Part 1 — The Disturbing Element

PART 1 — The Disturbing Element

I began writing these musings on December 5th, 2025, at the young age of 72 — young if you’re Methuselah. I don’t know exactly what prompted me to start. Maybe because writers write. Maybe because I had things on my chest. Maybe because I thought someone might give a crap. Whatever the reason, here we are.

I don’t know where this is going, but I wanted to write it down before the details fade. Some memories are fuzzy, but others are etched in my brain — even from preschool days on a poor farm in Southern Missouri. Not poor in money, but poor in soil. The ground wasn’t worth a hill of beans, which might be why Dad moved us to the big city where the jobs were. I suspect that’s why — I don’t know.

City Life & Mischief

I have mixed feelings about those early city days. First grade was something. Mrs. Burris discovered early that I thrived on attention and had a talent for spreading mischief like a manure spreader spreads manure. Thick.

I sometimes wonder if Mrs. Burris had coffee with my second‑grade teacher, Mrs. Tate, and warned her: “Keep a close eye on that boy.” Mrs. Tate certainly did. She also had a flair for dramatic wording. On my report card she wrote:

“Dennis is a disturbing element.”

I didn’t know what a disturbing element was, but my mother did — and I knew it wasn’t good when she reached for the Razor Strap.

Switches, Straps, and Running in Circles

I took many a thrashing. Belts, switches, hands, fly swatters, and once, a broom. The weapon of choice depended on the severity of the infraction and the availability of nearby objects.

I remember one backyard episode vividly. My mother had a tight grip on my wrist and a switch in her hand. I was running circles around her, wailing like a cat with its tail under a rocking chair, yelling:

“I won’t do it no more! I won’t do it no more!”

She stopped mid‑swing to correct me: “I won’t do it anymore!”

Grammar mattered, even during combat.

The Stick Figure Incident

One day in Mrs. Tate’s class, I sat next to two giggly girls. They handed me a stick‑figure drawing. Knowing my reputation for “cutting up,” they expected me to add something. I did. I drew the missing stick part.

More giggles. Big mistake.

Mrs. Tate’s hawk eyes spotted it. She came at me like a mad hen after a June bug. And that, my friends, is almost certainly what led to the evil words on my report card.

I don’t know. But I suspect.

The Birth of a Writer

I discovered early that I might have a talent for writing. I also discovered rejection. Lots of it. Enough to inspire the first poem I ever got paid for:

“My mailman sneaks up to my house; it’s for his own protection; he knows it’s hazardous to health to bring one more rejection.”

Ten dollars for that masterpiece. I didn’t invest it like Warren Buffett. I spent it like a kid. It disappeared like a snowball in hell.

A Hill of Beans

My mother once told me, “Dennis, you’ll never amount to a hill of beans!” I’ve been trying ever since, although I still don’t know what’s so special about a hill of beans.

But I do know this: Nothing worthwhile is easy. Nobody said it would be.

Stephen King’s first novel was rejected 30 times. He didn’t give up. And we mustn’t either. The Good Book calls that wavering — and says those who waver can expect to receive nothing. Amen.

A Disturbing Element No More

So here I am, decades later, writing again. Not as the disturbing element Mrs. Tate warned about, but as a man who’s lived, learned, laughed, and leaned on God through every season.

This is Part 1 of my story. More mischief, more memories, more musings to come.

To be continued…