Chapter 3

Knick stood looking up, Bud’s Restaurant Since 1939. For a moment time moved through his eyes as he remembered the sign and the fragrant smell of sweetness from his youth. So much has changed, Bud is gone, generations have moved forward and someone else is now minding the business. He entered and spotted Bud’s famous quote “An apron is just a cape on backwards” posted as a reminder to all real men that a pie baking superman can act in many different roles. The fine aroma of fresh pastry lingered all around contrasting the heaviness of an aged establishment. He spied the booth on the end, vacant and beckoning . He hung his enfield woolen outter coat on the rack and slid into the booth so he had a view of the entrance. He could smell the aged wool combined with the interior of Bud’s which reminded him of his grandfather, Dusty, now gone but always remembered for his love of pie. It was getting later so the crowd was thin and quiet. The young lady working the counter and cleaning glanced over and said, “what can I get ya?

“Coffee and a nice slice of cherry ” Knick grinned. Bud’s cherry pie had always been his favorite as well as Ossie’s and Dusty’s. He thought to himself ‘this one’s for you pops”. As he was waiting, he noticed a young boy dawdling slowly behind a young woman, possibly his mother, heading to the exit. He was dragging his arm down the counter dodging the stools anchored to the floor seemingly bored as though he was playing a game. Knick noticed the lad’s clothes were old and faded, shared through concerned neighbors perhaps or passed down from an older sibling. His sneakers were torn on the edge from years of play and mischief. Knick remembered his own well worn Keds from the day. How they literally had to be unwearable before he would part with them.

He spotted something about this youngling’s behavior which piqued his interest. The lad was looking intently toward the end of the counter where a dollar bill sat next to an empty plate. The waitress who had paused her work to get Knick’s pie was in the back. As the lad slowly strolled and lagged, he was now glancing about reading any eyes upon him riveted by the unguarded treasure that lay before him. Knick in an instant read the intent and he watched undaunted with an unbending focus tapping his finger in an almost silent rhythm. The not so innocent tadpole glanced back one last time and locked eyes with the stranger at the far end of Bud’s place. Knick stared deeply into the wide brown eyes and suspended the moment in time. The young thief stood poised as a statue as Knick’s essence flowed within inches of his face. His smaller fingers hovered over the greenback motionless. Knick’s phantasm whispered “don’t!” and in a split second the youth dropped his ploy as he brushed his fingers across the dollar and stared in disbelief into the deep void of the strange man’s eyes. He sped ahead to catch the opening and disappeared into the darkness as the door quietly closed. Immediately the door reopened and in stepped Officer Rori Whitlock looking over his shoulder intently, dressed for work and ready to begin his shift. Knick watched as Rori strode commandingly toward the booth they would share.

“What’ll it be Whitlock?” The waitress asked as she was converging with Knick’s pie and a fresh pot of coffee. “Any more of that coconut cream Jenny?” “Coming right up, you want a cup too?” “Please,” smiled Rori.

Knick was pouring cream into his coffee and without looking up said, “Rori Whitlock cop of Defiance. How long has this been going on?” in the tone of a pleasantly surprised long out of touch friend.

“Going on a decade, since I left the service.” The two rangers grinned at each other as Jenny set a cup and the pie before Rori. “You two set?” Jenny injected. “Set point and matched” Knick retorted.

Then there was a pause and silence. They both shared the moment looking each other over. They were like brothers from different mothers. Rori’s blue eyes probing and Knick’s green eyes reflective, Rori’s brown skin glistening and Knick’s tan skin absorbing. For a moment they were transported back in time to the day almost 20 years ago when they both enlisted in the US Army, never knowing the moment and hour that lay ahead of a fateful reunion. The hypnotic moment was broken as neither wanted a recap of the past knowing full well that all answers were to be discovered in the present. Knick spoke first. “You know I spotted a future you; and I saved him from your wrath a second before you came in the door.”

“What.. that little Piker flying out the door who almost ran into me?”

“That’s right.” Rori laughed, “well I hope you put the fear of bejesus in him” as he scooped up a large bite of pie.

“Let’s just say I shared a bit of a moment with him” as Knick sipped his coffee to wash back a bit of his pie. Jenny reappeared with her pad. “Say is this coffee with a cop tonight?”

“No Jenn, this is coffee with an old friend”, as Rori looked up smiling. Jenny’s eyes were twinkling with mischief as she slapped down their bill and said “well I’ll leave this then for youse all to fight over. This could be fun to watch.” Knick chuckled and snatched the bill. “This one’s on me.” The young Jenny danced to the end of the counter, snatched the money off the counter by the door, and cleaned up that service.

The old friends devoured their pies sprinkled with conversation and drank coffee until Bud’s was deserted and they sat alone. Jenny flashed the lights up front, on off, on off. “Hint, hint”. The two seasoned rangers had covered a lot of ground as time had allowed. Knick stood up straightening, grabbed his coat and strode over to pay Jenny. Rori lingered by the door. As they began to exit Rori said, “Knick first of the week, after Ossie’s funeral stop by the station. We need to discuss further what I told you about the accident.” As Knick paid and tipped young Jenny he nodded, “right-y-o old friend.” The two stepped out into the cold, turned and walked in opposite directions, Knick to old blue and Rori into another night of unknown darkness.

Chapter 2

Kathryn Katz passed an old blue Ford pick-up as she searched for a parking space. “Damn Ossie was more popular than I thought”, she moaned in her mind. Her old Chevy smelled strangely of feral cats and wadded fast food wrappers. She saw Mayor Mike getting into his pick-up and sighed in relief thinking he was the last person she wanted to see. She found a tight space and pulled in too far and could feel her license plate scratching the cement parking barrier. She slammed the car into park, then reverse and felt the plate scratch again. She sighed loudly and took a breath, opened her door and hit the BMW she was crowded next to. “Great”, she muttered as she mustered all of her strength to get out from between the two cars. She never bothered to look at the mark she left on the BMW. Her floral dress was hiked up so she took a moment to straighten and smooth her dress and long coat. Sixty extra pounds added to her already overwhelming burdens and made her old clothing a bit uncomfortable. She still had her old manner of posture, one that suggested she was once a striking woman. At 67 and retired she was beginning to feel the better years were in the rear view mirror.

Stoney glanced up in thought and locked eyes with Kathryn as she entered the room. “Christ what is she doing here?”, Stoney thought. She knew Kathryn, who everyone called “Kitty”, was more attached to Joan, Ossie’s 4th wife. She remembered a scene from Joan’s funeral and the drama. She wanted nothing of the sort here. She cordially smiled as Kathryn strode past ignoring her. The crowd of mourners and well wishers had thinned considerably. Rita was exhausted, quietly talking to Gayle Sands another long time close friend who was comforting her with stories from their shared youth. A spirit of gravity had gathered and settled on the room. Rory was once again sitting in his chosen spot scanning and listening. He spotted Kitty heading over to Rita and Gayle and decided to stand up for a good stretch.

Kathryn stood close to Rita and Gayle. They both looked up at her. She smiled sadly showing her lip stick smeared teeth. “I’m so sorry Rita” , Kathryn said looking down, “you know Oscar’s in a better place.” Rita held back her thought – where’s that? Kathryn saw her expression of grief and continued,”everything happens for a reason.” Now Gayle was beginning to get stirred – “and what might be that reason?” she wondered aloud softly. Kathryn was taken aback for a moment, at a loss for words. She was all out of pointless platitudes when she became awash in her own shower of discomforts. Momentarily the women were soaked in an awkward silence. Kathryn again was the first to speak, “I’m sorry Rita, I guess what I’m trying to say is that I’m here for you when you need me.” Rita’s eyes teared as she remembered Joan’s layout and Kathryn confronting Ossie accusing him of keeping her from seeing Joan in her last hours. Ossie had respected Joan’s wishes as she had told everyone she wanted to be left alone in her final days. Kathryn never got over this and blamed Ossie of being jealous of their closeness. The real problem was Kathryn’s – an obsession with Joan. Everyone knew this but Kathryn. This did not make her evil just awkward and unwanted. Rita reached over to Kathryn and gave her arms a squeeze,”thanks Kitty.” Rita pivoted and walked slowly away toward Rory who stood quietly close by, a large brown statuesque man, her protector. They hugged each other in the silent pain of grief’s embrace. Gayle stepped lightly toward Stoney and they both started speaking together in the hushed tones needed to ease the tension in the moment. Kathryn walked over to view Ossie one last time. “Goodbye Oscar, farewell wherever you are” she whispered. She then turned and headed out the door into another cold night of Defiance.

Knick was enjoying the evening air of Fort Winchester Park a site that defied “all the devils in hell” or some such quote. The confluence of the Auglaise and Maumee Rivers attracted few visitors since it was added to the National Register of Historic Places. This little park served the locals for all the reasons people congregate: to play, walk dogs, sip drinks from brown paper bags, engage in sketchy transactions and all kinds of hook-ups. To Knick this was a piece of his old stomping ground, a place familiar and unchanging. His gaze fell to the dark waters in front of him. He opened his mind to the silence surrounding him. In the distance he heard the rhythmic foot slap of a jogger’s approach in a crescendo of synchronized steps and well trained breathing. He thought I could use a little exercise myself. He closed his eyes and entered into the meditation of the moment. Knick sensed the jogger was nearly passing him as he heard the foot strike. He slipped into the thought stream and froze the moment in his mind. Then there was silence. Knick pivoted beyond his body and observed the young runner stock-still as his essence encircled her figure. She was young, fit and beautiful. He sensed her thoughts. She was concerned about her future, and he knew why; she was unmarried and expecting. She had a good job, a steady boyfriend and a future. While continuing to freeze the moment, Knick’s thought stream observed their two figures, the jogger was staring at his figure looking away toward the water. He sensed she was curious and unafraid of him. He used his concentration to rejoin the moment, he then heard the sound of another footfall as the jogger passed into the silence of the night. Knick took a deep breath and exhaled. He knew she would be alright as he continued gazing into the dark river. He turned silently, stretched his arms overhead and thought to himself that was a nice short workout. As he slowly walked back to where he had parked old blue, he felt ready for some pie and good company.

RockDrop – A short novel

Knick stood silently looking down into his father closed eyes. His face was mask like but good looking, the mortician had done a good job. Oscar’s fine silver hair was combed back, giving his father’s appearance a regal farewell for those soon to be coming to pay their last respects. Knick knew the town would be pouring in to bid Oscar, or Ossie as they all knew him the final farewell. For some odd reason he thought of weddings and the typical admonition the preacher usually gave saying, “this is the best they will ever look, so remember it.” Well this was the stillest his father would ever be and it was unnerving to Knick.

Rita silently slipped her hand into Knick’s and placed her hand on her fathers breast pocket adjusting the handkerchief for the second time. He looked over into her grey swollen eyes. Knick thought to himself she would be better off leaving with me and for one moment felt that guilt of abandonment come over him. However the feeling passed quickly like the years since he had left Defiance and never looked back. He pressed Rita’s hand softly and whispered, “bye Ossie you lived well and I’ll miss you.” Rita knew her big brother was sincere and she knew he would be leaving shortly. She let out a breath as another set of tears rose to wash away the years of memories, her cheeks still full of the glow of womanhood and maturity were streaked with the make-up that often hides the scars and years. Knick looked at her beautiful face and again thought to himself she doesn’t need make-up, but now she needs cleaning up. Rita simultaneously looked up into a mirror that reflected the scars inside her as the streaking on her cheeks slowly flowed to her jaw. She turned toward Knick and he turned toward her. The two embraced in an attempt to bridge the gap that was really a deep chasm in their family’s lives. A temporary meeting. Knick, tender as he felt toward his younger sister, broke the embrace first and said quietly to Rita, “I’ll see you back at the house.” Rita knew he would be late, he was always late, sometimes too late. Knick turned and strode several feet toward the door when the shape of an old friend caught his eye.

Rory Whitlock was sitting in the small room off to right staring out of the side window. Rory was his oldest friend in town but they had not spoken to or seen each other in years. Knick quietly thought what’s he doing here so early? He knew Rory always carried this banner for Rita despite her failure of a marriage to an older fella Knick never knew. Maybe Rory finally caught her attention. She could do much worse. Knick broke with his stride, turned and stepped into the side room. The smell of lilacs filled the room. Knick thought how appropriate after all the lilac was the official flower of Defiance and he couldn’t imagine a scent more fitting to overwhelm the aura of death surrounding them. Rory glanced up as though startled from deep thought, his face broke into a muted smile. Knick saw the one gold front tooth and was flooded by the memory of the day he knocked it out by accident. What are friends for?

Whitlock stood up straight, his blue eyes blazing as they always did. The azure stare had a way of creating awe and fear in others, but Knick sensed the friendship behind the eyes had not been lost to the years. The two large men did a brotherly embrace smiling at each other which seemed to wash the weight of the moment away. “I’m sorry about Ossie, he was a good man, good to me and so many others.” Knick knew this well and echoed Rory’s simple well chosen words in the silence of the room. For a moment a flood of memories washed over Knick, he took a deep breath, ” Say Rory, let’s meet at Bud’s in two hours. We can catch up over pie and coffee, I have to get out of here.” Rory studied Knick’s face, he thought to himself come on man this is your dad’s layout. Knick could read the expression almost word for word. Knick meant what he said and Rory knew it. Knick always stood by his word and there was no negotiation. Rory looked into Knick’s narrow eyes and said, ” I’ll be here with Rita and it might be three hours.” Knick knew Rory was a man of his word and said, “I know” as he blinked and turned toward the door.

The Mortuary Director of the only funeral home in Defiance was readying for the guests by the front door when a robust woman dressed as a Park Ranger arrived at the door. The heavy oak panels were nothing for Willa Stoneheart who easily moved through the opening unchallenged. Stoneheart, known as Stoney throughout the region, was a very old family friend of the Tuffins. She and Ossie became close again when Joan, Ossie’s 4th wife had died five years ago. Knick spied her entry from the side room and headed into another hall with an exit. He looked over his shoulder and saw Rita moving toward Stoney. He wasn’t ready for Stoney and he didn’t want to see her quite yet. He gripped the solid brass door knob and quietly slipped out the side door.

Stoney stood stoically beside Rita. “Oh Rita my child, come with me” she whispered. The two of them went into a comfort room where Stoney grabbed a box of tissues and started dabbing at Rita’s cheeks. There was a softness in the strokes of this work hardened woman and comfort in her calming tone as she nourished Rita’s skin back to its healthy glow. Rita wanted the care, wanted the calm, wanted the past, wanted some peace. Stoney was the balm.

Knick climbed into the cab of his baby blue Ford F 100. He had the truck since Ossie gave it to him when he turned 15. As he gripped the over sized steering wheel, he slipped into the time stream of memories recalling hours of restoration. He and Ossie worked side by side, day by day up to Knick’s sixteenth birthday with the final paint a week before. Ossie knew what a car meant to Knick. Freedom. A simple yet complex word to his middle child. In a split second Knick remembered his older sister, Jasmine. The dark memory of her mysterious death cast a long shadow across the family and was the reason for the first divorce from Knick and Rita’s mother, Anita. Perhaps the other two divorces as well. Knick never met his fathers 2nd, 3rd and 4th wives, he was studying over seas. Knick stared ahead from the drivers seat. Today seems filled with impressions, dark thoughts and memories. He knew from the training this darkness had meaning not just tied to the days sad events but to the future and the past. He was puzzled as he hit the ignition. The old Ford fired right up and hummed a tune of constant care. Knick shifted “Old Blue” into gear and eased out of the lot and down the road.

Rory had seen Stoney and Rita as they walked arm and arm comforting each other. Secretly he wished he was the one easing Ritas’ pain and for a second he thought that alone could ease his. He stopped himself from sliding down the slope of self sorrow and steadied his gaze. It was good to see Knick he thought to himself but what the hell happened to him all these years. Rory found himself slipping into investigation mode and stopped thought. I don’t have to be a cop today.

Stoney looked into Rita’s lovely but weathering face. She understood the storm behind Rita’s eyes and the flood in her heart. Rita looked into Stoney’s face and saw the years of outdoors and she could swear she smelled fresh air on her breath. It was really the cool air from the door opening and closing as townspeople and friends began to arrive. The two of them walked together looking at all of the family pictures Rita had assembled. They stopped in front of the one with “Old Blue”, Ossie and Knick. Rita stared at the picture and felt a flood of tears welling, “You know Knick was here”. Stoney held her hand gently but increased the pressure slightly and said, “was here?” Questioning. Rita was silent for a moment and then spoke up,” you know Knick, he never wanted to come back here, he’s been gone so long he doesn’t want to explain anything to anyone. All of his secrecy, he never told us anything, it’s like he is protecting us.” Stoney stood silent probing Rita’s eyes. “He did say he would see me later, much later knowing him.” Stoney detected a certain uncertainty in Rita’s tone. She gave Rita’s hand another gentle squeeze, ” You’ll see him, we all know he keeps his word.” Stoney looked across the room as familiar faces were appearing and thought to herself, thank God Knick is here, there are a lot of questions that need answering.


A seasoned granddaddy spins stories and this is mine…. I was born in the year 1954. On the day of my birth my father, Frederic, met my mother, Bebe, at the naval hospital in Philadelphia where a surgeon and a nurse delivered me in the usual manner. And yes, I was promptly spanked, admired for my loud voice and sent home to grow up. One of thousands of similar births that day, one of millions born that year, one of the multitude living on this planet, yet one of a kind. Perhaps the first of a kind?

The last Schwinn cruisers made in the USA rolled off the lines in Chicago in 1954. Bernard Hinault, a French cyclist known as the “badger” was born this year and went on to be a five times Tour De France winner. The same year Joe DiMaggio married Marilyn Monroe probably by badgering her as she filed for divorce on the grounds of mental cruelty 274 days later. General Motors produced its 50 millionth car. The United States Senate justly condemned Joseph McCarthy and Hollywood ruled the best picture was On the Waterfront with Brando taking home the Oscar. Shake, Rattle and Roll was hot on the airwaves and Mister Sandman made it to the top of the US charts. Archie Bleyer received credit on the platter “as knees player by”. The New York Giants swept the World Series from under the feet of the Cleveland Indians who were heavily favored. Willie Mays made the sensational running catch in the first game and characteristically lost his hat when making the throw. Rocky Marciano defeated Ezzard Charles-the only man to ever last 15 rounds of his pummeling. Rita Hayworth wooed us with her better known curves and Lustre-Creme Shampoo brought out her highlights. Few people know that her likeness was painted on the first A-bomb tested after WWII. BaBaBoom!

The average American income was $3960, a new car cost $1700, a new house was $10,250 and a gallon of gas was 22 cents. Whoa baby….just go back and reread the last sentence and let the numbers sink in. Bing Crosby crooned us to feel healthier and younger by drinking Minute Maid Fresh Frozen Orange Juice. Lost to obscurity Clarinetist Artie Shaw dubbed Harry Lillis “Bing” Crosby “the first hip white person born in the United States”. I guess that makes me much further down the list than I originally though. Still…what a year! 1954.

68 Years later and it’s the year 2022, with a born again GrandDaddySpin. Not in a religious sense unless a mixture of irreverence, sarcasm and OK boomer wisdom constitutes some sort of tent revival. Everything has accelerated toward this interesting stretch of highway called the present moment. I retired from my work and GrandDaddySpin LLC., Rita, Rocky, Joe, Bing, Ezzard, Archie and Marilyn have all passed on along with countless others leaving us all with memories and nostalgic hot flashes. Collectively the world is living under the 5th wave of a seemingly endless ocean of pandemic illness and we cannot agree on a consensus of acceptable behavior to surf the future waves. Our social contracts appear to be written in invisible ink fading before our eyes. AR-15s have replaced Daisy BB and paintball guns as the training choice of right wing children. Precocious children are convinced they want a sex change by the age of five. Adults can’t figure out where to let children go to the bathroom. We have fistfights on modern jets. Personally I want to know what happened to the Mile High Club and leg room. We elected a grifting game show host with the apparent sophistication of a walrus President of the USA, impeached him twice for behavior that made Nixon look slimly innocent and he walked away grinning. He did warn us he could shoot someone in broad daylight and never be convicted. Some interesting people have labeled him a gift of God which is perhaps the only reason these people could be found interesting. We are now approaching the first shameful anniversary of the sacking of the Capital by conspirators whipped into a frenzy by dubious co-conspirators who continue to sell products and pillows hoping we will all rest easy at night with all of this. Ironically this disgraced unmasked ex-president reminiscent of Jim Jones continues to control a significant segment of the US population nostalgic for the USA described in the opening paragraphs of this blog. Holy hossenfeffer where’s the Lone Ranger, Silver, Tonto, Lassie, Maxwell Smart and Jesus when we really need them??

Might I suggest a re-boot of sorts. Not the sort recently suggested by a right wing troll from Georgia masquerading as an elected congress woman. I was hoping for something more enlightening such as the inner work demanded of a collective Russel Brand movement. Carpe Diem perhaps….but less violent…more like grasp the significance of this moment. Real interior work with less emphasis on selfish opportunism and consumption, less emphasis on ideology and coercion, less emphasis on correctness and politics. Let’s dissect and examine, create and compose, expose and depose and finally learn to appreciate the miraculous behind and in front of our eyes.

Each one of us is living art, painted into a vibrant landscape not of our own composition that is, until we realize this one thing…. taking a lesson from Willie Mays… hearing the call batter up and perceiving the crack of the bat, focusing on the ball, moving with all our might, perfecting the over the shoulder catch, responding confidently, making the play….characteristically knocking our hats off….then smiling to the public with the sincerity and love that this moment truly needs as we kneel humbly to pick up our wrinkled, sweat stained hats.

That’s how I suggest we play this game.

What do you think? Please feel free to let me know.

You know you are getting old when…your mustache is whiter than your teeth.

You know I could go on and on…you know you are getting old when…but I already said that and that would just be another sign that I’m getting old. Since you are reading this; the reality is you will too. Maybe you are old. If so that’s great, you’ve got lots of experience. You have experienced “the good, bad and the ugly”. (Hopefully you are not like Tuco in the movie. It is said misery loves company but old people can be really bad company sometimes especially if they are miserable.)

So where is all of this leading. Ah, ha! I will tell you in one word, cultivation. I can hear what you are thinking “the cultivation seems to be getting kind of deep round here and odiferous”. Perhaps, but Einstein (or Musk depending on your generation), please read me out. The type of cultivation, I dig and till on about, is developing new skills and abilities beyond what we have or have grown comfortable with. To take the analogy further, let’s plow into a virgin field. (Wow I just thought about something I have not thought about today at all and my heart is racing.) Cultivation reduces the misery of growing old and perhaps becoming miserable or stale company. I hope to prove this to you beyond a shadow of your doubt, if you will stick with me and read this spin to its completion.

I’ll give you my example. Shortly after I turned 60, I acquired a Saraz Handpan and I set out to master playing music with it. I practiced and played for several years certainly developing my usual bad habits and routines. One day I stumbled on a Master of the Handpan, David Charrier, and began a series of on line lessons through I was way out of my comfortable place This fortunate choice accelerated my learning and skill levels enabling me to play publicly all by my little old self. The best part is that I continue to love playing, recording and playing out. I have studied with some of the greatest players from all over the world. First lesson for oldsters, find a teacher you trust, make a leap of faith and go to work.

With this sense of success; I also started sitting in with seasoned jazz musicians and playing swing on an old set of Meinyl Bongo Drums. The skills from the Handpan transferred to the Bongos which I had some previous experience with. I then became a regular with The Finneytown Jazz Workshop playing jazz standards at a boutique bar called the Lucky Turtle. I learned tunes by Sonny Stitt, Horace Silver, Miles, Coltrane, Herbie Hancock, Oliver Nelson, Sam Rivers, Freddie Hubbard, Wes Montgomery; all masters of this genre. This education was pure tonic with a semi-quaver for my soul and I am a senior in the last coda of my song!!

But this is not the end and nor should it be.

I am planning a group growth experience on this site and I can feel it in my bones it will be journey of bisociation, growth, anticipation and fun. (Had any of that lately?) I have discovered the best things happen in groups. This is how this group will work. I (we) are going to write a short novel. How? I will publish on this site the beginning of our story by next week- it is already named Rock Drop. Anyone who joins and follows this blog will be able to participate. Participation will begin after the opening story is published on this site. When you initially participate you will send me in the comments your addition of a character name (first, last and a nick name), their age (10 years old or greater), their role or profession (one or two words), and their state of mind (one word). I will then weave the individual into the story. I will at a future date reopen submissions to participants for future additions to shape the outcome of characters submitted as the novel develops. This will only apply to the characters who continue to live. Sadly this is not a ghost story unless that choice becomes possible. The submissions will always be simple one and two word descriptors or actions as this plot thickens. You will have opportunities to shape your characters future but bear in mind I am the writer and this will be a mystery with twists, some mayhem, unfortunate events, investigations and revelations. Please no profanity or gross behavior, I have those details covered by my own dementia. If this novel is ever published for profit, the proceeds will go to aide seniors who waste their days and minds watching Fox News, infomercials, QVC and the home shopping channel. I’m kidding, nobody does that do they? No this novel is strictly here for our pleasure, development, amusement and illumination. Do you hear the crack of the bat? (If you don’t go back and re-read the last paragraph of the blog Beginngs…)

Please let me know what you think because I am curious. Are you?