What Happened? Farmer  Land Mapper  U.S. Airman  Laborer Railway Clerk  Minister  Linguist  Teacher  Entrepreneur  Paramedic WRITER
Young B.	To see what I've done use links above.	Old B.
1949	The Important Stuff	1999

B. Simpson

Ever been to Cairns Australia?

          Yeah, that's "B." in the middle. I hate to do it, but I guess I ought to tell you why I call myself "B".   It's rather embarrassing. I was born during the depth of the Great Depression [1933]. My parents were so poor, their rats packed up and left, looking for a better living. Momma and Daddy couldn't afford to buy a new name for me. They told Doc Wolfe to just leave that space on my birth certificate blank. He said he had to put something there. I wish he had. Something Simpson would be better than what Mom and Pop did. They decided to borrow names from my grandfathers. The one on the left is Solomon Boyd Canter. That's Momma's daddy! The one on the right is Bud Pinkney Simpson - Daddy's daddy.

          Well, the story goes like this. Since I was a Simpson, the Canters decided Bud Pinkney should be the first one to suffer. After all, he was dead and couldn't defend himself.  So Momma and Daddy got to tossing around names. They began to zero in on "Bud" and "Boyd".  To keep the Canters happy, they tried, Bud Boyd. It just didn't sound right! So they switched 'em - Boyd Bud. Hell, that wasn't any better.  All of a sudden Daddy had an idea. He always was the brilliant one in our family. You know, when he decided, that was it! "I've got it," he exclaimed, "Buddy Boyd."

          You gotta admit, that's bad. In fact nobody will believe me when I tell them my first name is "Buddy." When my first grade teacher asked me what my name was, dummy like, I said, "Buddy." She said, "I know they call you 'Buddy,' but I need to know your real name." I blurted out, "Momma said it was Buddy." The teacher snarled, "Look Kid, don't get smart ass with me!" That's when I learned that phrase. I've put it to lots of good use!

          Well, bad as it is, I guess it could have been worse. Most things can be worse. In fact, if you aren't careful, they'll get worse! Just think how it would be if they had named me Pinkney Solomon Simpson? Can you imagine having the initials - PSS.   Postscripts? Naw.  That's not what i thought!  

My Birth Place Vigo Road Piedmont, Alabama

"Red" and "Blue"

"Missy" and her calf

      The old farm house is where Grandpa Bud lived. I don't know how old it is. Great-Grandpa was living in it when he built the old barn behind the mules. I didn't get my carpenter skills from him. The first house I built was in Rome, Georgia. I didn't know how to cut rafters, so I built a flat top house. Grandpa Bud knew how to cut rafters. In fact, that's what got Momma and Daddy together. Grandpa Canter couldn't cut rafter either. Hell, that's where my short coming came from, wasn't it? Anyway, Boyd told Bud, "You come cut rafters for my new barn, and I'll send Lola to work in your place." That's where she met Clyde. Honest to God truth! That's the way it happened.

      The old barn holds lots of memories for me. I could really work up a sweat toting hay in its loft on hot July days. Of course the little girl next door could make me do that too! Yeah, in that old barn is where I first played with nipples - all four of 'em.  Milking Missy was a chore I performed twice a day in that barn, except when the calf beat me to her!

       My father, Clyde [the man with the mules] was born and lived his entire life in the house where I was born. I plowed many fields with "Red" and "Blue".  Nothing compares with looking at a mule's ass from sun up til sun down. If there was, I wouldn't want to see it.

My first paying job was through the U. S. Department of Agriculture. Using aerial photographic maps, I checked cotton acreage, in 1950. The government told the farmers how many acres of cotton they could plant. The USDA sent me out to see if their orders had been followed.           Those old farmers didn't like it when a "snotty-nosed kid" told them they had to plow up six rows. So I never went back to see if they actually did it!            So much for Government Programs!

In July, 1950, I turned seventeen. Eleven days later, I enlisted in the U.S. Air Force. I took my oath to defend The Constitution of The United States of America against all aggressors at Gadsden, Alabama. Today I'd have to kill politicians to keep that promise!           I went through Basic Training in Texas - first at San Antonio, and then Wichita Falls. My first duty assignment was at Selma, Alabama. I spent a short time in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Then I went to Valdosta, Georgia, on to Greenland, and finally South Carolina. My primary duty assignment was mostly with the "Remington Raiders."  We didn't retreat! We back spaced!          Staff Sergeant was the highest rank I attained, and I received an Honorable Discharge August 7, 1954, at Charleston Air Force Base, SC.

          You can't show labor with a picture. You have to feel it! I've done lots of it. When I came out of the Air Force, good jobs were hard to find. I was a high school drop-out with no experience. I kept asking them, if they didn't hire me, how could I ever get experience? So I had a lot of flunky jobs. I was a plumber's helper, a textile worker, car assembly line employee, a form setter pouring curb and gutters, and a service station attendant.

          I want to tell you about that job at the "fillin' station," as we called them. It was in the days when the attendant pumped the gas, checked the oil, gauged the tires, and washed the windshield for the privilege of selling you five gallons of gas - a total of $1.10!  I'll never forget a man telling me, "Son, you can buy a lot of gas for $5."

           Did you say a long time ago? It sure was! In fact, so long ago that automatic transmissions were just coming into vogue. I didn't know anything about them. So when I was told to change the oil in a car with one, I drained out the transmission fluid, and then put five quarts of oil in the crankcase. I wondered why it was so full. Even so, I sent the man on his way. He didn't go far! I did -- looking for another job.   Well, that one didn't pay much anyway!

When I was five years old, the Hoover Depression was going strong. Mother took me on a trip on the Southern Railway. I clearly remember the conductor threatening to throw me off the train if she didn't buy me a ticket. We were only twenty-five miles from home. In those days, that distance was like being on the moon! Neither of us dreamed I would someday work for Southern Railway. I did, for about four years. Now their track is gone, as is the one which ran in front of that old house where I was born! I was sad to see 'em go! I can still picture smoke from those old steam engines. And the flattened pennies I put on the track in front of trains. Why pennies? Hell, I couldn't afford to put a dime there! That'd get you into a movie.

For fifteen years, I was a minister in the United Methodist Church. I started as a Circuit Rider serving four rural churches. I paid $750 for a car so I could be a traveling preacher. My salary for the year was about $500, and I didn't get all of it. But I hung in there and earned a Bachelor's Degree in Alabama and then received a Master of Divinity from Emory University, Atlanta, Georgia.           Commissioned as a missionary, I left the pastoral ministry and went to Oklahoma and then to the Jungles of Southern Mexico to train for my assignment as a Linguist in the Torres Strait Islands, in the Coral Sea, between Cape York Peninsula, Australia and Papua New Guinea.

	I built Kuki, such as it was. No electric power, running water, or bathrooms.   I was on Mabuiag for the Centennial Celebration         "The Coming of the Light!"      [Their way of referring to the arrival of Western Civilization.]
Kuki on Mabuiag Island	Nel naunga nga, na Kuki	Young Bani and I, at work.

Teaching was a job I truly enjoyed.   Well mostly!   I taught Seventh Grade one year and promised my Superintendent I'd quit if he sent me back. I asked him to let me kill one little boy and save the State the future expense. He didn't think it was a good idea - or even funny!         Teaching teenagers can be lots of fun, when you treat them like the young adults they are. Kids aren't bad today! Lord, if Momma knew the things I did, she'd whip me yet.          I was hired to teach at the high school where I attended. Can't say graduated, because I was a "drop-out." But my old teachers were still there and they accepted me as a real part of their faculty. I thank them for it. And I'd thank The State of Alabama if it would pay me more Teacher's Retirement - $350.00 a month doesn't go far! Luckily, I paid Social Security.   So my future is secure!                                                         [Damn, that cynicism!]

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My first experience as an entrepreneur was a country store. In 1959, at a rural crossroad, I was selling groceries, the only thing that kept us from starving to death.  If there had been such, I would have qualified for Welfare. I wouldn't have taken it!       A/B Electronics, however, was a different story. A noise monitoring devise I invented was marketed nationwide. I was issued two U.S. Patents [4,416,155 and 4,509,189] and learned the IRS sits lurking in the shadow waiting for you to make a buck, so they can steal it, and give it to politicians, who squander it!         Don't call me cynical!    Hell, look at the facts!

I never found anything more satisfying than trying to save a life. I was never more proud of myself than when I put on my Randolph County, Alabama, EMT uniform and went to work!         I went through the Basic, Intermediate and Paramedic Programs as required by the State of Alabama, and was licensed as a NREMT-P. In every class, I was the oldest member. Who says you can't teach an old dog new tricks?

          If you've read this far, you must not have anything to do. I didn't either! That's why I wrote it. But I know what I want to do when I grow up! I'd like to be a writer. I've heard writers make lots of money. I don't expect to do that -- don't really care. I do like to write. You can decide if I'm good at it or not. I'll tell you I'm a good story teller. I don't mean liar! I have no use for those folks. Sometimes I say something worthwhile. If you decide to read any of my novels, or New Age books, do it thoughtfully. It'll help you get in touch with your heart. It might even cause you to understand Why you are here, and help you to appreciate your "Significant Other."  

          There are still a few things about me you still don't know, and I sure as hell ain't gonna tell you. I will say, Mozart is my favorite composer.  Tulips are the flower I like best.   I'll just let you guess what my favorite colors are.  But I will share one more item with you. Take a look at an airplane I once owned. She was a beauty and easy to fly!

          I've spent lots of time in the woods and love animals and the mountains. I was born and bred in plain sight of Dugger Mountain, the second highest peak in Alabama, which was recently designated as a Wilderness Area. Go to Piedmont, Alabama, and visit it. You can't find a better place to be than on top of a mountain.

         It was my pleasure to have you drop in and sit a spell. I hope you've enjoyed the visit as much as I appreciate you coming. Before you leave, tell me what you think, and  Don't forget the Good Stuff!!  

At my age, you might decide nothing is more fun that flying an airplane. I had two airplanes at one time. For a "pore-boy" that ain't bad. Then it might not be too good either. The day I bought this one, I went home and told my wife she wouldn't have to go buy groceries that week. She asked if I had done it for her. I said, "No! I just spent all of our money."        I had - every last penny!

Man! Is my face red? When I was 67 years old, on Ground Hog Day, my mother, my two sisters and I were discussing Family Genealogy.  In passing, Mother said, "My Grandpa's name was Solomon Birch. For Poppa, they kept the initials S.B. But his name was Stevenson Boyd."      "Say what?" I almost screamed.      "Poppa's name was Stevenson Boyd," she replied, a bit confused. I thought she was really confused. After all, Mom's lots older than me! My two sisters shared my confusion. All three of us thought our Grandpa's name was "Solomon Boyd." But mother had this cute little story about when she took a Victory Job during WWII. The girl typed his name as "Stephenson." Mom told the girl, "He spelled it Stevenson." But the girl replied, "That spells Stevenson too," and did not change the form.      What the hell!  Daddy had a half-brother I didn't learn about until I was thirty three. Maybe if I live long enough, I'll learn all the family secrets!

Apparently I'm not the only dummy around. Yesterday I was rummaging through Mother's pictures and keepsakes. I found an Obituary for Grandpa Canter. It read, "S. B. Canter, Jr. died...." Say what! Great-Grandpa Canter's name was supposedly "Solomon Birch." Grandpa's second name must have been "Boyd." After all, that's where I got my middle name. "Boyd" is what they put on Grandpa's tombstone. So where in hell does "Junior" come from?           Stay tuned. We might find the bottom of this barrel yet if we keep on digging deep enough!