My dad missed exits, got off the wrong ramps, doubled back, and added hours to a route he’d normally master with ease. That wasn’t like him. Not at all.

Another time, he went on the wrong side of the interstate. That was the last time we pretended this wasn’t serious.

All of it – the wrong turns, the panic, the near head-on traffic – was the disease showing its teeth. There hadn’t been a diagnosis yet. No label. No warning stamped in red ink. But we didn’t need one. The mind was going. And the man was going with it.

From hopping the train to school to crashing cars into ditches, crashing cars into ponds, and just a lot of crashed cars in general, Dennis and I have done some of the dumbest things you can think of.

We’re diving deep into the Picher stories that didn’t make it into the book, Barefoot and Bulletproof —just the ones that left a few scars and a lot of laughs.

My brother Dennis and I sat down for a podcast late last year – swapping stories and remembering memories of days gone by. What we ended up talking about wasn’t just the wild, stupid things we did as kids—it was the plague that’s haunted our family for generations: Dementia.

The sky dimmed. A dry wind swept across the outfield. Then, without warning, a funnel cloud tail dropped out of the clouds and touched down—right on top of the chat pile. Then it exploded.

Loose chat erupted into the air like a volcanic blast. Chat and dust flew skyward, caught in the spinning column and flung in every direction. Chat rained down across several blocks, cracking windshields, breaking windows, denting cars and rooftops. The scoreboard in deep center field sounded like popcorn popping. The tin roof of the dugouts rang out like a chorus of handbells as the chat ricocheted off, rattling and spraying like a machine gun.

Where I grew up, you didn’t need a résumé to know who you were dealing with.
You needed a nickname. You didn’t have to like it. You just had to earn it.
And when someone hollered it across the football stands or from a truck window…
You answered.

There was something almost sacred about that space. The lights twinkling on the tree, the low rumble of football on the TV, the smell of Mom’s cinnamon rolls still hanging in the air. That little living room wasn’t in Picher anymore, but as the family gathered for a few hours that night, everything that mattered about home was there.

Dennis's cleat found the sweet spot like a heat-seeking missile. One second I was charging forward, the next, crumpled like a lawn chair. White-hot pain exploded through my gut and dropped me like a sack of potatoes. For a few seconds, I couldn't breathe. The play kept going, but I curled into the turf, hands clutching my groin, trying not to pass out.

We slid into a booth at her favorite Chinese restaurant. She showed me how to swirl a little red sauce with just a touch of mustard—elegant, controlled, sophisticated.

I wasn’t about to be outdone. I poured a silver-dollar pool of red sauce, dropped in two spoons full of mustard, and finished with a snowstorm of crushed red pepper flakes.

One bite. My sinuses detonated.

We're thrilled to announce that memoir author Eric Glover has signed with D4EO Literary Agency for representation of his debut book, Barefoot and Bulletproof: The Dirty Little Glover Boys.

We filmed several segments for the new Chat Rat Chronicles podcast. Some covered territory from Barefoot and Bulletproof. Others? Nostalgic stories that never made the memoir — the kind of tales that only surface when two brothers get talking and the lifelong memories start flooding back.