We relive our lives through the stories we tell.

Usually it starts something like this:

“Pull up a chair…this is gonna take a minute.”

That’s how we relate to each other.

Somebody starts telling a story…

and we listen.

We nod.

Sometimes we shake our heads.

All the while thinking:

“Yeah…I’ve been bit by that dog myself.”

Life rarely turns out the way we expected.

Even with the best intentions…things go sideways.

And somehow, those become the stories that stay with us.

The ones we come back to.

The ones we tell again and again.

Inside these stories are paper mill towns, skunks, race tracks, Rebel the dog, Nana Bird, Uncle Mike, Cussin’ Billy, Bob and The General…and the kinds of moments that somehow become funnier every time they’re told.

Hotdog Water is a collection of those kinds of stories—from one man and the unforgettable circle of people around him.

So, come on in.

Pull up a chair...

this might take a minute.

But you’ll enjoy the company.

Inside these stories are paper mill towns, skunks, campgrounds, race tracks, Rebel the dog, Nana Bird, Uncle Mike, Clyde, Cussin’ Billy, The One, Bob and The General and the kinds of moments that somehow become funnier every time they’re told.

★★★★★

"Just clean humor stories"

"This is an enjoyable quick read about everyday living and humor in mix. I recommend this to all who need a lighthearted, entertaining escape into everyday life and humorous antics along the way!" - A.W.

Amazon Review on April 29, 2026-United States

"Five Stars!"

Funny story after funny story. I highly recommend this book" - A.M.

Amazon Reveiw on April 10, 2026-United States

★★★★★

A Few Folks Pulled Up a Chair

A few kind readers stopped long enough to share their thoughts.

Meet the Misrememberings...

Bob

A man fully committed to confidence regardless of available evidence.

The General

Proof that love and intimidation can peacefully coexist.

The One

The steady voice of reason who somehow stayed patient while the rest of us kept creating situations that probably should have required adult supervision.

Uncle Mike

The kind of man who could turn an ordinary afternoon into a story that needed explaining later.

Clyde

A 1951 Chevy pickup that taught me old trucks, much like people, tend to have personalities, opinions, and mechanical problems that arrive mostly without warning.

Cussin' Billy

A young boy who drifted through my early life briefly…but left behind stories that outlived the visit.

Rebel the Dog

A good boy who approached life with enthusiasm, poor judgment, and absolutely no fear of consequences.

Nana Bird

Living proof that even a not-so-small bird can rule a household through fear and strategic violence.

Coffee, Cokes and Cardiac Chaos

Winter Haven, Florida — 1989

In 1989 we were newly transplanted to the Sunshine State and trying to start a new business venture—automotive reconditioning.

The One’s father had been in the trade for years and agreed to teach me the craft and help me get started.

The idea was simple enough.

Car lots always have vehicles with little cosmetic problems—scratches, worn interior panels, small dents, scuffed trim.

Our job was to repair those things right there on the lot and make the cars retail-ready.

Which sounds simple…

until you remember a couple important details about Florida.

It’s hot.

Every day.

And second—

it’s really hot.

Still every day.

The One and I would spend the day driving from lot to lot offering our services. When we got a job, the work was done right where the car sat. That meant climbing in and out of vehicles that had been baking in the sun for hours.

Anyone who has opened a car door in the Florida summer knows what that’s like.

You open the door and a wave of heat rolls out like the breath of a dragon.

The steering wheel can brand cattle.

The seatbelt buckle could probably weld steel.

And interior work means you are constantly getting in and out of those rolling toaster ovens all day long.

Which means one thing.

You have to hydrate.

Early.

And often.

Now I loved water…

but mostly when it had been improved.

For example, when water was properly blended with caramel coloring, bubbles, and enough sugar to keep a hummingbird awake for three days, it became something worth drinking—

like Coke.

Sometimes it was even better when the water had passed through coffee beans.

And occasionally, in the evening, it was nice when water had been introduced to hops and barley and chilled to just the right temperature.

But plain water?

That seemed unnecessary.

After a few weeks working the car lots, I started noticing something odd.

Every afternoon, around the same time, my heart would begin doing something that sounded less like a heartbeat and more like an island drum circle.

It would be beating along normally…

then suddenly stumble like it had tripped over its own feet and was trying to catch back up.

At first I figured it was just the heat and the adjustment to Florida weather.

But when it started happening every day, right about the same time, I began to get concerned.

And by concerned I mean I started wondering if The One was about to become a very young widow.

One story before you go...

If you’re new around here, this is probably a good place to start.

...the story continues in Hotdog Water

If you enjoyed the book,
a quick note on Amazon helps other readers decide if it’s worth their time.

And if you’d like to share your thoughts directly,
I’d personally enjoy hearing from you at

hello@hotdogwaterfiles.com

Vincent Lee Smith

writes about family, memory, small-town life, and the kinds of moments that usually become funny later.

He enjoys good coffee, old stories, quiet porches, and people who can laugh at themselves.

Recent Misrememberings

The time my youngest grabbed a cheap broken plastic car out of my hands after I told him I couldn’t fix it.

As he headed for the door he looked back and said:

“I give it to Paw-Paw Bob.

He’ll fic it.

He’ll dut tape it.”

Once, my middle son—about sixteen at the time—explained that he had “only” been going 10–15 mph when he slid his Jeep off the road and into a ditch.

So I drove him back to the curve…

eased through it at 15 mph…

and asked him why the skid marks were seventy-five feet long.

Been Bit By That Dog Yourself?

If one of these stories reminded you of somebody from your own life, I’d love to hear it.

The uncle who fixed everything with duct tape.
The dog nobody should have trusted.
The family trip that went sideways before you left the driveway.

You can send your own misrememberings to:

hello@hotdogwaterfiles.com

A few may eventually find their way onto the porch here.

*Names may be changed to protect the guilty.