Notes from the Red Bird House

           My father told me long ago that I should take this story with me to my grave. He swore me to secrecy and made me promise I'd never tell anyone. The older I get, though, I wonder. I think I owe it to him. I think I owe it to Cotton. You see, the story is mine, but it's really his. Benjamin Jasper Cotton. Benjamin to his mother, BJ to his daddy, and Cotton to us boys. The day I'm fixing to tell you about was the day my life changed. I can't say it was for the better, but it did make me who I am. Even at eighty with bad eyes, bad knees, and a full life, I can only point to that day. That moment, really. The   look in his eyes, Cotton's eyes, and the nearly imperceptible shake of his head.   That's what changed my life.             Well, there I go getting ahead of myself. My daddy always said that the best place to start is at the beginning. But with Cotton, it's hard to tell the b...

Some years ago a friend bought me a pair of cycling socks. It wasn't that I was into cycling and needed socks (We were incidentally buying bikes that day also, a bike I seldom, if ever, rode). It was more about a cute pair of socks and my love of margaritas. The socks, of the ankle high variety, have a margarita glass on the ankle and the words "It's 5:30 somewhere" on the sole. My friend thought they were perfect for me. I thought they'd be my lucky socks. You know, the socks you wear when you need little extra luck, like a big day at work or a first date. That kind of thing. I seem to recall almost immediately putting them into action. Look, I'd never been what I would call a "lucky person." I seldom won games of chance (even games involving skill are a crap shoot); I could literally scratch twenty $1 lottery tickets and win absolutely nothing; historically the pretty girl chose to sit next to someone else (I mean that only slightly figurativel...