I wrote the words for HOW CAN I TELL THEM in January 1980, soon after I arrived in Eugene, OR after separating from the Navy . Like YOU'RE ALWAYS THERE, it proved to be another very prophetic poem in my search for truth.

After almost 5 decades, modern computer technology (Suno) allowed me to set it to music.

I hope you will enjoy the listen.

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Goodbye Buddy. We will miss you so much, Buddy — 😢

Every now and then, a dog comes along who is more than just a dog. Beau was one of those.

We found him at the SPCA in Sumter — a four-month-old pup doing time in the pound for no good reason. I called him Boseph, after Joseph of the Old Testament, because like that young man, he went from prison to prominence. He came home to Cedar Grove, our place set back in the woods past a long cedar-lined drive, and he took to it like he’d always owned it.

And how did he come by that grand name? On the way to the SPCA to pick him out, my wife and daughters got pulled over for a busted tail light. The officer’s name was DeBruskie. Our daughter Sarah — whose dog Beau really was, in those early years — decided that name was too good to waste. So Beauregard Calhoun DeBruskie Hutson it was.

Fifteen years later, I think Officer DeBruskie would be honored.

Five acres bordered by millpond streams, a swamp, and deep woods. His domain. Every morning, first thing, he walked the entire perimeter — nose up, steady gait, checking every tree line. He had a job, and he took it seriously.

Beau was a gentleman in every sense. Fastidious. Proper. He was not the kind of dog who came home reeking of whatever Elli and Osage had found in the swamp. That was beneath him.

When my wife’s piano students pulled into the circular drive, his herding instincts kicked in and he’d work each car like he was guiding a flock — because someone had to keep things orderly around here.

He loved his long walks with G’Mama, Elli, and Osage. He loved the Beaver Pond walks after we moved to Highland House. And when his legs finally said enough, we’d walk him around the perimeter of the house, just the two of us, and Willow of course. He still held his head up. He still had a job to do.

He was part of the famous 9 o’clock ritual — all the dogs filing out in the same order every single night, doing their rollovers, collecting their treats. Never missed a night. Never missed his spot in the lineup.

Near the end, there was the adventure of wandering into the neighbor’s horse pen — the horse was not amused — and Willow had to run interference so the old man could make his escape. That story is told in Willow Tales, and it’s one for the books.

In his prime, Beauregard Calhoun DeBruskie Hutson was about the most handsome dog who ever drew breath. Fifteen years is a good long life, and he lived every one of them with dignity. The last weeks were hard. He slept more. He hurt. He drifted. We made the decision that love sometimes demands — that his comfort mattered more than our grief.

I like to think Osage, Mitsy, and Elli were right there waiting when he crossed his Rainbow Bridge. Knowing Beau, he probably walked the perimeter first.

Rest easy, Boseph. You did good, Buddy.

And yes — the “Big Beau” song is coming. It isn’t finished yet, but it will be soon. Some tributes take a little longer to get right. I”m sure that Willow is going to want to do her own story as well, so stayed tuned for another Willow Tale adventure.

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Today, June 1, 2026, Harry (Dad) would have been 101 years old.

To mark the occasion, I’m republishing what has become one of the most popular and beloved stories I’ve written to date — the classic Harry’s Tool Shed.

If you’ve read it before, I hope it brings a smile again.

If you’re reading it for the first time, you’re in for a treat. I hope you will find it as much fun reading it as I did writing it. - Cork

Yes, Harry’s Tool Shed Is Real - This Conversation? Well, You Be The Judge ...

The day started about as perfect as I could have asked for. Clear skies. Cool breeze. The smell of salt marsh. Just a beautiful morning.

One of my favorite things to do when my wife and I stay at our family place on Edisto Island, SC is to get up at dawn and go sit out on the dock with a steaming cup of my favorite brew, a couple of slices of sourdough toast generously slathered with butter and fruit jam, and my camera.

Russell Creek is a wide tidal river surrounded by an even wider expanse of salt marsh which offers an unobstructed view of the Eastern sunrise.

At that time of day, the temperature is still relatively cool and the gnats are not up yet. A very peaceful setting, indeed. I’ve gotten some spectacular sunrise shots over the years from this spot.

I have been coming here ever since I can remember. I have often reflected on how fortunate we are to have this place, passed down from generation to generation.

After getting a few good photos of the sunrise, it was time to get on with the day now.

Little did I know ...

As always, my wife had a few “projects” lined up. It’s incredible how these projects never seem to take a vacation at the same time we do.

Anyway, she asked me to go out to the tool shed to get what she needed.

Harry’s Tool Shed has become an icon over the years. It has been the central headquarters for any project on the Brick House property (A collection of various family cottages built by my grandmother’s generation).

If you needed a tool, you went to Harry’s Tool Shed.

If you had questions about something, you could usually find Harry, aka Dad, around.

As the name implies, Harry’s Tool Shed was named for my Dad, who became the de facto “go-to guy” on the property. Any time someone needed something done, they called Harry.

When I walked into the tool shed that morning, the first thing I noticed was that nothing was where it should have been. I couldn’t find what my wife needed for “our” project.

“You know, Mistuh Harry would know exactly where to find those tools. One of his pet peeves was tools not being put back and having to track them down.”

Startled, I looked around. I didn’t see anyone.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello.” the voice called back.

“Alright, you can come out now”, I said.

“I am out”, it said. “You’re the one who’s actually standing inside”, said the voice with a little chuckle.

Confused, I continued to look around and try to process whose voice I might be hearing. It was not one I could recollect.

“Is this really happening?” I asked myself.

“Don’t be scared,” the voice said. “I know it is unusual to have a conversation with a tool shed. Mostly I just stay in the background and provide what’s needed for various projects.”

A tool shed? I was talking with a tool shed? Harry’s Tool Shed?

Maybe I hadn’t really gotten up this morning and was still dreaming. But, I knew that wasn’t true.

“Today I decided to break my silence”, he continued, “because Mistuh Harry’s a great man. We worked together for many years and with this being his 100th birthday anniversary, I wanted to do something special for him. I figured you would be the one to talk to since you’re the writer in the family.”

How did he know that I wondered.

My mind briefly wandered to the old TV series, Mr. Ed, the Talking Horse. But this took things to a whole new level.

And it wasn’t just a TV show. This was real.

“Over the years, I have overheard many conversations”, H.T. said. So, I just tuck things away, just in case. You know, like today.”

“OK, I’m game. What did you want to talk about?”, not knowing what else to say.

And he was right. Today was Dad’s birthday. Maybe this would be a good way to get a few ideas to write about from someone who has spent so much time with him.

Shaking my head, I thought, “Was I going crazy? Here I was having a normal conversation with a tool shed.”

Also, I was fascinated by his deep Carolina Lowcountry accent, being a tool shed and all.

“Well Suh, in the beginning when I was a very young tool shed, my Granddaddy, Boppa’s Tool Shed, was still with us. I called him Big T.

“My Daddy, on the other hand, was just a cabin. He was built more for a life of leisure. He was not into tools or hard work. Big T. said he was kinda’ lazy, but he was fun to be around. And I loved him, too.

“So, most of the tool shed skills I learned came from Big T. Up until the time he passed, when I was around eight, we did everything together. I miss him so much, even after all these years.

“He was a stately old Southern shed with a coat of weathered green paint, large barn doors on the front, a small balcony inside across the back, and a lean-to shed roof on each side for boat storage. Yessuh, I come from good stock.

“With him gone, I became the head tool shed. Well, actually the only tool shed.

“First thing Mistuh Harry did was build a workbench along one of my walls with some pegboard and bins to relocate all the tools from Boppa’s Toolshed. Then he built the large boat shed off my back wall and the shed roof on my left side to park Mrs. Alice’s golf cart.

“For a while, I didn’t have a name, but when I assumed most of the responsibility for the work that needed to be done, I fulfilled my dream of becoming a real tool shed. With a real name. It’s right there above the door.

“It’s an honor I’ll never forget, as long as I’m still standing upright.

“Ever since then, up until the time Mistuh Harry passed (I could almost visualize him bowing his head in respect when he said that), we had a special relationship.

As Mistuh Harry would say, we fit together like ‘socks on a rooster’. I never could quite figure that one out, but the way he said it was funny.”

“That was one of Dad’s favorite sayings,” I said. “It was around the time when Dad began the first renovation of the house, right?”

“Yessuh. Mistuh Harry was always workin’ on something. I don’t want to call him cheap”, he said with a slight grin, “but he was always trying to ‘save a nickel’ when getting the materials for whatever project he was working on.”

I laughed. That was Dad, alright. A penny-pincher to the core.

“Like the times he would get y’all to bring some of y’all’s friends down for the week to help. He would tell ‘em that if they would put in a good mawnin’s work, they could go have fun in the creek the rest of the day.”

“Of, course, he would always try to get more out of those boys, but around lunchtime, one by one, they would leave whatever it was they were doing and go jump in the creek.

“Mistuh Harry would get so upset that they didn’t finish what they were working on before they left. It was kinda funny to watch.”

“One of his famous tactics”, I chimed in, “was to say, “While you’re resting, I need you to do something for me.”

That trick had become old hat to most of us, but it was fun to watch him catch someone off-guard the first time they heard it.”

“And Mrs. Alice’s cookin’ usually sealed the deal,” H.T. said.

Yeah, he knew. Mom’s cooking was almost as famous as Harry’s Tool Shed.

“During our teen years, many of our friends were initiated into Dad’s work/play deal,” I said. “It’s funny that, even though the guys knew what they were in for, they came back again and again. They loved being around Dad and Mom.

“Secretly, they all liked working with Dad, even though they complained about how he did things.”

H.T. said, “Yeah, I’ll never forget hearing Mistuh Harry early in the mawnin’ trying to get the boys up so he could get at least a good half day of work out of them before lunch.

“I can still hear him, ‘Come on, get up ya’ lazy bums’.”

“Oh yeah, that was Dad, alright. So, what are some of the other things you remember about Dad”, I asked.

I was talking with him now as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Was I going crazy?

H.T. thought for a minute.

“Well, Mistuh Harry was a generous man. I know I said before that he was always trying to ‘save a nickel’, but on the other hand, he would give you his ‘last nickel’ if you needed help.

“It was kinda’ funny hearing some of your brother’s friends joke that Mistuh Harry was known as the Harry National Bank.”

“That is funny. But, it was true. He would help any one of us out without hesitation”, I said.

“What was working with Dad like? How did he treat others? Did you ever see him get upset or mad?”

“Well, after years of working with Mistuh Harry, I picked up on a few things. He was always genuinely glad to see people. Friendly with just about everybody. And he always spoke first when greeting someone.

The only time I ever saw him mad, was when he couldn’t find a tool or something he needed.

“He would, as they say down heyuh’ in the Lowcountry, ‘cuss ‘em a very big cuss’. Nothing vulgar, mind you, but just expressing his frustration with people not bringing his tools back.

“Then he would go off to find what he was looking for and the person who was responsible. They would get one of Mistuh Harry’s famous lectures about being responsible. Then it was over. I never knew him to ban anyone from using his tools.”

“Yes, I’ve been on the receiving end of a few of those lectures”, I said, laughing.

“Is there anything else you can remember?”, I asked. “I know I’ve taken up a lot of your time (I mean, he was a tool shed, what else did he have to do?) and my wife is probably wondering where I am.”

“Well, I know Mistuh Harry made an impact on a lot of people. I heard over and over through the years what a special man he was.

“And there is one last thing”, he said with a chuckle in his voice. “He couldn’t stand when someone misspelled his last name. Whenever he had to give it to someone, he always spelled it out.”

“Yeah, I know”, I interrupted. “He drilled that into each of us when we were growing up. ‘Always spell it out’”, he would say. “‘H-U-T-S-O-N. That’s with a T, not a D’”.

We both laughed.

I told him how much I appreciated him talking with me.

“My pleasure”, he said. “I’ve never had a story written about me before, so I hope it’s a good one.”

We said our goodbyes and I walked back to the house. I had two thoughts, more like questions, in my mind:

First, “Did I really just have an actual conversation with a tool shed?”

Then, “What was I going to say to my wife?”

Then, as I was about to go in, I heard a voice behind me, “Hey, you forgot something”.

I looked back. The tools I had gone to get were sitting in the doorway of Harry’s Toolshed.

How did he know what I wanted, I wondered.

Love you, Dad. You will always be close to our hearts.

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Today marks what would have been Dad’s 101st Birthday. For the past few years, I have been reposting my Harry’s Tool Shed Story, which has proven to be one of the most popular ones to date.

This year, I want to post a tribute I wrote about Dad that was printed on his funeral bulletin, giving a little glimpse into the man who was instrumental in shaping my life. I’m sure there were times during my rebellious teenage and drunken sailor years, where he thought he had failed, but it was Dad’s patience and quiet expectation that things would eventually turn out right that were like a long moral tether keeping me from going too far astray.

Good Man Gone A Tribute to Harry C. Hutson, Jr. June 1, 1925–July 10, 2015

Amid the immediate sorrow and heartache, a flood of flashbacks and thoughts about Daddy began filling the hole in the middle of my heart — a hole that will never totally go away. Even though we knew what was coming, it is never easy to hear the words, “Daddy’s gone.”

I am not sure why, but those of Dad’s generation rarely said “I love you” to their sons. I only remember a couple of times, and even then it was in response to my telling him I loved him, which also wasn’t very often.

But, his actions left no doubt.

Any of you who knew Dad knew that he was the quintessential “Southern Gentleman”. Always gracious. Always polite. He never knew a stranger. Whenever he passed someone, he spoke first, no matter who it was. He taught us to do the same.

Dad was the “go-to man”. Always willing to help anyone who asked. Generous to a fault, he would give you his “last nickel”, as he liked to say.

Everyone loved Dad because he loved everyone.

For years after we had left the nest and begun our own families, Dad always wanted to know if we needed help. There were several times when, if it weren’t for his generosity, things might have turned out differently.

Dad was thankful for his heritage, but not “proud”. I never once saw him treat others as if he was better than them. He taught us to work hard and be thankful for what we had. He always stressed that we are solely responsible for the honor of our name.

Speaking of our name, one of Dad’s funny pet peeves was when someone misspelled it. Dad had drilled into us from an early age that whenever we had to tell others our last name, we were to spell it out: H-U-T-S-O-N — That’s with a T not a D! We have passed that “rule” down to our own children.

Throughout his life, Dad made an impact on many. People who knew him always say what a special man he was. I want to end this tribute with a poem that reminds me of his life — and is a challenge to us all —

There was a lot packed into Dad’s “Dash” and I am proud to have his namesake, Harry C. Hutson, III and be called his son.

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AUTHORS NOTE: The Willow Tale stories are works of creative fiction VERY loosely based on real events. Any liberties taken are strictly for entertainment value and should not be construed as depicting overall characteristics of the Carolina Dog in general.

Willow Tales Story Collection

Sometimes Staying Still is the Smartest Move of All

Man, I’m telling you — Possums are weird. But I found out from Beau that, just like everything else, our Creator made them that way for a reason.

A few weeks ago, when Pops let me out for my early morning yard time, it was just past dawn when the world hasn’t quite made up its mind yet. The yard was full of that cool, damp smell that makes a Carolina Dog feel like anything is possible.

That’s when I saw it.

Something moving near the fence line. Low. Slow. Grayish.

I didn’t hesitate. Moving in fast, I grabbed him by the back of his neck and shook violently. He went limp almost immediately.

I dropped him and stood over him, nose working overtime. He was completely still. He smelled strange.

I nudged him once. Nothing. Was this what being dead smelled like? I didn’t know, but I decided to leave him alone.

Pops came out and looked him over. Shaking his head, he carried him out to the field behind the fence.

I was sure that was the end of it.

When Pops went out to check a little later, it was gone.

I couldn’t even pick up a scent worth following.

Later that day, I found Beau out on the porch, doing what he does best — sleeping in a patch of sun with one eye half open, pretending to be awake.

“Beau,” I said, “you are not going to believe what happened to me this morning.”

He opened one eye all the way.

“Later. I’m sleeping,” he said.

“I caught a possum.”

The other eye opened.

“Good for you,” he said, and closed them both again.

“Beau, listen. He just lay there, not moving. I was sure he was dead. But when Pops went to check, he was gone. It was weird.”

Beau was quiet for a moment.

“What do you mean gone?”

“Gone. Vanished. Pops carried him out to the field and when he went back out to check, there was nothing there.”

Beau lifted his head slightly and squinted at me the way he does when he’s trying to decide if something is worth the effort of thinking about.

“Possums do that,” he said finally.

“Do what?”

“Play dead.”

I stared at him.

“They just… decide to be dead?”

“They don’t decide anything,” Beau said, setting his head back down. “It just happens to them. Their body does it on its own. Fools everybody.” He paused. “Fooled you, didn’t it?”

“I wasn’t fooled,” I said. “I just reconsidered.”

Beau made a sound that might have been a chuckle. It was hard to tell.

“Oh, right,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Go bother somebody else, Willow.”

I thought that was the end of the possum business.

But it wasn’t.

About two weeks later, Pops let us both out for the last time before bed. It was after nine o’clock. Dark. And raining hard — the kind of spring rain that turns everything shiny and makes every smell twice as strong.

Beau walked down the ramp to the sidewalk going out to the back yard, looked up at the rain, and grumbled something I won’t repeat here.

That’s when I caught the scent again.

Back near the blueberry bushes.

I moved in for a closer look.

Another possum. Bigger than the first one. Rounder. I raced over and grabbed him before he could get away. Actually, possums are slow moving, so he was easy to catch. But before I could even really get a good grip on him, he just fell over and went limp. I carried him over to another part of the yard and dropped him.

He was curled on his side in the wet grass like he was already dead. Lips pulled back. Eyes gone glassy. Tongue out in the rain like he had just given up.

Beau wandered over, looked down at him, and barked once.

Then he looked at me.

“Possum,” he said.

“I know it’s a possum, Beau.”

“Playing dead.”

“I can see that.”

“Like I told you,” he said, and turned around and walked back up the ramp to the deck.

Pops and G’Mama came out with a flashlight. There was some discussion. Eventually they got us both inside.

Later, Pops went out to where I had dropped him and found nothing but wet grass. He was gone.

I have been thinking about this ever since.

Like Beau said, that possum didn’t choose to fool me. He didn’t have a plan. His body just knew that when everything goes wrong, go still. Let the danger pass. Live to see another morning.

Not a bad idea, when you think about it.

Beau seemed to already know all of this, of course. But then again, Beau is old enough to have figured out most things. He just doesn’t always feel like sharing.

“Beau,” I said the next afternoon, “did you ever get fooled by a possum?”

He was back in his sunny spot on the deck.

One eye opened.

“Once,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Same thing that happened to you.”

He closed the eye again.

“Go away, Willow.”

I grinned and trotted back out into the yard.

Sometimes what you catch turns around and teaches you something. Like the fact that the Creator has a purpose for how He made every living thing. And maybe the creature who knows when to be still is smarter than the one doing all the chasing.

Such is the life of a Carolina Dog.

Well, until next time —

Face Licks to All,

🐕 Willow

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The purpose of Memorial Day became crystal clear on my very first day at Balad Air Base, Iraq, where we gathered to honor a brother who had given everything on a mission just the day before.

This was nothing like the Memorial Day most Americans experience — a moment of silence, perhaps a three-volley salute, a short speech from a local VFW commander, the laying of wreaths on the graves of the fallen. Those things matter. But the raw, visceral reality on that tarmac at Balad changed my perspective in a way no ceremony at a VA cemetery ever could.

I had rejoined the Navy Reserve not long after Operation Iraqi Freedom kicked off in 2003. After eleven good years of service, I’d been separated from the military for thirteen. Then I discovered I was still eligible to rejoin and could complete the remaining nine years needed for retirement.

I hadn’t even been thinking about our involvement in Iraq or Afghanistan. My motivation at the time was entirely self-focused. Retirement age was closing in, and I wanted all the pieces in place.

My original active duty Navy Enlisted Classification was Signal Intelligence operator and analyst. Upon rejoining the reserves, I received the same designation, though after so many years the nature of the work had changed drastically.

In January 2007, I was sent to Goodfellow Air Force Base in San Angelo, Texas to get current on all the changes. Upon graduation, I was surprised to receive mobilization orders for an all-expense-paid trip to Iraq. After two months of deployment training and three months of job-specific preparation, I boarded a C-17 transport at Pope Air Force Base, North Carolina.

We arrived at Balad in the middle of the night. After grabbing my sea bag, the driver headed directly to the work facility. No stopping by the assigned sleeping quarters. No orientation. Just straight to work — check my weapon at the desk, get my access badge, and get thrown into the fire of Special Operations intel support.

The Navy Chief I’d be working for met me at the entrance.

“Hutson!” he said with a wry smile. “About time you got here. We’ll get you settled after this shift. You’re lucky — it’s half over.”

Our shifts ran twelve hours. More often than not, they stretched to fourteen or sixteen. Most of us worked nights. Since there wasn’t much else to do except eat and sleep, I’d typically go in around four in the afternoon and leave around seven in the morning.

After that first night, we were getting ready to head to our sleeping quarters when word came: a dawn memorial service for one of the special operators we supported. He’d been killed on a mission the day before.

So instead of stopping by the chow hall for some breakfast before crashing, we formed up on the tarmac.

It was a somber ceremony — a bugler, a lowered flag, a commanding officer offering a short eulogy of heroic deeds and achievements. A sobering introduction to what the next six months would hold, and a stark reminder of what combat soldiers willingly put on the line.

Even though I was there in a support role, the nature of my work kept everything up-close. It’s one thing to read casualty reports or hear the nightly news tick off statistics. It was quite another to witness the actions and events that created them.

Being around these men — listening to their banter, their concerns, their confident and optimistic attitudes before a mission — gave me a perspective I hadn’t expected. There was surely some tension depending on what lay ahead, but none of them showed it. This was what they’d trained for. This was their job. They were good at it.

And yet, here we were on the tarmac. Listening to the bugle. Watching the flag come down. Hearing the eulogy. Seeing battle-hardened men fight back tears — and lose.

The weight of that morning stayed with me for the duration.

Just days later, it became even more personal. During a phone call home, my wife told me that a young man we knew from our town — one who had enlisted in the Marines straight out of high school — had been killed by an IED somewhere in Iraq. Suddenly the war had two faces: the stranger on the tarmac at Balad, and a kid I’d watched grow up.

That solemn tribute at Balad reminded me that Memorial Day is not for those who gave everything. They are beyond our ceremonies. It is for us — for those of us left behind who need to be reminded what was purchased on our behalf, and at what price.

We live in a country where tyranny has not found its way to our shores in large part because men and women like that operator and that kid from our small town chose, with full knowledge of the stakes, to stand between us and it. They didn’t die for a holiday weekend. They didn’t die for a sale at the furniture store or an extra day at the lake.

Don’t squander what they bought. Live like it cost something. Because it did.

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When I originally wrote these verses, they were just a recollection of the restless life I had lived up to that point. I had no idea how Providentially prophetic they would turn out to be.

Memories of Mayberry is a collection of short stories about small town life during the 1950-60s in the South Carolina Lowcountry.

This memory was prompted by two of my favorite writers, and , both of whom recently shared stories from their own late-fifties and early-sixties childhoods. Their reflections stirred this recollection of how different things were back then.

What follows was easily one of the craziest—and most dangerous—things we ever did as boys. Looking back now, it also ranks pretty high on the list of the absolute stupidest.

“Cork, come on,” one of the boys called from my front yard. “Poyos and I figured out what we’re gonna do with that big cable spool. This is gonna be a lot of fun.”

Honeysuckle Lane was a short street — just one unpaved block with six houses. Families tended to be larger back then, and sandwiched in between Forest Hills Drive and Lands End Road, there were as many as fifteen kids at any given time.

On the Lands End Road end of the street was a vacant lot that bordered our property and formed one corner of the intersection. There were mostly boys, so that lot, blanketed with tall pines and weeds, was a perfect staging area for neighborhood activities. We dug foxholes and built forts to play army. We played marbles or ball, but most of the time it served as a safe spot to plan our next adventure or just shoot the breeze.

On the other side of that intersection, Lands End Road began a long shallow slope that flattened out before dead-ending at Ireland Creek Drive. The left side, once it leveled off, gave way to overgrown land and a swampy stretch with old cypress trees and stumps. The community pool sat along the right side, between Lands End and Forest Hills Drive.

During the summer between my fifth and sixth grade years, the power company began replacing all the power lines in the Forest Hills subdivision. They had left a large empty cable spool in the corner lot, intending to pick it up later.

At that time, Dad was the area substation manager for the power company. One of the boys on the block came up to me and said, “Corky, ask your dad if we can keep the spool to play on.”

We had no idea what we would do with it, but it sounded like a good idea. Dad didn’t know what we had in mind either, but surprisingly he agreed, saying they would have gotten rid of it anyway.

When we gathered around the spool, Buddy — the oldest among us — explained what he and Poyos had been cooking up.

“The inside of this thing is all hollow. We can cut a door in one of the ends and fix up the inside to be sort of a hideout.” He paused and grinned. “But that’s not all.”

“Tell him the rest, Buddy,” another boy said.

“We’ve got an old mattress in our shed out back. We put that inside for padding, a couple of us climb in at the top of the hill, and then y’all push.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That would be the craziest thing we had ever done. But why not? We never even considered how dangerous it could be if things didn’t go as planned.

“Cork, I know your dad has tools in the shed. We’ll need a small saw to widen the hole in the end, then a bigger one to make the door wide enough to climb through and get the mattress in.”

I gathered two saws, a measuring stick, a marking pencil, and a hammer with some nails for good measure. The wooden boards forming the ends were thick, so it took considerable effort and a lot of taking turns before the opening was finally wide enough to climb through easily.

When Buddy brought the mattress over, we curled the sides into a U-shape just tight enough to slip it through the door.

“Who’s going first?” I asked.

“Not me,” my brother Tommy said. “This was Buddy’s idea, so he ought to be first.”

We all agreed, and it was settled.

Buddy climbed in to figure out the best position and decided to lie straight across from end to end. We rolled the spool out to the intersection at the top of the hill and lined it up for the journey down.

Most of us were nine or ten years old. Buddy and Tommy were a couple of years older. None of us had any notion of the laws of physics or motion, so we had no idea how fast it would travel, whether it would stay on the road, or where it would finally stop. The spool was also heavy — even with all of us working together, we weren’t sure we could roll it back up the hill for the next rider.

Once we had it positioned, Buddy climbed in and settled onto the mattress. When he hollered that he was ready, we shoved. The spool teetered for a moment, then began its descent — slow at first, then picking up speed, bumping up and down with each dip or rock in the road. About halfway down, it began drifting left. One end dropped into the ditch, and the momentum swung the whole thing sideways until it came to an abrupt stop, sitting parallel to the road. We ran down the hill hollering Buddy’s name. Before we even reached him, he was climbing out with a wide grin, whooping and shouting, “Whoooee!”

“I’m next,” Poyos said. Tommy, still skeptical, was more than happy to let him go ahead.

It took all of us working together to wrestle the spool back onto the road and slowly muscle it up to the top. After a short rest, we repositioned the mattress so it curved snug against the inside of the drum. Poyos climbed in and settled into more of a sitting position, which meant that when the spool rolled, he would go head over heels the whole way down.

“I’m ready!” he yelled.

We shoved, and the spool was off on its second run. This time it carried farther down the hill before drifting right, coming to rest in the brush just short of the gravel parking area for the pool. Poyos jumped out before we even caught up, grinning from ear to ear.

We all shouted, and after that, everybody wanted a turn. Two more boys ended up in the ditch but climbed out unhurt. My own ride followed a course much like Poyos’ and carried a little further. Not one of us came away with so much as a scratch.

It was all going beautifully — until Mom appeared in the yard to call us for lunch. When she saw what we were doing, that was the end of it. Our fun had run its course for the day. After she told Dad, he had one of his crews come pick up the spool the very next morning.

He acted mad. But I could tell he admired our ingenuity all the same.

Such was life, back in the day.

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Willow Tales Story Collection

Most of you know Willow from her adventures in the Willow Tales series. But before the walks, the mischief, and the muddy paws at Highland House, there was a swamp bog near Latta, a small town in the Peedee Region of South Carolina, where a malnourished mother, and four three-day-old puppies almost didn't make it.

This is the fuller story of how Willow came to be ours — and a look at the remarkable ancient lineage she carries with her every day.

Long before she became a beloved companion at Highland House, our home in rural Upstate South Carolina, a small, buff and ginger-coated puppy named Willow began life in conditions that echo an older, wilder story, one rooted deep in the natural history of the American Southeast.

Willow was born beneath an uprooted tree, in a den formed into a muddy swamp bog near Latta, South Carolina. The setting was humid, insect-laden, and unforgiving, but not unusual for her kind. For generations, free-ranging Carolina Dogs have sought out such sheltered, hidden spaces to give birth and raise their young, relying on instinct honed over centuries.

At just three days old, in an almost providential turn of events, Willow and her littermates were discovered alongside their mother, who was malnourished but fiercely protective. The mother dog’s willingness to approach humans, despite a lineage shaped by caution and independence, likely saved the lives of her pups.

One of the rescuers recalled it simply:

“She was starving, but she chose to trust. That decision changed everything for those puppies.”

Among the litter, one of Willow’s sisters (later named Okee, short for Cherokee) was in particularly dire condition, suffering from severe infected sores near the base of her tail. For a time, her survival was uncertain. With treatment and attentive care, she recovered and has since been adopted into a home of her own.

Willow joined our family at approximately eight weeks of age. From the beginning, she displayed traits closely associated with the Carolina Dog, a free-ranging landrace breed of the Southeast U.S. sometimes called the “American Dingo.” Only formally recognized in recent decades, the breed is believed to descend from ancient dog populations that crossed into North America alongside early human migrations thousands of years ago. In the late 20th century, biologist I. Lehr Brisbin Jr. brought wider attention to these dogs through field research in South Carolina, documenting their distinctive traits in remote, free-ranging populations.

Today, Willow reflects that heritage in unmistakable ways. Her ears are upright and highly mobile, serving as sensitive instruments for detecting distant sounds. Her eyes are almond-shaped, alert, and expressive. Her body is lean and athletic, built for endurance, and her tail carries a subtle curve (sometimes described as a “fishhook”) often noted in the breed. Behaviorally, she is cautious with strangers but forms deep, loyal bonds within her household. Her instincts for exploration, observation, and environmental awareness remain evident in daily life.

Experts often point to three key indicators when identifying Carolina Dogs: phenotype, behavior, and ecological origin. In Willow’s case, all three converge. Her birthplace in a natural swamp den, her free-ranging origins, and her characteristic traits together present a compelling portrait of a dog whose roots run deep in this landscape.

Yet beyond lineage or classification, Willow’s story is one of survival and connection. Her mother and one sibling remain with the rescuers who first intervened. Her other two siblings, including Cherokee, have found homes of their own. And Willow, now fully woven into the fabric of our family, continues to embody a living link to a much older story, one that stretches back thousands of years, yet still unfolds in the present day.

For those who follow her story, she is more than a pet. She is a reminder that even in the most unlikely places, life endures, and sometimes finds its way home.

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Willow Tales Story Collection

“OK,” Elli said, stretching out and getting herself comfortable, “if I’m going to tell this story, you might want to get yourself settled in, Willow. This is a good one.

Willow’s ears perked straight up.

“I’m ready!”

“Oh, I can see that,” Elli chuckled. “But you might not be so eager by the end of the story.”

Elli took a deep breath, letting her mind drift back.

“This all happened after we moved to Highland House,” she began. “Up here in the open fields, near the Beaver Pond, it’s different from the woods and swamp where we used to live at Cedar Grove — more space… and a whole lot more trouble just waiting to be found.”

Willow grinned.

“Sometimes, I wish I could have been there at Cedar Grove too. It sounds wonderful, but I do love it here,” she said.

“Having a fenced yard made it a little trickier”, Elli said, “but I figured out a fix for that.

“What kind of fix”, Willow asked?

“How to get out, of course.”

Willow’s eyes widened.

“That fence?” Elli said with a little pride. “It wasn’t as solid as Pops thought it was. All it took was a little digging… some determination… and a willingness to get dirty. All things I’m good at.”

“You made a tunnel?” Willow asked.

“I prefer to call it an exit strategy,” Elli chuckled. I sly grin on her grizzled face.

Willow laughed.

“What about Osage?” she asked.

“Oh, she didn’t ask questions. She just followed along. That’s how we rolled. I would find the trouble… and she would make sure we survived it. We were a good team.”

Willow was quiet for a minute as she thought about that. Finally she said, “Keep going, Elli. This sounds exciting.”

“Oh, I haven’t gotten to the exciting part yet. You’ll see.

“Anyway, even though Pops kept plugging the holes, I seemed to find another way, so we’d slip out whenever the mood struck us,” Elli continued. “Day or night. Didn’t matter. Sometimes we’d head down to the Beaver Pond. Other times, we’d roam the fields or head for the woods across the road. There was always something to chase, or sniff, or discover.”

“Did you ever get caught?” Willow asked.

“Oh, plenty of times,” Elli said. “But, kind folks would sometimes bring me home. I never minded hopping into a car. One time, a nice lady down the road put me in her back yard. After she called G’Mama, she fed me while we waited for Pops to show up and get me.”

“Well, of course you didn’t mind that,” Willow said, rolling her eyes.

“But Osage?” she shook her head. “Not a chance. She didn’t trust strangers. She’d just turn around and head home on her own, like she had a built-in compass.”

Willow smiled. “She sounds smart.”

“Oh, she was,” Elli said softly. “Smarter than me in a lot of ways.”

She paused to make sure Willow was paying attention. Willow leaned in close, ears perked.

“But, one winter night,” Elli said, lowering her voice, “we slipped out without anyone noticing. It was cold… real cold. The kind of cold that makes your breath hang in the air.

“But we didn’t care,” she added. “We were on the hunt.”

“The Hunt? For what?” Willow asked.

“Oh, anything — A scent. A sound. A shadow that moved just right.”

“We were gone a long time,” she continued. “Long enough that Pops and G’Mama started calling for us. I could hear them faintly in the distance… but I wasn’t ready to go back yet.”

Willow tilted her head. “That probably wasn’t a good idea, was it?”

“No,” Elli said. “It turned out not to be. If I would have gone back right then, Osage would have followed. Then maybe she would have avoided all the trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“I’m getting to that”, Elli said. “After a long while, I started heading home. When I got there, I scratched at the door. That was our usual signal for Pops and G’Mama to let us in.”

“What about Osage?” Willow asked.

“Oh, she came home alright”, Elli rolled her eyes and paused for effect.

That made Willow sit up with anticipation.

“A few minutes later she came running through the yard up to the porch.”

“What happened then?” Willow asked, almost whispering.

Elli looked at her.

“You ever smelled something so strong it made your eyes water before you even knew what it was?”

Willow shook her head slowly. Her eyes widened even further.

“Well,” Elli said, '“that’s what happened. Osage walked up to the door… rubbing her face with her paw… blinking hard.

“And then that smell slammed into us like a truck. She had tangled with a skunk.”

“A skunk?” Willow’s ears dropped back on her head. Her eyes almost watered just thinking about it. “Oh no…”

“Oh yes,” Elli said. “Full blast. Right in the face.”

“How did that happen?” Willow asked.

“What do you think?” Elli replied.

Willow groaned.

“Osage chased that skunk all across the field, until the skunk had had enough. It stopped just in front of her. She probably thought she had it cornered,” she continued.

“But she didn’t?” Willow asked.

“Oh, she did,” Elli said. “Just not the way she planned.”

Willow started laughing.

“And here’s the part you won’t believe,” Elli continued.

“What?” she asked.

“She came home… so proud. Like she had on the most fragrant perfume in the world.”

“No way!” Willow howled.

“Oh yes. Tail up. Head high. Ears pricked — prouder than a peacock. Like she had just conquered something mighty.”

“But the smell…” Willow said.

“The smell had already beaten her into the house,” Elli replied, shaking her head. “The moment Pops opened that door, it rushed in like a storm. Osage followed, making it even worse. Filled the whole house in seconds.”

“What did they do?” Willow asked.

“Everything you can think of — Opened windows. Turned on every fan in the house. Lit all the candles they had. Even sprayed the air with different air fresheners. It didn’t matter that it was freezing outside. That smell wasn’t staying in there without a fight.”

Willow laughed again.

“What did G’Mama do?” she asked.

“Oh, she went to work — Scrubbing and rinsing Osage with all kinds of homemade remedies she’d heard might help.”

“Did it work?” Willow asked.

Elli look at her with a slight grin.

“Some. But not enough.”

“How long did it last?”, Willow asked.

Elli leaned in a little.

“Months”, she whispered.

Willow’s eyes got even bigger. “Months?”

“On Osage… and in the house,” Elli said. “You could walk into a room weeks later and still catch it.”

Willow shook her head, laughing.

“And what about Osage?” she asked.

“Oh, she eventually learned,” Elli said. “At least about skunks.”

“Eventually?” Willow asked.

“Well,” Elli said, grinning, “at least she stopped chasing them, anyway.”

We both laughed.

Elli stretched again and let out a long yawn.

“Well,” she said, settling down, “that’s enough adventure for one afternoon. I think I’ll take a nap while the sun is still warm.”

Willow was still smiling.

“That might be the best story yet, Elli.”

“Just remember,” Elli said, closing her eyes, “not everything you chase is worth catching.”

She paused, then added with an impish grin,

“Especially if it comes with its own… perfume.”

Well, that’s it for now, so until next time —

Face Licks to All,
Willow

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I know this may sound a little controversial and even crazy to some, but I have come to believe that certain dogs that come into our lives seem to have an other-worldly quality that defies logic …

Something ancient and profound.

The longer I live, the more certain I become that some dogs are not just pets or companions. They have been sent for a purpose.

These dogs—if you’ve had one, you know exactly what I’m talking about—seem to arrive in our lives with a kind of purpose that doesn’t fit ordinary explanation. Sometimes when you didn’t even realize how much you needed them.

They seem to understand things no one has said out loud. They sit with you when words fail—and somehow understand what was never said. They don’t just look at you—they look into you. When you meet that gaze, you know there is something deeper than instinct behind those eyes. More than simple emotion, it feels like it has been borrowed from somewhere else.

I’ve experienced this. Not just once, but many, many times, so I don’t believe it is just my imagination.

And I suspect you have too.

There’s a verse in Scripture that says:

“Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights…” (James 1:17)

We tend to think of that in big, obvious ways—
provision, protection, answered prayers.

But what if some of those “good and perfect gifts”
arrive on four legs…with deep watchful eyes and a steadfast presence?

I cannot say this about every dog that we’ve had, because with some, this is clearly not the case. Their loose affection is motivated by simple needs such as food or attention.

But this is something else.

These dogs are different. They appear in our lives at just the right time —unexpectedly, like they were sent.

A dog who anchors you when life feels unsteady.
A dog who pulls you outside of yourself when you would rather stay withdrawn. A dog who stays close when everything else feels distant.

A dog that shows you what true love is.

I’ll admit, I don’t fully understand it, but they can look deep into your soul and communicate an unpretentious, unconditional love. Nothing expected in return. Maybe that’s what feels “other-worldly” about them.

I’m not saying dogs are angels. Not at all.

What I am saying is that there are moments when the love you sense from them doesn’t feel entirely earthly. It’s like a reflection of something far greater — A glimpse into the windows of heaven itself.

C.S. Lewis once wrote that the things we love most deeply in this world are often not the destination, but signposts pointing beyond it.

I think some dogs are like that. Not the source of the love,
but a reflection of it, a sign pointing toward it. A reminder of what is just beyond our comprehension.

And maybe that’s why their presence can feel so profound. Why their loss can feel so deep. Why their memory stays so close.

Because something about them touched a place in us that recognizes something greater…Perhaps a glimpse of the home that deep down, we all long for. An Eternal home—With the Father of lights, who is waiting for our return.

I look at Willow sometimes. Or think back to Osage…
and Elli. And there are moments where I think: “You were sent.”

Not by chance. Not by coincidence.

But as a gift.

And if that’s true…Then maybe the right response isn’t just appreciation. Maybe it’s learning why. What is the purpose?

Could it be, as simple as it may sound, that through them we learn to care for others.

To love unconditionally.

To serve without motive.

Through them, we learn to be present in the moment, not get lost in the past, or pine for the future, but to live every day, right now, to the fullest — To recognize what we’ve been given while we still have it.

Some gifts don’t just pass through your life and leave no trace. Sometimes they show up on four legs with deep, penetrating eyes and leave a mark on your soul.

And, every now and then, if you’re paying attention…

They let you catch a glimpse of something beyond this world.

And once you’ve seen it… you can’t unsee it.

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AUTHORS NOTE: The Willow Tale stories are works of creative fiction VERY loosely based on real events. Any liberties taken are strictly for entertainment value and should not be construed as depicting overall characteristics of the Carolina Dog in general.

Story Collection

Some days start out as ordinary walks to the Beaver Pond.

And end with a lot of excitement.

This was one of those days.

It started as a pretty normal walk. The same way we always go — along the edge of the field until we get to the bottom of the hill where the path bends toward the pond.

On the way, I noticed something had changed. In the pasture where there were usually two horses, there was only one.

A good Carolina Dog notices things like this.

“Hey Paint”, I barked, “where’s your partner?”

He wasn’t amused and just stood there glaring at me.

When we reached the place where the path turns toward the pond, G’Mama did what she always does — she unclipped my leash so I could run. Pops did the same with Beau.

Normally that’s not much of a concern. Most days he just moseys along like he has nowhere special to be. So nobody worries much about him.

Now, as I’ve mentioned before, Beau is an old curmudgeon and can be somewhat unpredictable at times.

Well, today was one of those times.

I was scouting along the water’s edge when things suddenly changed.

Beau was right beside me one moment… and the next moment he got it in his addled mind that it was time to go home. By the time I noticed, he was already halfway back up the path.

Pops kept calling for him to stop.

But Beau acted like he didn’t hear a single word.

He was headed off like a horse going back to the barn — as the old saying goes.

Somehow, I knew this wasn’t going to end well.

“Pops,” I barked, “I can run faster than you, so I’ll go after Beau and see if I can turn him around.”

At first I figured if nothing else he’d just head back to the yard and wait for us there.

But no. Today, Beau had other ideas. Instead of turning to head up the hill, he kept going — straight over toward the horse pasture.

Remember Paint, that horse I noticed earlier and thought it was odd that he was by himself?

Well somehow, Beau — in all his questionable wisdom — got across the electric fence and into Paint’s pasture.

Now Paint is usually pretty calm. He just stands there most of the time. Well, today, he was not happy about Beau invading his space.

Not one bit.

Before long he started circling Beau, kicking his back legs and trying to run him off.

At his age, Beau moves about as fast as a turtle, but to his credit, he was doing a pretty good job of ducking those kicks.

But he was also stuck inside the fence and couldn’t seem to figure out how to get back out.

That’s when I decided it was time for a little intervention. If there’s one thing we Carolina Dogs are good at, it’s helping out our pack-mates.

I ran straight into the pasture and barked as loud as I could.

“HEY! Paint — Leave Beau alone! He’s not hurting you.”

Paint turned toward me. Irritated, he snorted, “If you haven’t noticed, this is a horse pasture, not a dog pen, you little upstart.”

Big mistake. Horse or not, I wasn’t going to let him talk to me like that.

I barked back, “Well, Mr. Bigshot, why don’t I challenge you to a race instead.”

Surprised, he backed off. And then he turned and took off running.

All of a sudden, that tense moment became a whole lot of fun.

“Well, see if you can catch me then”, Paint whinnied over his mane as he galloped away…

…So, I took off after him.

Around the fence line we went.

One lap.

Two laps.

Three laps.

Paint running.

Me chasing.

Dust flying everywhere.

Each time I would almost catch up to him, he just ran a little faster and bellowed out a laugh.

Meanwhile, Beau finally figured out how to slip back under the electric fence and escape. I heard him yelp when his back brushed up against the wire.

By that point, Paint and I had both run several full-speed laps around the fence line.

Eventually we both slowed down.

Paint stopped and snorted.

I stopped and panted.

We looked at each other for a moment and chuckled.

Then I gave him a friendly bark, “Well… that was fun, Paint, but I need to head home now.”

“OK, see ya’ around, Willow”, Paint neighed. “And tell Beau that maybe it’s best if he stayed home.”

He stood there and watched as I trotted back to Pops and G’Mama like nothing unusual had happened.

Because really…

Some days start out as ordinary walks to the Beaver Pond.

And some days end with you saving your pack-mate and racing a horse around a pasture.

Such is the life of a Carolina Dog.

Well, until next time —

Face Licks to all,

🐕 Willow

Story Collection

I love coming to the Beaver Pond.

But honestly, every time I step onto the path that bends toward the water, I think about Elli.

She was the first one to bring me here. I was little then — clumsy and not very brave or fast. Elli walked ahead like she owned the whole place. Every now and then she’d look back at me, just to make sure I was keeping up.

She showed me the Beaver Tree. I guess it was too much even for the beavers to gnaw through. They gave it their best shot, though. The trunk still stands tall there by the dam, chewed and scarred, looking almost the same as when I first saw it.

Sometimes I stand there and think, “Oh boy, if Elli could just see me now. She would be so proud.”

Little by little, I’ve been getting braver.

Pops and G’Mama let me run loose as soon as we reach the bend in the path. It’s a good run from one end of the pond to the other, with plenty to see along the way.

At first, I just ran straight through, hardly stopping. Every so often, I’d pause and wait for G’Mama to catch up so I could earn a “good girl” treat for not running off.

Now the beavers have built the dam so high that most of the water backs up at one end of the pond and comes right up to the edge of the path.

I’ve gotten comfortable stepping into the water with my front paws — I like how the mud feels to my paws, but that’s as far as I go for now.

When I was real little, I remember watching Polly wade right in, spread her legs out, and just lay flat in the water. She said it was cool and refreshing.

Maybe I’ll try that next summer.

For now, though, I just enjoy exploring along the bank and the marshy bogs. I’ve found plenty of things to roll in. I think it makes me smell amazing.

G’Mama certainly doesn’t think so. So I usually get a bath when we get home.

That’s the part I don’t like.

I see frogs and birds most days. Once, a huge blue bird took off right in front of me and flew low across the pond. Scared me to death. Pops said it was a Blue Heron. When he lifted off, he made a strange sound — almost like a big bullfrog croaking.

Yesterday, I saw three turtles sunning themselves on a log.

When I asked them if they were enjoying themselves, they looked at me kinda funny. One laughed and said, “Of course. Why do you think we’re doing this?”

The he turned to the others and said, “Come on, guys — let’s go swimming. She doesn’t seem to know much about turtles.” Then they all slipped into the water and swam away.

They didn’t invite me. I don’t know if I would’ve gone anyway.

We usually head up along the fence where Nellie and Belle — two donkeys — used to hang out. They never seemed to appreciate when I would try talking to them. One time, Belle told me I made too much racket when I called out to them. They would just trot back into the field a ways and stop and stare at me until we moved farther along.

I don’t know about donkeys. They are fierce when it comes to protecting the sheep and goats in their care from predators. So, I don’t get why they are so skittish when I try to talk to them — Me! I just want to be friends.

Recently, that farm was sold, and Nellie and Belle went to live somewhere else. I miss them. I’m pretty sure we would’ve made friends eventually, if they’d stayed longer.

About halfway along the fence line, there’s a single deer leg that’s been hanging from the fence a long time. It’s just bone now, with the hoof still caught in the wire. It’s kind of creepy.

Pops says the young deer will try to jump fences to get away from the coyotes. Sometimes they get caught. And out here, when that happens, others depend on what’s left behind. That’s just the way of nature.

It still makes my heart feel heavy when I see it. But Elli used to tell me that the pond isn’t just a place for playing — it’s a place for learning how the world really is.

Of course, I love the pond and the memories of my time here with Elli are strong. Now that I have grown up though, I realize that it’s not all fun and games.

Every time I step a little farther into the water…
or run a little faster down the path…
or stand a little taller by that old Beaver Tree…I can almost hear Elli behind me.

“Well now,” she’d say, “look at you.”

Hope you enjoyed the tale. So until next time —
Face Licks to All,
Willow

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It usually happens without warning.

It’s not dramatic. There’s no thunderclap moment. No shift in the room you can point to and say, There — that’s it.

You might be sitting in a chair. Standing in the yard. Moving through an ordinary part of the day. And then you notice it.

Your Carolina Dog has stopped moving.

Not paused. Not hesitated. Not waiting.

Stopped.

Still as stone. Fully present. Eyes locked onto yours.

At first, it feels like any other moment of eye contact. Dogs look at their people all the time — for attention, for direction, for food, for reassurance.

But this is not that. There’s no request. No tension. No Uncertainty.

Just a steady, penetrating awareness that seems to reach far deeper than ordinary animal attention.

You hold the gaze. And something changes.

Time stretches. The room fades. Your breathing slows. The usual mental chatter — the endless stream of thoughts and tasks and distractions — begins to fall away.

For a few seconds… or minutes… it feels as if nothing exists but two conscious beings sharing space.

And somewhere in that stillness, you ask, “What does she see inside me that I can’t even understand myself?”

Not an Ordinary Dog Look

Anyone who has lived with dogs knows their language of the eyes.

The quick glance toward the food bowl.
An eager look that invites play.
The sideways check-in when unsure.
A softened gaze of affection.

Most canine eye contact is purposeful. It communicates something specific — a need, a feeling, a signal within a social exchange.

But the Carolina Dog’s deep, sustained gaze often carries none of that structure. There is no message to decode. No action being requested. No emotional display being performed.

It is simply awareness — steady and unwavering.

That absence of agenda is precisely what makes the experience so striking. We are accustomed to interaction built around exchange: signal and response, cause and effect. But here, the exchange seems to dissolve. The dog is not interacting for something.

The dog is simply with you.

The Power of Stillness

Part of what gives this moment its intensity is something humans rarely experience — sustained, undivided attention.

In the modern world, attention is fragmented. Even when we look at one another, our minds drift. We divide awareness between screens, thoughts, plans, and background noise. True stillness — complete and settled awareness — is uncommon.

Yet in the animal world, stillness carries meaning.

A motionless body with relaxed posture signals full sensory engagement. Nothing is scattered. Nothing is distracted. Every sense seems gathered into the present moment.

When a Carolina Dog becomes completely still while holding eye contact, the effect on a human nervous system can be profound. Without effort, breathing deepens. Muscles release. Awareness sharpens. It can feel grounding… centering… almost meditative.

Stillness communicates something language cannot:

I am fully here.

And when another living being directs that level of presence toward you, the experience can feel unexpectedly powerful.

An Ancient Way of Being

The Carolina Dog occupies a unique place among domestic dogs. Historically shaped, largely by natural environmental pressures, even in through more modern intensive human-directed breeding, many of their behavioral patterns remain closer to those of free-living canines.

Observation and awareness often precede reaction or engagement..

They are comfortable watching. Comfortable assessing. Comfortable existing without constant social signaling.

In a world where many modern breeds have been shaped to respond quickly, seek approval, and display frequent communicative behaviors, the Carolina Dog’s composure can feel strikingly different.

Their gaze does not feel performative. It feels elemental.

Something about it seems to echo an older rhythm — one shaped not by living closely within human emotional systems, but by living closely within nature itself.

That difference may be subtle in behavior… but powerful in presence.

Why It Feels Otherworldly

Humans often describe these moments in language that sounds almost mystical — Deeper than normal awareness.

Why does such a simple act — sustained eye contact — evoke such strong interpretation?

Perhaps because we so rarely experience attention without judgment, demand, or distraction.

When awareness is offered without expectation, it can feel intimate in an unfamiliar way. There is no evaluation to defend against. No performance required. No role to play.

Just presence meeting presence.

That kind of encounter resembles experiences humans often associate with contemplative practice — deep meditation, silent retreats, moments of profound stillness in nature.

The mind quiets. Awareness expands. The boundary between observer and observed softens and the connection becomes deep and unexplainable.

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Story Collection

Elli always had a way of telling stories that sent my imagination racing.

Whenever the weather turned warm, she would wag her tail and say,
“Let’s go sit out on the porch for a while, Willow, and I’ll tell you another story about some of the escapades Osage and I went on back in the day.”

I never knew Osage. She died the year before I was born.
But the way Elli spoke about her, it felt as if she were right there beside us — just out of sight, listening along.

They had been inseparable.

When Elli talked about Osage, her eyes would drift off, like she was stepping back into another world.

“When Osage and I first came to live with Pops and G’Mama,” she began, “we were just pups.

“We lived way out in the middle of the woods. There was even a big, wonderful swamp just across the mill creek. It was like paradise.”

She told me there were two old mill ponds nearby, and the woods were alive with creatures of every kind — alligators sliding into the water, snakes warming themselves on fallen logs, turkeys strutting through the trees, turtles sunning on the banks, deer slipping quietly through the brush, foxes and coyotes calling at night, beavers splashing in the creek, and lots of pretty birds.

“Once,” she said proudly, “we even saw an otter.”

“And the Owls were everywhere. They used to call back and forth to each other all night long,” Elli laughed. “Sounded like they were saying, Who, who, who cooks for yoooouu?”

She said there was even a pack of free-ranging dogs that would pass through the property from time to time.

“Some of them looked just like you, Willow.”

I puffed up a little at that.

“It was a wonderful place to live,” Elli said softly. “Full of adventure.

“Pops trusted us, so he never put us on leashes, and we didn’t have a fenced yard.

“He would always say, ‘Elli, y’all stay on this side of the road, Hear me?’

“But Osage and I…” Elli grinned, “… well, we always found a way to take things just a little too far.”

Elli smiled to herself, remembering.

“You know,” she said, “that pond is also how I met my very special human friend.”

“You mean Pops and G’Mama?” I asked.

She chuckled.

“No, not them. This was another lady who lived just past the pond.”

Elli then told how that after she and Osage had been swimming, they started wandering farther along the edge of the woods.

“One day,” Elli said, “I caught the most wonderful smell drifting through the air.”

She lifted her nose like she could still catch it.

“Food.”

They followed the scent past the pond and up toward a small house with a porch that faced the water.

“That’s when I saw it,” Elli whispered dramatically.

“A bowl. Sitting right there on the back porch.”

She said Osage stopped at the bottom of the steps. She would not go with her onto the porch.

“She wasn’t sure about getting that close to a stranger’s house,” Elli explained. “But me? Well… I’ve always been curious.”

“That part hadn’t changed”, I thought.

“I walked right up and peeked into the bowl,” Elli said. “It was full of cat food. I didn’t even know what a cat was back then — but I sure knew good food when I smelled it!”

She laughed.

“I gobbled it right up. Then I decided it was time for a quick “cat-nap”.

She laughed at her corny joke.

Then, the door opened.

Elli froze.

Out stepped a sweet older lady with kind eyes and a gentle smile.

“She didn’t yell,” Elli said softly. “She just knelt down and looked at me.”

‘Well, pretty girl”, the lady said. “Where did you come from?”

Elli said her tail wagged so hard her whole back end shook.

“The lady laughed and said I reminded her of her old dog — a black Lab she had loved very much.”

Instead of chasing Elli away, the lady reached out slowly and scratched behind her ears.

“Ohhh, that felt so good,” Elli sighed.

From that day on, Elli started visiting her almost every time they went to the pond.

“She’d always put a little food out for me,” Elli said proudly. “And sometimes she’d sit with me on the porch and talk like we were old friends.”

Sometimes the lady even let Elli come inside.

“She had a little desk by the window,” Elli said. “And I’d curl up right underneath it, just like her old dog used to do.”

Osage never joined her.

“She wasn’t one for strangers,” Elli said. “She’d wait for me by the woods, keeping watch.”

Before long, Pops and G’Mama figured it out.

“Any time I didn’t come home right away,” Elli laughed, “they knew exactly where to look.”

I giggled.

“So you had a secret grandma too?”

“Pretty much,” Elli said with a wink. I called her my pond friend.”

“Sometimes,” she went on, “when Osage and I were out by the road, people would stop to see who we belonged to. I never hesitated to jump right into their cars.”

I laughed.

“Except,” Elli added, “when I was stinky from rolling in roadkill or something I found in the swamp. Then they wouldn’t let me in. They’d just call the number on my tag and wait for Pops or G’Mama to come get me. Pops always made me get into the back of his truck when I smelled too proud of myself.”

“But Osage?” Elli shook her head with a grin. “She would always just run straight home.”

“Wow, Elli,” I said. “That sounds like Pup Paradise.”

“Well it was,” she said. “But when we moved here to Highland House, things changed.

“Don’t get me wrong — I love it here. It’s just a lot more open fields now. But at least we have the Beaver Pond.”

I nodded. The Beaver Pond is one of my favorite places to walk. Sometimes, G’Mama lets me off my leash and I can run free along the pond path.

There are different animals around here too — cows, sheep, goats, horses, and donkeys. I’ve seen some of them already.

“And there are more coyotes,” Elli said seriously. “The donkeys do a pretty good job of keeping them away, but we still have to be on the lookout.”

Then her face brightened again.

“The good part is that there seems to be a lot more roadkill around here. Particularly the beaver. They are the most pungent. G’Mama hates those the most”, she said with an impish grin.

“I would come home so proud of how I smelled.”

I giggled.

“G’Mama didn’t think so much of it, though,” Elli laughed. “She would scold me. I had a bath like every other day.”

Then her ears drooped just a little.

“The bad part was that a lot of those dead animals along the road were skunks. she said. “Beavers are powerful. But skunks? Not even I like those things — and I’m one that never met a dead animal I didn’t love.”

“What’s a skunk, Elli?” I asked.

“Oh boy,” she sighed, rolling her eyes. “Let me tell you a story about Osage and the skunk …”

My ears perked up, but then Elli stretched out with a long yawn and said it would have to wait. The she closed her eyes for a nap.

Well, that was a pretty long story anyway, so we better end for now. I guess the skunk story will have to be next time.

So, until then —

Face Licks to all,

Willow

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Most days, Willow loves her walk along the familiar path, happily trotting beside us, occasionally stopping to investigate some new “fragrance”. She knows that when she gets home, she’ll get a big “good girl” treat.

But, then there are days like today.

We’ve had Willow since she was eight weeks old, and she has grown into an integral part of the Highland House pack.

For the longest time, she was somewhat intimidated by Beau — the ancient patriarch — who acted “ferocious” and snapped at her whenever she got too close. She just thinks of him as an old curmudgeon. Now, at seventeen months, she’s slightly taller and heavier than he is. She’s also figured out that Beau is all bluff and bark, but no bite. So she gets right up in his face now, and sometimes will playfully paw him just to see what he’ll do.

Her other pack-mate, Polly , a long-haired Dachshund, has been sparring with her from the beginning. At first, they were the same size. Within a month, however, Willow was standing flat-footed over her. Polly probably wonders what on earth happened.

Sometimes we have to separate them because Willow plays a little too rough — but Polly can certainly give her the “what-for” when she’s had enough.

Highland House is bordered on two sides by a large field that gently slopes down to a farm pond on the backside. A walking path winds along the pond and then runs up along the far fence line back toward the road. Across the road is a pasture shared by a herd of cows, a donkey, and Romeo, our neighbor’s horse. Willow loves to go inspect and bark at the cows. They all have numbered tags attached to one of their ears. So far, #27 and #14 have wandered over to check her out, but they don’t get too close.

Recently, we’ve been letting her off-leash to run free along the pond path. She usually stays close, circling back often for a treat.

Everything was going great until we got within sight of the cows. Willow got that familiar “I’m on a mission” look — Ears up, Tail swishing, Nose revved up like a hound tracking barbecue.

Before we could clip her leash back on, she was off — across the road, under the fence, and heading straight toward the cows. This kind of freedom was new to her, and she wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

Then she stopped dead in her tracks, sniffed, lowered her neck to the ground, and discovered something … new. Something apparently too wonderful to resist.

By the time we reached the fence, she lifted her head. Her face and neck were completely covered.

If pride were a fragrance, Willow was wearing it at full strength. Unfortunately, the fragrance was essence of cow-patty — pungent & earthy with top notes of “Heavens to Murgatroyd.”

Susan managed to leash her and walk her back to Highland House. Willow preened and pranced up the driveway like a returning war hero, tongue out, chest forward, radiating, “Look what I found, Pops! Did you see me? I owned those cow patties!”

I stood there praying my eyes (and nose) were somehow lying to me. They weren’t.

Willow, bless her heart, leaned in for a head scratch as if to say, “Come on, Pops. Celebrate with me.”

It was clear what had to happen: a full-scale backyard decontamination operation. Willow disagreed. In her mind, she was wearing Chanel No. 5.

Bath time followed, complete with the offended look dogs give when you try to wash away what they consider a personal achievement. She shook water everywhere, probably hoping to spread her triumph even further.

But eventually, clean and smelling like an acceptable member of society again, she flopped beside me on the porch. Willow sighed — a deep, contented breath from a dog who had lived her absolute best life that day.

And honestly? I couldn’t even be mad. Every adventure has its price. Some just require a stronger hose.

I’m fairly sure she’s already planning her next escapade.

“Hey. I’m Willow, and I approve this story. Well, except for the bath part.

“So … see you next time, whenever that might be.
Until then — face licks to all.” 🐕‍🦺

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After a month of visiting the Archive Room each week, A.J.’s Dad suggested that they ask Mr. Noble, or Noble-Love, as he goes by now if it was possible to get copies of The Book for each of them.

When they arrived this time, they were surprised by a couple of things.

First, they noticed that something was different about the Reference Librarian. She had smiled and did not speak mockingly or sarcastically.

“Your friend, Mr. Noble-Love was here and left this box for you. He said he brought what you requested. He also said there was something in there to give me before you leave.

“Oh, and he left this note and said it would explain everything,” she said, handing him an envelope.

Suddenly, A.J. saw her in a different light. For the first time, he realized how lonely she must be. He knew she was anxious to know what Noble had left for her, but thought he’d better read the note first.

A.J. thanked her and they went into the the Archive room. He began reading the note:

Isaiah 43:2-3 When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow you: when you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon you. For I am the LORD thy God, the Holy One of Israel, thy Savior . . .

A.J. read these words carefully. Flooding and fire were pointed out as representative of disastrous and destructive events. They bring about untold misery and even death. Was he being prepared for something?

Yet, this One who calls Himself God specifically mentions these occasions to promise His presence with those who experience severe circumstances.

His train of thought brought him back to fear. Fear can wreak havoc on the lives of those controlled by it, as he had experienced.

So, what was it he truly feared? Was it just the fear of failure, fear of the unknown, or was there something else? He had failed so many times now, maybe he just didn't want to try again.

Why go through another defeat? Besides, he believed the monster when he said next time would be his last. He would not be spared another chance.

That thought terrified him.

But, another nagging thought lurked quietly in his mind. It was so ridiculous that, at first, he refused to give credence to it. But as he continued to read that the LORD would be with him and see him through, this thought reared its presence again and he knew he finally had to face it.

The fear he dreaded was that of success, not failure.

What would he do if he did make it past the monster? A.J. was full of questions for which he had no answers. It terrified him to think of breaking through the barrier of fear, then not knowing what he would do on the other side.

The monster seemed to know this. So, maybe he played on his fear of failure so much that he would never contemplate that it was success he feared, not failure. He knew others had broken the fear barrier and made it through. What did they do to overcome this?

A.J. thought of Noble. While he didn't seem the type to let fear stop him, he did, at least, know about the monster. He had accurately described A.J.'s encounter. Yet, Noble had been to Transformatia and Beautiful City and returned. He must have the answers.

He read the rest of the note.

“As you requested, I am leaving each of you a copy of The Book, including one for P.J. I am also leavng one for the Reference Librarian. I know you know her as Miss Wall. Her first name is Elsa. She has lived a very lonely life. You may have noticed a change in her demeanor. A little kindness goes a long way.

“A.J., I want you to read this next part very carefully. I sense that you are almost ready. But, I must warn you that there is a monster more formidable than Fear. This monster’s name is Unbelief. That is your real enemy.

“The most devious thing about Unbelief is its subtlety in disguise. It comes across as rational and reasonable thought. It warns against believing something you can’t see.

“You must fight this sometimes overwhelming urge to retreat into the safety of visual confirmation. In one of the letters of The Book, a follower of Jesus named Peter wrote, ‘Whom having not seen, ye love; in whom, though now ye see him not, yet believing, ye rejoice with joy unspeakable and full of glory: Receiving the end of your faith, even the salvation of your souls.’ - 1Peter 1, verses 8-9.

“That is what is at stake, A.J. The salvation of your souls. In another letter, this one to the Hebrews, the writer says, ‘But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.’ - Hebrews 11:6.

“And Solomon, considered the wisest man to ever live wrote, ‘Blessed are they that keep his testimonies, and that seek him with the whole heart.’

“That is the key, A.J. ‘the whole heart’. So far, you have reserved a small part of your heart for ‘what if’. You must abandon even the preserving of your life, if you want to be successful in your quest.”

A.J. read these words again, carefully. His understanding broadened. Mr. Noble-Love said that it was to be “all or nothing”. Was he willing to die in his quest? Wouldn’t that mean he wouldn’t reach the promised land of Transformatia and Beautiful City?

As if reading his mind, the letter continued.

“A.J., I am not talking about physical death, though that may come at some point. I am talking about dying to yourself. Your personal ambition, desires, and goals. Give them to the King and trust Him with your life. This is what He said by his servant, Matthew,

‘For whosoever will save his life shall lose it: and whosoever will lose his life for my sake shall find it.’

“There is a great reward in this pursuit. Again, Matthew wrote,

‘And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name’s sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life.’

“Now, each of you must prepare in your hearts that you will be willing to abandon everything that stands in the way of reaching Transformatia.

“And, now you must go give Elsa Wall the Book I left for her.” I have a feeling that she, too, is ready for this journey of faith.”

A.J. and his father were both excited and fearful at the same time. But, they both decided then and there to do what Mr. Noble-Love instructed. After all, hadn’t he already done everything he was asking of them?

On the way out, A.J. took Elsa her copy of The Book. She stared at it, wide-eyed, as if it was the most precious thing she had ever seen.

“I vaguely recall my grandmother had one that looked so similar to this one”, she said. “She told me often that one day she would give it to me. When she died, my father took it and I never saw it again. We never spoke of it or why it was so precious to her.”

When she opened the cover of The Book, she was dumb-founded. There on the inside of the cover was the inscription:

Dear Elsa,

I am leaving this for you when I go to live in Beautiful City in the land of Transformatia. I am sorry that we never had opportunity to speak more of this, but your father would not allow it. I am trusting that the King will see that you receive it at the appropriate time. I will miss you dearly, my sweet girl, but I know that we will see each other again. The King has promised.

Love and kisses,

Grammies.

She could not even speak as the tears welled up and she broke into sobs of simultaneous grief and joy.

When she had recovered enough to talk, she showed A.J. and his father what was written inside the cover. They were equally shocked.

“Your father must have given this to the library to put in the archive room, A.J. said. But, where was it? How did Mr. Noble-Love find it? How did he know where to look?”

That meant that the other copies of The Book must have come from the same place, probably stored so they would not be so accessible to those who ventured into the archive.

“Well, I don;t know”, she said. “I’ve never been in the archive room, but I’m pretty sure they weren’t in there as he brought them in box to the desk.”

Elsa Wall could not wait to close for the day, so she could take her Grammies’ copy of The Book home and read through it herself.

They all said their goodbyes and promised to gather in a couple of days to plan their journey.

Cork Hutson is a retired Naval Cryptologist and DOD Intelligence Professional. He is a Christian thinker, Adventurer, and Storyteller who writes Life UnCorked and The Talking Pen.

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As teenagers, my cousins and I would often initiate a new friend by taking them Snipe Hunting on their first visit to our family property on Edisto Island. It was great fun, but could be terrifying for the unsuspecting Newbie (True story).

For Polly, it was the most terrifying of all, because this would be the very last Snipe Hunt. Ever.

It was the pitch-black darkness of a new moon.

Polly had assumed they were trying to play a joke on her, so she played along.

She gently tapped the paper bag with the stick and softly called for the Snipes. They had said this was necessary to catch them. They said it might take a while.

She had walked about a half mile when she realized she was alone. Where were the others? They had not said anything about this part.

After a half hour with no results, she decided she had enough. But, now she had no idea where she was or which direction to go to get back to the house.

She was completely lost. It was so dark that she could not even see the individual trees around her.

She became frightened when she began hearing sounds out in the woods. Was that a stick that broke, a crunch of a footstep or was it just her imagination?

Just then she heard something far off in the distance. It sounded like trumpets. Who would be blowing trumpets out here?

Faint at first, then louder and louder, sounding from all sides. A blinding bright light appeared as the trumpets reverberated through the air, enveloping her.

What sort of cruel joke were they playing on her? Her heart pounded.

Shaking with terror, Polly fainted.

The rays of sunlight were streaming through the morning mist when she woke. Why hadn’t they come looking for her?

Although she was still somewhat anxious, her shivering now was from the cold.

Getting her bearing, she made her way to the dirt road that led up to the small cluster of houses along the tidal creek.

It was so quiet. The cars were still there, but the house was empty. The boats were still tied to the dock.

Where was everyone? It was as if they had completely vanished. If this was a joke, it had gone way too far.

Shrouded in a cloak of dread, Polly drove along the road in a frantic search for any clues. Observing the houses, she finally saw a man and woman just standing out in the yard looking scared and confused.

When she stopped to ask if they had seen her friends drive by, they told her that several of their own family members were missing. All their belongings were still where they were supposed to be. Nothing had been disturbed. No note was left. It was as if they had just vanished.

This frightened Polly even more. She asked them to ride with her. They stopped several times to talk to others who told them the same thing. They were all puzzled and scared.

Finally, Polly turned into a church parking lot to turn around. A man wearing a clerical collar was standing on the church steps, mouth gaping, staring in shock toward the cemetery just beyond. They followed his gaze. Their fear became terror at the sight before them.

Many, but not all, of the graves were open.

Polly remembered reading in the popular Left Behind novel series of an event like this where many people had vanished without a trace. She had laughed at the absurdity of that.

She wasn’t laughing now.

 Likewise also as it was in the days of Lot; they did eat, they drank, they bought, they sold, they planted, they built houses … Even thus shall it be in the day when the Son of man is revealed. - Luke 17:28, 30

Behold, I show you a mystery: We shall not all sleep, but we shall all be changed. In a moment, in the twinkling of an eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. - 1 Corinthians 15:51-52

For the Lord himself shall descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trump of God: and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we which are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the air: and so shall we ever be with the Lord. - 1Thessalonians 4:15-17

Cork Hutson is a retired Naval Cryptologist and DOD Intelligence Professional. He is a Christian thinker, Adventurer, and Storyteller who writes at Life UnCorked and The Talking Pen.

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This short Memoir is the story of the redemption of one man, yet it is a picture of God’s love for all men and of His power to transform and “save to the uttermost” those who come to Him by faith.

My prayer is that you will be blessed and, if needed, be transformed by the love and power of the Almighty God and our Savior, Jesus Christ.

I invite you to read this compelling true story in the chapters below of how God birthed a new life into my soul. And then listen to the dramatized audio version produced by Unshackled Radio.

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Listen

In February 2015, the Unshackled Radio Drama Ministry, which has been dramatizing the salvation stories of thousands of men and women whose lives have been transformed by Christ since 1950, produced my story in a 2-part series.

Part One

Part Two

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A couple of things happened soon after I asked Susan to marry me that would test our faith and our relationship.

First, I applied to the College of Charleston to begin the Fall Semester.

This was one of the colleges that had not accepted me right after high school because of my grades. I was hoping that they would reconsider since I was now eligible for the G.I. Bill.

In anticipation, I began the process of transferring my VA benefits authorization and financial aid from Lane Community College in Eugene, Oregon to the College of Charleston.

As August approached, I had not heard anything about acceptance or financial aid.

Naively, I thought that maybe I should go back out to Oregon and finish school and be a witness to all my old friends out there.

I told Susan this was what I believed God wanted me to do, as He hadn't “opened the door” at the college. I said that it would be a test of our love for one another.

She didn't say much and I'm sure she thought, “Oh, here we go again”, and that I was becoming disinterested in her. I could see the hurt in her eyes.

I found out later, that up until the time we met, she had been very discouraged about ever finding the “right person”.

There had been several others before me, who felt that, because she was a pastor’s daughter, they would be held to a higher standard if they dated her.

I couldn’t understand that, but I was sure glad.

Her mom had even tried to encourage her by telling her that, “God could bring someone, even from the West Coast, if He wanted to”.

I showed up from Oregon a few weeks later.

In the South, there is a saying when someone starts going down the wrong path - “You’re fixin’ to mess up”. And so I was, but I soon learned that God works in His own time.

I can only look back and say that He was testing me to see whether I would give up even this girl I had fallen deeply in love with to follow Him if that is what he wanted.

After all, he had asked Abraham to give up his only son as a test of his faith, right?

The next day, there were two pieces of mail for me. One was an acceptance letter from the College of Charleston. The other one was from the VA stating that they had approved my benefits to start at the College of Charleston for the Fall semester.

I was overwhelmed and yet, I still didn’t “get it” yet. Which brings me to the second thing that I can only attribute to God’s divine intervention.

I had already written a letter to Ronna, the girl I had just left out in Oregon, explaining that I believed I should come back out to Eugene and finish school, but I hadn't mailed it yet.

What happened next, I can only say that it must have been an Angel appearing as a man to give me a startling message. I had heard of things like this happening before, but I really didn’t know what to think.

I drove to the Post Office, which had a one-way entrance and exit, to mail the letter to Ronna. As I slowed to turn right into the entrance, a car happened to be coming out that way - the wrong way.

The driver stared right at me. Reaching out the window with his arm up, he pointed over the top of his car to the ONE-WAY sign.

He just kept pointing at it and looking at me. After what seemed like forever, he turned out onto the street and drove off. For all I know, he may have just disappeared after he had accomplished his mission.

When I pulled into the parking place and got out of the car to go drop the letter off, it was like a huge neon light went off in my head - I stopped dead in my tracks. ONE-WAY. God's Way. And I was about to go the wrong way.

I was “fixin’ to mess up”.

“OK, God, I get the message now”, I said out loud.

I got back in my car, and drove straight over to Susan's house.

She must have seen me coming because, by the time I was walking up to the door, she was already outside.

“What are you doing over here at this time of day, Cork?”

Her voice was like music in my ears.

I showed her the acceptance letter and the VA authorization letter and then told her what had happened at the Post Office.

We both knew that God had done a big work in my heart and life as well as our relationship.

On Christmas Eve, 1981 we became officially engaged.

In the Summer of 1982, I felt like I was ready for and submitted to believers’ baptism.

Then on August 7, 1982, the girl of my dreams became my wife.

Over the 43 years since that day, school and work have taken us to Indiana, Oklahoma, Ohio, and back to South Carolina.

Susan and I have been involved in support ministries such as music, children and youth ministries, teaching Sunday School, and occasional pulpit supply in various local churches wherever we have lived.

We have taught our five children that no matter what they do vocationally, their main job is to serve God with the time, talent, and treasure He has entrusted to them.

To date, we have been blessed with twelve grandchildren.

As I have looked back over my life while writing this short account of God’s grace, I am amazed and humbled by His providential guidance.

As the saying goes, “Who would have thought”.

I want to finish by saying that no matter how far we have traveled down the Highway of life, it’s never too late to respond to God’s offer of the gift of salvation and eternal life.

And we are never too old to serve others by finding and fulfilling our calling in life.

As we have therefore opportunity, let us do good unto all men, especially unto them who are of the household of faith. - Galatians 6:10

Call unto me, and I will answer thee, and show thee great and mighty things, which thou knowest not. - Jeremiah 33:3

What a promise.

Blessings,

Cork

June 2025

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