember everywhere he worked, but he gave me my first job at Texas Tech, then he went to Memphis State for a while.  You want to talk about intense? If you think I get mad, you should’ve seen Rex Dockery.  That’s where I get my style.”

Those who have not played football or grew up believing that discipline is a bad word probably think that intensity and yelling and getting worked up over a children’s game is all very silly, but I disagree.  There was a method behind the madness.  Once upon a time, many coaches, especially on the high school level, coached because they wanted to help kids become good people.  We live in a mixed up world, a place where it’s too easy to become lost and involved with bad things.  In my experience, the bad things are usually the easy way out, and we humans are always practicing the Principle of Least Effort Theory.  Before the win-at-all-costs mentality took over, coaches were mentors who taught that going through life half-assed produces half-assed results.  Success comes from giving effort.

I wanted to learn more about this man, to put an image and more of a background with the name that had followed me for half my life.  I started at the University of Memphis library, fully expecting to find at least a few magazine articles on him, but my search produced nothing.  Then, I went to the Internet.  At first, I couldn’t find anything other than his name on the Liberty Bowl playing field.  I searched the University of Memphis site, expecting to find something in an archive, at the very least a little tribute.  Again, I found nothing.  I went to the Texas Tech web page, but it contained nothing, as well.

Finally, after an hour or so of trying various searches on various search engines, I found an old Texas Tech page that was still on a server but not connected to the new page.  It contained a list of all of the people who had been head coach at the school, and his name was there: Rex Dockery, Assistant Coach 1975-1977, Head Coach 1978-1980.  While at Texas Tech he compiled a 15-16-2 win-loss record, a paltry .484 winning percentage.  From all the positive things Coach Bragg had said about Rex Dockery, I was disappointed to see such mediocrity.  I had expected to find a hero, someone who had led his team to success.

Not too long after I visited him, Coach Bragg was asked to resign from his head coaching position.  His first few years had been successful, the last two average at best.  Rumors have circulated that he had sacrificed the team’s integrity in order to promote his son’s talent, but I have a hard time swallowing that.  As long as I have known him, over half my life, he has held winning to same degree of importance as breathing.  But you never know.  Parents do strange things for their kids.

Personally, I’ve had my share of losing, too.  I was unable to find a way into coaching.  Ten years away from the game was too much in a market that produces an abundance of prospects far more knowledgeable and well-known than I am.  From fiction rejection letters to the inability to find a career that both paid well and satisfied me, I’ve spent several years of my life feeling as if all of my hard work in college has been for nothing.  Success, it seems, is not meant for me.

Determined to learn more about my coach’s coach and my benefactor, I kept digging and began to find more information.  In 1980, Dockery was hired by Memphis State.   He inherited a program that had gone 2-9 the previous year, and somehow he managed to do even worse, putting up back-to-back 1-10 seasons that included a seventeen game losing streak.  During this pathetic period, attendance at the Liberty Bowl dropped to an all-time low, averaging 17,000 fans a game.  But according to every news article and editorial and interview I read about him, Dockery remained positive throughout the struggles.  He was said to be an excellent recruiter and talent scout, finding gems among local athletes.  And he had a mantra to keep everyone focused on the positive: “We’re just going to keep working hard; we will get it done.”

His third season saw the fruit of his philosophy and an amazing turn around.  The Tigers began 1983 with a 37-17 victory over archrival Ole Miss, and after the game, fans pulled down the goal posts.  That season, Dockery went 6-4-1, and enthusiasm for the program began to grow.  For the most part, fans and the local media began to embrace this man and the team.  Everything was turning around.

In 1999, I was hired by Tusculum College as a business communications instructor.  I taught in an accelerated program designed for working adults.  Tusculum is the oldest college in Tennessee, established in 1794.  My students in that program were some of the most dedicated and motivated people I have known.  Many of them had been out of school in excess of fifteen years, and almost every one stated setting an example for their children as a major factor for being in school.  I considered myself fortunate to be associated with them and the program.  They taught me that being a winner does not mean always winning.  Sometimes, the darkest days lead our greatest moments, and success comes from a resolve to never give up on the goal.

We’re just going to keep working hard; we will get it done.

Shortly after the 83 season, Rex Dockery, assistant coach Chris Farros, defensive back Charles Greenhill, and booster Glenn Jones were killed when their small plane crashed.  The football program has yet to truly recover and has been mired in hapless season after hapless season.  The University of Memphis still misses him.  Coach Bragg told me that he misses his old coach terribly.  Despite the fact that I never knew him, I find myself missing him, too.  His life has touched mine enormously, albeit only indirectly, and I am a better person because of this football coach who led my hometown’s team to the state championship, who gave my coach his first job, who almost turned around the Memphis program, and who gave me a foothold on an education.

The Tennessee Sports Hall of Fame inducted Dockery posthumously in 1989.  Much of his life had been spent in Tennessee.  First, he played football for the University of Tennessee, moved on to his coaching success at Morristown East High School, and ended his career on a positive note at Memphis.  Who knows how far he could’ve gone if he had survived?

In my research, I came across The Memphis Flyer website and found a page that contained his name.  In the 500th issue, the Flyer ran an article that listed the 500 best things about Memphis.  I scrolled through the article, chuckling at some of the entries and remembering my first experiences with some of Memphis’s best attractions.  Then, almost at the bottom, I saw the result of my search: #434 – Memories of Rex Dockery.  And sitting here today, I must concur.  Without Rex Dockery, I have no education.  Without Rex Dockery, I have no memories of Memphis.