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Waiting for the Popster To avoid confusing the reader, the telling of this chronicle demands explanation. It is about four dogs … real dogs … and one cat that lived, loved, and passed on while in the care of one human person with several names. Three of us enjoyed the love and care of Mom/Mama, another human as well. Buddy was the human brother to Skippy and me. Dad, who was the father figure to Blackie and Brandi, evolved into Mulan’s playmate,“The Popster.” Blackie and Brandi’s Mom became Mama for Mulan. To share the lives of these family members, I must put aside my smelling and stalking skills and resort to borrowing the language and thought patterns of humans. Why, you may ask? I am Jerry, your narrator, and I am neither dog nor human. I was Buddy’s feline playmate during the early 1940’s and the first of Buddy’s animal family to arrive here in Rainbow Valley. Perhaps this place is a way station to heaven. Maybe it doesn’t exist at all, but don’t t...
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Satan’s Gift Sergeant Ben Taylor’s Experiences during World War II with Patton’s Third Army. This is an account of a portion of former United States Army Technical Sergeant Benjamin Weatherby Taylor’s experiences during World War II.  Sergeant Taylor fought during campaigns in Normandy, Northern France, Belgium, the Rhineland, Ardennes-Alsace, and Czechoslovakia. Sergeant Taylor shared this personal slice of history with me, his first cousin, in June of the year 2000.  These events occurred over fifty-five years before the telling. This chronicle is in Ben’s own words. Consequently, the author does not intend this work to be of academic quality, but a way of honoring the man who contributed so much to his country and to this family.  Ben was born B. W. Taylor in the Bradfield’s Chapel Community of Morris County near Daingerfield, Texas, on December 4, 1917.  As ...
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The truth, the truth, nothing but the truth.

These truths are almost self-evident. I wrote them to purge my soul. Some are humerous, others sad, a couple dark. They are all true. Sport of Fools During the years my wife Nancy and I bounced around the country, we lived in Denver.  The sport of skiing had never tempted us before and never would have we not been so close to the slopes.  When one lives in Colorado, one skis.   Our first foray onto the slopes was uneventful and consisted mostly of lessons and hot toddies.  Our first instructor ran us through the paces, and then he took us to the mountaintop.  We made our way down.  Notice that I didn’t say we skied down.  We made our way down, and then we chose to bring the bunny slope to its knees for the rest of the day. The next trip was a weekend jaunt to Keystone. Since we had already skied at Loveland for a couple of hours, we considered ourselves season vets.  Our first instructor at Keystone went through the lessons agai...
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