⛵ Next Spring
He built campers, boats, and boys—and believed there was always Next Spring.
🔥The ROAR Movement
The ROAR Movement: Resisting Oblivion — Amplifying Remembrance
Some families pass down heirlooms. Mine passed down Alzheimer’s. That’s why I started writing. Not for therapy. Not for legacy. But to fight back. This is the movement behind the memoir—and the roar behind the stories.
🚜 Scrap Drive
🚜 Scrap Drive — The Willys, the Welders, and the Winter We Almost Ruled Pearl Street
How a homebuilt tractor, a spring blizzard, and a whole lot of Glover pride taught me what leadership looks like when the road disappears.
🚨 Pride Weighs More Than Plywood
“You don’t steer through a curve. You look through it.”
We called it dragging iron—riding low, fast, and fearless.
That’s how I learned leadership: not from books, but from bruises.
One lean too early, you stall.
Too late, you crash.
But nail it—and for a few seconds, gravity loses.
That’s what this series is about.
🟠 Help Me Publish This Memoir
A personal invitation from Eric Glover. I didn’t start writing a memoir to publish a book. I started writing because I was afraid the stories would disappear.This is the book I’ve built—story by story, memory by memory.If it moves you, laugh with me. If it haunts you, share it. And if you believe stories still matter… I could use your help.
🎸 Turn It Up!
From a red GTO and rattling 8-tracks to the night I met Kevin Cronin mid-turbulence, this is the story of how music shaped my life, saved my memories, and stitched together generations. A love letter to rock and roll, fatherhood, and the soundtrack that still plays at full volume.
🧠 What My Grandad Forgot—and What I Won’t
Grandad Ben could crack a watermelon over his knee and a story wide open with just a grin. Alzheimer’s stole his punchlines—but not his presence. This post is my promise to remember, to keep the forge lit, and to roar loud enough that no one forgets him again.
🧠 Why I Wrote My Memoir Before It Was Too Late
This memoir wasn’t written for publishers. It was written to fight the fade. For my grandsons. For the town that’s no longer on the map. For the memories that crackle like porch steps and Gorilla laughter. If you’ve ever felt something slipping, this is why I picked up a pen.
🧠 They Forgot. I won’t.
Dementia runs in my family—but so does defiance. My granddad forgot. My dad forgot. I won’t. This post is a punch thrown at forgetting, one memory at a time. If you’ve ever watched someone fade, this is what it looks like to fight back—with ink, grit, and a Gorilla’s roar.
You Might Be a Chat Rat If…
BB gun scars, busted handlebars, and pride that outweighed caution—if your childhood came with a warning label and a cloud of chat dust, you might be one of us.
Chat Rats Loose in Prague
Everywhere we go, somebody’s staring. We’re not doing anything special—just laughing loud and talking like we always have. But apparently, two grinning Oklahoma boys with wives in tow sound like a tornado warning in a library over here.
The Karmel Korn Confession
Our first date was dinner, horror, and a Karmel Korn catastrophe. I tried to impress Tina by playing it cool after spilling caramel popcorn across the movie theater floor. She didn’t run. She married me. That’s the story. That’s Crunch Life.
Twelve Miles to Cool
The summer before we could drive, we chased cool on ten-speeds—twelve blistering miles from Picher to Riverview Pool. What started as a ride for freedom became a journey into sunburns, daredevil dives, and baby oil goddesses. We thought we were chasing cool. But we were just riding home.
How the Dirty Little Glover Boys Got Their Name
Before we were legends—chat-dusted, grinning, and marked by the joy of a day well lived.
The name “Dirty Little Glover Boys” started as a screen-door shout from a kid across the street. We didn’t take offense—we claimed it. And we’ve been wearing it like a badge ever since.
Mo-Kan Mayhem
I clipped a rogue tire on the last turn and went airborne—sky, pavement, sky, pavement, repeat. When the smoke cleared, I was upright, shredded, barefoot, and straddling a smoking go-kart like I meant to do it. No trophy. Just scars, laughter, and a helmet with a fresh flattop.
The Moon Shot
Before I ever fired a shot, I was trapped in a camper shell with a gassy dog, freezing my tail off, and trying not to pass out. By sundown, I’d botched the flush of a lifetime, dodged my own shotgun spray, and earned a nickname I’ll never live down. This is how one hunting trip in Red Cloud, Nebraska, went from moon shot to punchline—and why my dog still gets the last laugh.
Valiant Pond Dive
What started as a joyride turned into a mud-splattered rescue mission when our car high-centered in a pond—just an hour before kickoff. With our football jerseys soaked, our jeans stuck with tadpole slime, and the starting offensive line still missing from the bus, we had to claw our way out of Lawyers Pond, beat the clock, and prove once again that in Picher, survival was half the game.
Dirt Daubers
What started as a simple backyard ballgame turned into an all-out aerial assault after one perfect swing clanged off an old metal fence post—home to a very angry swarm of dirt daubers. Dennis ran. I hesitated. Bad call. Ten seconds later, I was shirtless, screaming, and getting lit up like a Fourth of July sparkler. The aftermath involved a makeshift ER, a can of Prince Albert tobacco, and a peanut gallery of laughing neighborhood boys. And when the swelling finally went down… I brought the kerosene.
Set The Floor Afire
A homemade basketball goal. A spilled gas can. One match too many. What started as a trick-shot contest turned into a garage explosion, a flying drumstick, and a mama covered in flour. We didn’t just light up the court—we nearly torched the house. Welcome to Pearl Street physics, Chat Rat style.
