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I’m trying to do some warm up drawings and messing with different styles and brushes, papers, etc.

This is a simple line-art drawing, digitally drawn, without working off a rough. I used Painter 11, with the paper set so it has some tooth. When I use a pencil, I usually use the “grainy cover pencil”, which will cover any colors used underneath the it’s layer, as well as pick up on the grainy texture of the paper. If you work digitally, you know you can control the amount of grain with some of your tools. Painter’s digital watercolors are underneath the line work. I like to use them quick and fast. I don’t like things to look tight, so I’m fighting that ALL the time when I work. And finally, I will sometimes double up the line work and/or color layers, depending on how bold I want things to be. In this case, I went for bold.

 

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I have some lovely friends visiting at the moment, and it looks as though more are coming and I'll be kept occupied till the end of the month, so I've been squeezing in rapid drawings whenever possible. This started off as a simple doodle. Scanned it and played around a bit in photoshop and the above design was the result.

And below is another text design, also quick and fun to play with :) Now, if the weather would only decide to cooperate and spring settle in as it should, I'd truly enjoy the rest of the month and the good company that's accompanying it. Cheers!

 

Simple Flowers cards & gifts at Floating Lemons at Zazzle

Get Well Soon cards & gifts at Floating Lemons Typography at Zazzle

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I want to give away a free copy of the book.

Why? Well, because I'm a heck of a guy, that's why.

However, giving away something requires a contest, and contests are more often than not a pain in the poop cheeks of those putting them together.

If I'm going to do a contest I want to keep it simple - because I'm lazy.

To enter all you have to do is finish the following sentence:

"I really, really want a free copy of "Forts" because..."

That's it.

Just tell me why you deserve to get the book for free and email it to: [email protected]

In the end, I'm the judge. I'll pick my favorite and when the book is released you'll not only get it for free, but I'll sign it and maybe even draw a little something on the inside cover. I'll do whatever you want. If you feel like you really need me to put on some lipstick, pucker up and give it a kiss I'll do that too.

Keep in mind however that asking me to do such a thing would be horrifying, and confusing request - no doubt instantly transforming you into a grade-A weirdo in my eyes.

Who knows, maybe you're cool with that? Maybe that's exactly what you're going for? I'm not here to judge really, just give away free stuff.

Make your response funny, give me a sob story, threaten my life and the lives of those I love - I don't care - do what you have to do in order to convince me that you deserve a freebie over the other dudes sending emails my way.

You could even bribe me, though that would seem to defeat the purpose.

THE DEADLINE FOR SUBMISSIONS IS MARCH 15, 2010. I'll announce the winner a few days later.

See, nice and easy. It'll take you all of fifteen seconds. Get to it.

Steve

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Narrative Arc in Less Than 100 Words: Example 1

Very simple picture books still have a narrative arc, even though the word count is extremely small. Here’s a look at a narrative arc in 80 words (with the help of some illustrations), as it appears in My Friend, Rabbit, by Eric Rohmann, winner of the 2003 Caldecott Award for Best Illustrations in a children’s book for the year.

Narrative Arc in 32 pages, 80 words

Here’s a great example of a narrative arc in only 80 words.

1st person POV from Mouse’s POV, talking about his friend
p 1. Title page
2–3 Introduce Mouse and Rabbit
4-5 Problem establish: Rabbit always gets into trouble
6-7 Rabbit has confidence he can get out of trouble (Characterization_
8-9 Rabbit’s idea begins to unfold (pulling a large beast onto page)
10-11 Elephant is in place
12-13 Rhino pushed forward
14-15 We now see Rhino on Top of Elephant, while Rabbit brings in Hippo.
(start to understand that he’s stacking animals to reach the plane stuck in a tree)
16-17 More animals to stack up, each smaller than the previous
18-19 The stack has failed. But Rabbit is still confident and has a final idea
20-21 Rabbit gets Mouse involved in the idea.
It succeeds – mouse reaches the plane! But there’s also disaster . . .
22-23 . . . and the disaster is going to be bad because everyone is running out of the way. . .
24-25 . . . as animals –big and small–fall everywhere.
26-27 Animals are all mad at Rabbit
28-29 Mouse swoops in with the plane to rescue Rabbit (Rabbit’s friendship–because he means well–endears him to Mouse.)
30-31 Rabbit accidently covers Mouse’s eyes, so he can’t see to fly. . .
32 And they are stuck in the tree again, but this time, they are in the plane and Rabbit confidently says, I have an idea.

Narrative Arc analyzed

Word count: 80 (plus 10 words of dialogue on p. 30-31)
Characteristics of Rabbit: Means well, Trouble follows him, Supremely confident, an adventurer.
Characteristics of Mouse: Loyal to friend, an adventurer.

p. 1-3 Characters introduced
p. 4-5 Problem established
p. 6-19 Attempt to solve problem
p. 20-21 Attempt to solve problem fails, but there’s one last heroic effort. Success. Followed immediately by Disaster.
p. 21-28 Disaster threatens to overwhelm Rabbit
p. 28-29 Mouse saves his friend, Rabbit
p. 30-32 Circular ending: similar problem established again.

Narrative Arc Written as a Synopsis

I realized that this story is written in first person POV from the Mouse’s POV. That makes him the main character! I thought at first that Rabbit was the main character. But the POV, combined with the dramatic rescue by Mouse, makes this Mouse’s story. So, from the POV of Mouse, here’s the narrative arc written as a synopsis. (Of course, there are several ways to look at this, but this version makes sense to me.)

This is a story about Mouse, who more than anything wants to remain loyal to his friend, Rabbit, even though Rabbit gets in trouble. When Rabbit gets Mouse’s plane stuck in a tree (first test of loyalty) Rabbit tries to get it out by building a tower of animals. Mouse, (2nd test of loyalty) joins in by being the final link in the tower and finally he reaches his plane. However, the animal tower falls and Rabbit is in trouble, so Mouse (3rd and final test of loyalty and resolution) flies down

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I was told by witnesses present (including Momma) that I was born during a storm and heavy rain during the late evening of May 25, 1936 in rural Central Texas on the rich soil of the Blackland Prairie. Daddy had taken the old Model A Ford to Eddy, a small town about eight miles away, to fetch the only medical doctor closer than Troy. The roads were mud excepting for a short bit of gravel, and they had a terrible time getting there in time to greet me. They were a bit late, but never mind, “Ma” (Grandma Johnson) and several other ladies knew exactly what to do. After the doctor arrived, he checked us out and said all was well. He then had Daddy make the grinding trip again to take him home (he forgot to do a birth certificate, however).

　

The tiny shotgun house in which I was born was still around when I became older and I can tell you that no one mentioned preserving it as a possible historical site. It was beyond restoration when we resided there. I have some distinct memories of events in that house (although I would have to have been very young at the time). One was when (I learned later in life) a “cyclone” struck just south of us near the community of Cego. One person was killed and I recall people telling of seeing chickens completely plucked of all feathers by the terrible winds (they were called cyclones around home until the “news” began reporting tornadoes after the 1953 tragedy in nearby Waco, Texas). It was later, during my formal education, that I learned that cyclones and tornadoes are not the same. I vividly remember seeing fear in my Daddy’s eyes as he held me while looking up at the storm clouds and when the thick paper on the rafters (to keep out cold winds) collapsed and dumped a large amount of water at his feet. The other memory is a clear sight of my older brother walking across bedded ground in a field as he came home from school. I do recall sitting just inside a torn screen door, but nothing significant happened that I recall. I was told that I was crawling on the porch and fell off into the “slop bucket” (for feeding hogs) and almost drowned before being rescued. I do not remember it, but I have often wondered whether that affected my personality. I usually do not tell people, especially in polite society, “I fell into the slop bucket when I was a baby.” About the same time in my charmed life, I crawled, undetected, under a car driven by Uncle “Snooks” and when he backed out of the yard, a tire caught just a bit of the top of my head between it and the ground and pinched a piece of skin from the top of my scalp. I still have the scar, along with many others (most of which are not results of such a close call).

The only other clear memory of life in that house was when a “peddler” drove up to the house and Momma went out to look at the goods he carried. The back of an old Model A truck had canvass sides rolled up and I was lifted to see the wonders there to behold: cook ware, cloth and clothing, thread, vanilla extract and many forms of medicinal concoctions……and candy. I doubt that Momma bought anything. Money, if we had any, was not available for such. Daddy would take a list along with eggs, what money he had, and sometimes some chickens when he went to the store. The list was prioritized and that meant only necessities would be bought. The kids got candy, in most cases, when the men returned from the cotton gin after selling the first bale of cotton and at Christmas time. Peddlers usually sold little out on the farms at that time. Exceptions were the “Rawleigh Man” and the “Watkins Man” who sold salves, balms and spices (including their renowned vanilla extracts).

The house in which I was born was located on the Jim Wilkerson farm. Mr. Wilkerson lived in Waco and I believe that he was the founder of the Wilkerson and Hatch Funeral Home in Waco. The farm was very big for the time and there were several families who lived on the farm (including Ma and Pa Johnson and several other families from which life mates were found by Johnsons). One could stand in the yard and see several houses either on the Wilkerson farm or adjoining farms. Currently, that entire farm is a small part of someone’s vast farm or ranch. The old, collapsed barn that stood behind the house where Pa and Ma lived was the only indication that there had been occupants of that land when I most recently drove past it. It is hard to believe that the land was teaming with people and animals in the fields working, houses with orchards and vegetable gardens and one room schools and churches about every four miles apart. Now it is all pasture and fields. Life, in the form of livestock, can be found in the vast rolling pastures. Sadly, few remain who can remember the way it was back then. In many ways, the quality of life was better back then. Everyone cared for and looked out for each other. Hard times were shared by all just as, when someone made homemade ice cream, that, too, was shared by all. I loved it when our German neighbors brought fresh baked bread and pastries, especially. Momma would usually give them home preserved jellies or some other home made item. The ladies all had a quilting form in one room of the house which could be raised and lowered as needed. They took turns sitting around someone’s quilting form and made quilts from cotton brought from the gin that fall and from scraps of cloth. Those quilts were not for sale. They were for covering during the winter in houses with a wood burning stove in one room and plenty of places which permitted the cold winds to enter the house.

We moved southeast and across a little creek, but still on the Wilkerson farm when I was about three or four years of age. This house was a little better preserved and it had a big barn for Daddy’s mules, milk cow and “pet” goat. Daddy always found attachment to birds and animals, especially the unusual and exotic. Now when that goat caught Daddy leaning over into the corn crib shucking corn for the mules after a long hard day in the fields (behind a walking plow), he just couldn’t resist. The old goat shook his head and charged. He hit Daddy in the rear and knocked him into the corn crib on his head. Momma saw what happened and hid the gun before Daddy got to the house, hoping he would cool off soon. Daddy was in no mood to play, though. He got the ax from the wood pile and hid behind a corner of the barn. When the goat came around, Daddy put his entire weight behind a swing of the ax, aimed at the goat’s head. The goat jumped, the ax hit the ground so hard it broke the handle and jerked a “kink” in Daddy’s back. Poor Daddy had to buy a new ax handle, nursed a bad back for several days and still had the old goat, standing there shaking his head and “baaing” at him. Daddy gave the goat to a neighbor who, I believe, later shot the goat. I guess he was incorrigible.

The goat story was handed down to me as was another story involving more goats while we resided in that house. There was a shed out back which was not being used by Daddy and so a neighbor, who had a “rag top” car kept it in our shed during heavy rains (since the top invariably leaked). Daddy had traded something for a bunch of little young goats which he enjoyed very much. He liked to watch them play and jump on top of hen coops, barrels, etc. But he was not amused early one morning when he looked out back and saw the goats, running and playing. They were running in single file in a circle. They ran into the shed, jumped upon the back of the neighbors car, then upon the top, then to the hood and on the ground again for another round. One can only imagine what those little hooves did to that car (especially the top). Daddy had to work up the courage to go tell the neighbor. The neighbor took it well. After all, he was using Daddy’s shed. There were no more goats on that farm while we were there.

I recall clearly riding my tricycle in the yard and when I lost a tiny pocket knife that someone had given me. I decided later that my parents knew the whereabouts of the knife, but they felt that I should not have it, and rightly so. The tricycle was stolen by a person Daddy hired to help us move to our next house. That loss I still remember too. Daddy couldn’t afford to get another and the man who helped us move had left the area, so I just did without a tricycle and I adjusted well without psychological rehabilitation. Children, in those days, could play with just about anything by using initiative and imagination .

We drove up the field road past the Habel house, turned left and passed the big two-storied Jones house. Then we turned right on the road that took us to the “main” road (later a highway) and turned right and drove through Mooresville (quite exciting to me) and on to the beautiful farm of Mr. L.M. Newman. The farm started with pasture extending from the “main” road atop the crest of the line of hills south of the Cow Bayou and the bottom lands. A little white house was on the left sitting on a little plateau which extended to another steep drop, through more pasture land where a road trailed to the rich bottom lands for crops. A big red barn and several smaller buildings were on the opposite edge of the plateau from the house. The house was painted white (wow, paint!) and it had a white picket fence around it with a big long chicken house behind it (with a real burglar alarm on the door to guard against chicken thieves should we ever get that many chickens). The was dwelling was very small, but it had inside walls and electricity (no indoor plumbing, though). Mr. Newman had a cream separator (cranked by hand) and Momma would pour milk into the top, turn the crank, and milk would come out one spout and cream the other. It was a miracle. Mr. Newman also had a beautiful horse, something new to us. He also had a beautiful daughter in college who came to ride the horse periodically. I fell madly in love with her (she was later one of my school teachers, and I still loved her). I walked the top rail of the wooden barnyard fence for her entertainment one day, barefoot. She smiled and complimented me for my bravery.

I vividly recall playing in the front yard one day when I saw dozens of airplanes, flying in formation, going in different directions and when one group passed, another came. I ran inside the house to get Momma, We seldom saw airplanes back then and this was really a show. I can still see Momma leaning close to the radio listening intently and waving me off. I did not understand the significance of that day for some time. That was the beginning of World War II for America. The attack on Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s declaration of war on the United States, which followed. It was many years later, as I read his headstone in the cemetery, that I learned that the man who married Mr. Newman’s beautiful daughter and later moved to our little community, was at Pearl Harbor that day. His headstone reads “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” I had never heard him, in all the years I knew him, even mention that he was in the war.

I have many wonderful memories of that place…and some a bit shaky. My brother is six years older than I. So I was five and he was eleven. We reached a “get even” cycle in which each of us attempted to retaliate when we felt we were mistreated by the other. I was too small to fight him, so I usually “told on” him when he did something wrong. He would get into trouble when I told on him and he would “get even” with me when we left the house, which, well, resulted in his getting into trouble again. And so it continued for several years. I still have scars from some of those encounters.

　

One time my brother Billy, was riding Mr. Newman’s horse in the barnyard. I went to see what he was doing and, being a practical joker, he decided to scare me….and he did. He said he was going to run over me with the horse. I took off running to the fence as he charged at me on the horse. He reined in just before running over me, but the horse unexpectedly stepped on one of my heels and peeled a good deal of skin off. I was, as usual, barefoot. Billy got off the horse and genuinely apologized (or made it seem that way). He persuaded me to tell Daddy that a cow stepped on me. It was a long time after that before he bothered me again. We did some heavy dealing before I lied to Daddy about my injury and how I got it.

I guess the most memorable payback came when Billy took one of Daddy’s smoking pipes and took it to the barn (that big red barn with the big hayloft and fenced lot knew a lot of secrets) and smoked it. He decided to hide it in the hay would be safer than trying to return it and he would have it next time he got his hands on some smoking tobacco. I, being the intelligent one, told on him in his presence, but I whispered it to Momma. I didn’t know how he knew I told on him… Daddy had looked all over the house for the pipe (which happened to be his favorite one at the time) and finally settled for another older pipe. Billy really got into trouble for taking it and lying about it. Again, being the intelligent one, I ran to the barn with Billy the next day to “play.” Inside the barn, Billy had some tape which I thought was odd. He quickly stripped me of all my clothing and taped my hands behind my back. He then ran to the main road and hung all my clothing on a barbed wire fence which was a good fifty yards past the house. But I did not go for the clothes. I went straight to the house screaming and bawling like a stranded calf in a hailstorm. Momma ran out and grabbed me and took me into the house. Billy didn’t show up until supper time, but he had to “face the music” when he did.

We had an old 1930 something Chevrolet that had been wrecked in in back. The top was cut off by torch just behind the front seats. It had no doors. The seat and fenders were off the back and it made a good vehicle for hauling hay from the barn down to the cows in the “bottom” (the flood plain of the Cow Bayou). One day (and one day only), Daddy let Billy drive and I rode along to “help.” Daddy warned that Billy should drive very slowly and to come right back. He followed Daddy’s instructions until the hay had been distributed (and we were out of sight) behind trees and the hill. At that point, Billy decided to do some acrobatics. He spun out and opened the throttle. He then yelled “Hold on!” and made a sharp left turn. I reached for something, but there was nothing to hold onto. I sailed out and hit the ground and scooted a few yards. I was crying and skinned, but I thought, over all, it was a pretty exciting event. I helped rake dirt over the tracks which made obvious the foolishness of our actions. I don’t recall exactly how I explained my skinned head and hip, but it was not exactly (or even closely) the way it really happened. Daddy didn’t look at tracks or anything else. He simply said we were never to deliver the hay again. He knew, for gosh sakes.

I must confess that my brother was, even though he was hard on me, a good brother. He took up for me and he was just doing what came naturally.

That beautiful red barn with the giant loft and granaries along with one room where the harnesses and all the hook up equipment for the mules (to pull wagons, plow, etc.) and the wooden lot fence was the scene of many battles. We had “corn cob fights” there at least once a week. All the boys in the area would come and we would choose sides. One side got the barn (defensive position) and the other got the outside and tried to take the fort. There were plenty of corncobs lying all over the area (we broke them in half to make them more user friendly) and we would build an arsenal ( like a five gallon bucket filled with corn cob halves) and the war would begin. My brother thought of a good plan to get better range from the cobs. We had noticed that the old cobs which were soaked with barnyard mud and etc. (that etc. smelled pretty bad) were heavy and would really go far and leave a mark when they hit someone (they were more accurate, too). A livestock watering trough was placed in the lot fence so that it was half inside and half outside (for all animals to reach). Knowing that the next fight we would be on the attack, we put a large number of cobs in the water in the trough and let them soak. We got them out just before the war began. After those waterlogged cobs started bouncing off rafters, posts and people the insiders called a truce. They accused us of cheating (war crimes) to which we confessed. After a great deal of laughter and complaining, we went back to conventional weapons and had a really good time. It was not unusual at all for some boys to go to school on Monday with an imprint of corncobs on their foreheads or cheeks. It was all in fun. After a good rain, we usually had mud ball fights (but not in the barn).

Today, a very nice house sits where the big red barn stood and there is no visible evidence of the little white house where we lived.

Mr. Newman sold the farm the M.A. “Speedy” Walker of Waco and we stayed on with him for awhile. The most memorable event for me with Mr. Walker was that he gave us a little black and white wire haired terrier pup named Henry. Henry was with us until I was eighteen years of age and he became a legend in the area. The only memory of Henry on the Walker place was when I (a five year old) took Henry for a walk on a leash down to the woods. Henry was just a pup and he was constantly playing. We began to play and he tackled me. Every time I tried to get up he would jump on me and start licking my face. The problem was that I was rolling around in a grass bur patch and they were sticking all over me. I was finally rescued by Momma and she removed the grass burs and soothed Henry’s feelings that he did something wrong. Henry and I grew up together. He was, without question, a remarkable dog. I will discuss him more as I grow older.

Mr. Walker, I believe, turned the farm into a ranching operation and Daddy was not a cowboy, so we moved up the hill about a hundred yards to the old Bowman house (which had once truly been a mansion).

“Slim” and Ruby Oswald moved into the little white house. Slim was slim and he was truly a cowboy who later managed some very large ranches in South Texas. Ruby could drive and she took Momma and me to Lott most every Saturday where we enjoyed a soda at the fountain of Ruble Drug store, went to the “picture show” at Mr. Haley’s theatre and shopped. That was a great treat for me and Momma. Momma learned to drive when I did. We would take the car out on country roads (I was then 15) and we practiced. When we were ready, I drove to Marlin (without a license) and we both passed the test. Few women my mothers age drove back in the 1940’s (until the war started, at least, and some had no man at home to drive them).

Since those wonderful days, much has changed. Daddy built our own house on a little farm he purchased in 1946. I completed my education and worked in professional positions during my career. My wife and I have five children and thirteen grandchildren (plus four wonderful adopted dogs). We were fortunate to have traveled and seen places and things that neither of us ever expected in our youth. We witnessed television images of men on the moon, the advent of electricity in rural America, running water and enormous ( even unimaginable) changes in technology , medicine, transportation and communication during our growing our years, but I shall never forget those days long ago, unknown or forgotten by most folk today. In spite of all the hardships, my growing up years were truly the best and my experiences then molded my character, personality and philosophy of life. I return to those days, often, while sitting outside under the stars and enjoying the heavens that remind me of God’s goodness and his love for humankind. My wealth lies in family, friends, memories and God’s wonderful creations (including children and puppies, especially). These memories and experiences and my values system (which places wealth near the bottom) provides a refuge from the greed, hatred, prejudices and religious intolerance which lead to conflict and wars.

can tell you that no one mentioned preserving it as a possible historical site. It was beyond restoration when we resided there. I have some distinct memories of events in that house (although I would have to have been very young at the time). One was when (I learned later in life) a “cyclone” struck just south of us near the community of Cego. One person was killed and I recall people telling of seeing chickens completely plucked of all feathers by the terrible winds (they were called cyclones around home until the “news” began reporting tornadoes after the 1953 tragedy in Waco). It was later, during my formal education, that I learned that cyclones and tornadoes are not the same. I vividly remember seeing fear in my Daddy’s eyes as he held me while looking up at the storm clouds and when the thick paper on the rafters (to keep out cold winds) collapsed and dumped a large amount of water at his feet. The other memory is a clear sight of my older brother walking across bedded ground in a field as he came home from school. I do recall sitting just inside a torn screen door, but nothing significant happened that I recall. I was told that I was crawling on the porch and fell off into the “slop bucket” (for feeding hogs) and almost drowned before being rescued. I do not remember it, but I have often wondered whether that affected my personality. I usually do not tell people, especially in polite society, “I fell into the slop bucket when I was a baby.” About the same time in my charmed life, I crawled, undetected, under a car driven by Uncle “Snooks” and when he backed out of the yard, a tire caught just a bit of the top of my head between it and the ground and pinched a piece of skin from the top of my scalp. I still have the scar, along with many others (most of which are not results of such a close call).

The only other clear memory of life in that house was when a “peddler” drove up to the house and Momma went out to look at the goods he carried. The back of an old Model A truck had canvass sides rolled up and I was lifted to see the wonders there to behold: cook ware, cloth and clothing, thread, vanilla extract and many forms of medicinal concoctions……and candy. I doubt that Momma bought anything. Money, if we had any, was not available for such. Daddy would take a list along with eggs, what money he had, and sometimes some chickens when he went to the store. The list was prioritized and that meant only necessities would be bought. The kids got candy, in most cases, when the men returned from the cotton gin after selling the first bale of cotton and at Christmas time. Peddlers usually sold little out on the farms at that time. Exceptions were the “Rawleigh Man” and the “Watkins Man” who sold salves, balms and spices (including their renowned vanilla extracts).

The house in which I was born was located on the Jim Wilkerson farm. Mr. Wilkerson lived in Waco and I believe that he was the founder of the Wilkerson and Hatch Funeral Home in Waco. The farm was very big for the time and there were several families who lived on the farm (including Ma and Pa Johnson and several other families from which life mates were found by Johnsons). One could stand in the yard and see several houses either on the Wilkerson farm or adjoining farms. Currently, that entire farm is a small part of someone’s vast farm or ranch. The old, collapsed barn that stood behind the house where Pa and Ma lived was the only indication that there had been occupants of that land when I most recently drove past it. It is hard to believe that the land was teaming with people and animals in the fields working, houses with orchards and vegetable gardens and one room schools and churches about every four miles apart. Now it is all pasture and fields. Life, in the form of livestock, can be found in the vast rolling pastures. Sadly, few remain who can remember the way it was back then. In many ways, the quality of life was better back then. Everyone cared for and looked out for each other. Hard times were shared by all just as, when someone made homemade ice cream, that, too, was shared by all. I loved it when our German neighbors brought fresh baked bread and pastries, especially. Momma would usually give them home preserved jellies or some other home made item. The ladies all had a quilting form in one room of the house which could be raised and lowered as needed. They took turns sitting around someone’s quilting form and made quilts from cotton brought from the gin that fall and from scraps of cloth. Those quilts were not for sale. They were for covering during the winter in houses with a wood burning stove in one room and plenty of places which permitted the cold winds to enter the house.

We moved southeast and across a little creek, but still on the Wilkerson farm when I was about three or four years of age. This house was a little better preserved and it had a big barn for Daddy’s mules, milk cow and “pet” goat. Daddy always found attachment to birds and animals, especially the unusual and exotic. Now when that goat caught Daddy leaning over into the corn crib shucking corn for the mules after a long hard day in the fields (behind a walking plow), he just couldn’t resist. The old goat shook his head and charged. He hit Daddy in the rear and knocked him into the corn crib on his head. Momma saw what happened and hid the gun before Daddy got to the house, hoping he would cool off soon. Daddy was in no mood to play, though. He got the ax from the wood pile and hid behind a corner of the barn. When the goat came around, Daddy put his entire weight behind a swing of the ax, aimed at the goat’s head. The goat jumped, the ax hit the ground so hard it broke the handle and jerked a “kink” in Daddy’s back. Poor Daddy had to buy a new ax handle, nursed a bad back for several days and still had the old goat, standing there shaking his head and “baaing” at him. Daddy gave the goat to a neighbor who, I believe, later shot the goat. I guess he was incorrigible.

The goat story was handed down to me as was another story involving more goats while we resided in that house. There was a shed out back which was not being used by Daddy and so a neighbor, who had a “rag top” car kept it in our shed during heavy rains (since the top invariably leaked). Daddy had traded something for a bunch of little young goats which he enjoyed very much. He liked to watch them play and jump on top of hen coops, barrels, etc. But he was not amused early one morning when he looked out back and saw the goats, running and playing. They were running in single file in a circle. They ran into the shed, jumped upon the back of the neighbors car, then upon the top, then to the hood and on the ground again for another round. One can only imagine what those little hooves did to that car (especially the top). Daddy had to work up the courage to go tell the neighbor. The neighbor took it well. After all, he was using Daddy’s shed. There were no more goats on that farm while we were there.

I recall clearly riding my tricycle in the yard and when I lost a tiny pocket knife that someone had given me. I decided later that my parents knew the whereabouts of the knife, but they felt that I should not have it, and rightly so. The tricycle was stolen by a person Daddy hired to help us move to our next house. That loss I still remember too. Daddy couldn’t afford to get another and the man who helped us move had left the area, so I just did without a tricycle and I adjusted well without psychological rehabilitation. Children, in those days, could play with just about anything by using initiative and imagination .

We drove up the field road past the Habel house, turned left and passed the big two-storied Jones house. Then we turned right on the road that took us to the “main” road (later a highway) and turned right and drove through Mooresville (quite exciting to me) and on to the beautiful farm of Mr. L.M. Newman. The farm started with pasture extending from the “main” road atop the crest of the line of hills south of the Cow Bayou and the bottom lands. A little white house was on the left sitting on a little plateau which extended to another steep drop, through more pasture land where a road trailed to the rich bottom lands for crops. A big red barn and several smaller buildings were on the opposite edge of the plateau from the house. The house was painted white (wow, paint!) and it had a white picket fence around it with a big long chicken house behind it (with a real burglar alarm on the door to guard against chicken thieves should we ever get that many chickens). The was dwelling was very small, but it had inside walls and electricity (no indoor plumbing, though). Mr. Newman had a cream separator (cranked by hand) and Momma would pour milk into the top, turn the crank, and milk would come out one spout and cream the other. It was a miracle. Mr. Newman also had a beautiful horse, something new to us. He also had a beautiful daughter in college who came to ride the horse periodically. I fell madly in love with her (she was later one of my school teachers, and I still loved her). I walked the top rail of the wooden barnyard fence for her entertainment one day, barefoot. She smiled and complimented me for my bravery.

I vividly recall playing in the front yard one day when I saw dozens of airplanes, flying in formation, going in different directions and when one group passed, another came. I ran inside the house to get Momma, We seldom saw airplanes back then and this was really a show. I can still see Momma leaning close to the radio listening intently and waving me off. I did not understand the significance of that day for some time. That was the beginning of World War II for America. The attack on Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s declaration of war on the United States, which followed. It was many years later, as I read his headstone in the cemetery, that I learned that the man who married Mr. Newman’s beautiful daughter and later moved to our little community, was at Pearl Harbor that day. His headstone reads “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” I had never heard him, in all the years I knew him, even mention that he was in the war.

I have many wonderful memories of that place…and some a bit shaky. My brother is six years older than I. So I was five and he was eleven. We reached a “get even” cycle in which each of us attempted to retaliate when we felt we were mistreated by the other. I was too small to fight him, so I usually “told on” him when he did something wrong. He would get into trouble when I told on him and he would “get even” with me when we left the house, which, well, resulted in his getting into trouble again. And so it continued for several years. I still have scars from some of those encounters.

　

One time my brother Billy, was riding Mr. Newman’s horse in the barnyard. I went to see what he was doing and, being a practical joker, he decided to scare me….and he did. He said he was going to run over me with the horse. I took off running to the fence as he charged at me on the horse. He reined in just before running over me, but the horse unexpectedly stepped on one of my heels and peeled a good deal of skin off. I was, as usual, barefoot. Billy got off the horse and genuinely apologized (or made it seem that way). He persuaded me to tell Daddy that a cow stepped on me. It was a long time after that before he bothered me again. We did some heavy dealing before I lied to Daddy about my injury and how I got it.

I guess the most memorable payback came when Billy took one of Daddy’s smoking pipes and took it to the barn (that big red barn with the big hayloft and fenced lot knew a lot of secrets) and smoked it. He decided to hide it in the hay would be safer than trying to return it and he would have it next time he got his hands on some smoking tobacco. I, being the intelligent one, told on him in his presence, but I whispered it to Momma. I didn’t know how he knew I told on him… Daddy had looked all over the house for the pipe (which happened to be his favorite one at the time) and finally settled for another older pipe. Billy really got into trouble for taking it and lying about it. Again, being the intelligent one, I ran to the barn with Billy the next day to “play.” Inside the barn, Billy had some tape which I thought was odd. He quickly stripped me of all my clothing and taped my hands behind my back. He then ran to the main road and hung all my clothing on a barbed wire fence which was a good fifty yards past the house. But I did not go for the clothes. I went straight to the house screaming and bawling like a stranded calf in a hailstorm. Momma ran out and grabbed me and took me into the house. Billy didn’t show up until supper time, but he had to “face the music” when he did.

We had an old 1930 something Chevrolet that had been wrecked in in back. The top was cut off by torch just behind the front seats. It had no doors. The seat and fenders were off the back and it made a good vehicle for hauling hay from the barn down to the cows in the “bottom” (the flood plain of the Cow Bayou). One day (and one day only), Daddy let Billy drive and I rode along to “help.” Daddy warned that Billy should drive very slowly and to come right back. He followed Daddy’s instructions until the hay had been distributed (and we were out of sight) behind trees and the hill. At that point, Billy decided to do some acrobatics. He spun out and opened the throttle. He then yelled “Hold on!” and made a sharp left turn. I reached for something, but there was nothing to hold onto. I sailed out and hit the ground and scooted a few yards. I was crying and skinned, but I thought, over all, it was a pretty exciting event. I helped rake dirt over the tracks which made obvious the foolishness of our actions. I don’t recall exactly how I explained my skinned head and hip, but it was not exactly (or even closely) the way it really happened. Daddy didn’t look at tracks or anything else. He simply said we were never to deliver the hay again. He knew, for gosh sakes.

I must confess that my brother was, even though he was hard on me, a good brother. He took up for me and he was just doing what came naturally.

That beautiful red barn with the giant loft and granaries along with one room where the harnesses and all the hook up equipment for the mules (to pull wagons, plow, etc.) and the wooden lot fence was the scene of many battles. We had “corn cob fights” there at least once a week. All the boys in the area would come and we would choose sides. One side got the barn (defensive position) and the other got the outside and tried to take the fort. There were plenty of corncobs lying all over the area (we broke them in half to make them more user friendly) and we would build an arsenal ( like a five gallon bucket filled with corn cob halves) and the war would begin. My brother thought of a good plan to get better range from the cobs. We had noticed that the old cobs which were soaked with barnyard mud and etc. (that etc. smelled pretty bad) were heavy and would really go far and leave a mark when they hit someone (they were more accurate, too). A livestock watering trough was placed in the lot fence so that it was half inside and half outside (for all animals to reach). Knowing that the next fight we would be on the attack, we put a large number of cobs in the water in the trough and let them soak. We got them out just before the war began. After those waterlogged cobs started bouncing off rafters, posts and people the insiders called a truce. They accused us of cheating (war crimes) to which we confessed. After a great deal of laughter and complaining, we went back to conventional weapons and had a really good time. It was not unusual at all for some boys to go to school on Monday with an imprint of corncobs on their foreheads or cheeks. It was all in fun. After a good rain, we usually had mud ball fights (but not in the barn).

Today, a very nice house sits where the big red barn stood and there is no visible evidence of the little white house where we lived.

Mr. Newman sold the farm the M.A. “Speedy” Walker of Waco and we stayed on with him for awhile. The most memorable event for me with Mr. Walker was that he gave us a little black and white wire haired terrier pup named Henry. Henry was with us until I was eighteen years of age and he became a legend in the area. The only memory of Henry on the Walker place was when I (a five year old) took Henry for a walk on a leash down to the woods. Henry was just a pup and he was constantly playing. We began to play and he tackled me. Every time I tried to get up he would jump on me and start licking my face. The problem was that I was rolling around in a grass bur patch and they were sticking all over me. I was finally rescued by Momma and she removed the grass burs and soothed Henry’s feelings that he did something wrong. Henry and I grew up together. He was, without question, a remarkable dog. I will discuss him more as I grow older.

Mr. Walker, I believe, turned the farm into a ranching operation and Daddy was not a cowboy, so we moved up the hill about a hundred yards to the old Bowman house (which had once truly been a mansion).

“Slim” and Ruby Oswald moved into the little white house. Slim was slim and he was truly a cowboy who later managed some very large ranches in South Texas. Ruby could drive and she took Momma and me to Lott most every Saturday where we enjoyed a soda at the fountain of Ruble Drug store, went to the “picture show” at Mr. Haley’s theatre and shopped. That was a great treat for me and Momma. Momma learned to drive when I did. We would take the car out on country roads (I was then 15) and we practiced. When we were ready, I drove to Marlin (without a license) and we both passed the test. Few women my mothers age drove back in the 1940’s (until the war started, at least, and some had no man at home to drive them).

Since those wonderful days, much has changed. Daddy built our own house on a little farm he purchased in 1946. I completed my education and worked in professional positions during my career. My wife and I have five children and thirteen grandchildren (plus four wonderful adopted dogs). We were fortunate to have traveled and seen places and things that neither of us ever expected in our youth. We witnessed television images of men on the moon, the advent of electricity in rural America, running water and enormous ( even unimaginable) changes in technology , medicine, transportation and communication during our growing our years, but I shall never forget those days long ago, unknown or forgotten by most folk today. In spite of all the hardships, my growing up years were truly the best and my experiences then molded my character, personality and philosophy of life. I return to those days, often, while sitting outside under the stars and enjoying the heavens that remind me of God’s goodness and his love for humankind. My wealth lies in family, friends, memories and God’s wonderful creations (including children and puppies, especially). These memories and experiences and my values system (which places wealth near the bottom) provides a refuge from the greed, hatred, prejudices and religious intolerance prevalent in politics and society which often lead to conflict and wars.

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I was told by witnesses present (including Momma) that I was born during a storm and heavy rain during the late evening of May 25, 1936 in rural Central Texas on the rich soil of the Blackland Prairie. Daddy had taken the old Model A Ford to Eddy, a small town about eight miles away, to fetch the only medical doctor closer than Troy. The roads were mud excepting for a short bit of gravel, and they had a terrible time getting there in time to greet me. They were a bit late, but never mind, “Ma” (Grandma Johnson) and several other ladies knew exactly what to do. After the doctor arrived, he checked us out and said all was well. He then had Daddy make the grinding trip again to take him home (he forgot to do a birth certificate, however).

　

The tiny shotgun house in which I was born was still around when I became older and I can tell you that no one mentioned preserving it as a possible historical site. It was beyond restoration when we resided there. I have some distinct memories of events in that house (although I would have to have been very young at the time). One was when (I learned later in life) a “cyclone” struck just south of us near the community of Cego. One person was killed and I recall people telling of seeing chickens completely plucked of all feathers by the terrible winds (they were called cyclones around home until the “news” began reporting tornadoes after the 1953 tragedy in nearby Waco, Texas). It was later, during my formal education, that I learned that cyclones and tornadoes are not the same. I vividly remember seeing fear in my Daddy’s eyes as he held me while looking up at the storm clouds and when the thick paper on the rafters (to keep out cold winds) collapsed and dumped a large amount of water at his feet. The other memory is a clear sight of my older brother walking across bedded ground in a field as he came home from school. I do recall sitting just inside a torn screen door, but nothing significant happened that I recall. I was told that I was crawling on the porch and fell off into the “slop bucket” (for feeding hogs) and almost drowned before being rescued. I do not remember it, but I have often wondered whether that affected my personality. I usually do not tell people, especially in polite society, “I fell into the slop bucket when I was a baby.” About the same time in my charmed life, I crawled, undetected, under a car driven by Uncle “Snooks” and when he backed out of the yard, a tire caught just a bit of the top of my head between it and the ground and pinched a piece of skin from the top of my scalp. I still have the scar, along with many others (most of which are not results of such a close call).

The only other clear memory of life in that house was when a “peddler” drove up to the house and Momma went out to look at the goods he carried. The back of an old Model A truck had canvass sides rolled up and I was lifted to see the wonders there to behold: cook ware, cloth and clothing, thread, vanilla extract and many forms of medicinal concoctions……and candy. I doubt that Momma bought anything. Money, if we had any, was not available for such. Daddy would take a list along with eggs, what money he had, and sometimes some chickens when he went to the store. The list was prioritized and that meant only necessities would be bought. The kids got candy, in most cases, when the men returned from the cotton gin after selling the first bale of cotton and at Christmas time. Peddlers usually sold little out on the farms at that time. Exceptions were the “Rawleigh Man” and the “Watkins Man” who sold salves, balms and spices (including their renowned vanilla extracts).

The house in which I was born was located on the Jim Wilkerson farm. Mr. Wilkerson lived in Waco and I believe that he was the founder of the Wilkerson and Hatch Funeral Home in Waco. The farm was very big for the time and there were several families who lived on the farm (including Ma and Pa Johnson and several other families from which life mates were found by Johnsons). One could stand in the yard and see several houses either on the Wilkerson farm or adjoining farms. Currently, that entire farm is a small part of someone’s vast farm or ranch. The old, collapsed barn that stood behind the house where Pa and Ma lived was the only indication that there had been occupants of that land when I most recently drove past it. It is hard to believe that the land was teaming with people and animals in the fields working, houses with orchards and vegetable gardens and one room schools and churches about every four miles apart. Now it is all pasture and fields. Life, in the form of livestock, can be found in the vast rolling pastures. Sadly, few remain who can remember the way it was back then. In many ways, the quality of life was better back then. Everyone cared for and looked out for each other. Hard times were shared by all just as, when someone made homemade ice cream, that, too, was shared by all. I loved it when our German neighbors brought fresh baked bread and pastries, especially. Momma would usually give them home preserved jellies or some other home made item. The ladies all had a quilting form in one room of the house which could be raised and lowered as needed. They took turns sitting around someone’s quilting form and made quilts from cotton brought from the gin that fall and from scraps of cloth. Those quilts were not for sale. They were for covering during the winter in houses with a wood burning stove in one room and plenty of places which permitted the cold winds to enter the house.

We moved southeast and across a little creek, but still on the Wilkerson farm when I was about three or four years of age. This house was a little better preserved and it had a big barn for Daddy’s mules, milk cow and “pet” goat. Daddy always found attachment to birds and animals, especially the unusual and exotic. Now when that goat caught Daddy leaning over into the corn crib shucking corn for the mules after a long hard day in the fields (behind a walking plow), he just couldn’t resist. The old goat shook his head and charged. He hit Daddy in the rear and knocked him into the corn crib on his head. Momma saw what happened and hid the gun before Daddy got to the house, hoping he would cool off soon. Daddy was in no mood to play, though. He got the ax from the wood pile and hid behind a corner of the barn. When the goat came around, Daddy put his entire weight behind a swing of the ax, aimed at the goat’s head. The goat jumped, the ax hit the ground so hard it broke the handle and jerked a “kink” in Daddy’s back. Poor Daddy had to buy a new ax handle, nursed a bad back for several days and still had the old goat, standing there shaking his head and “baaing” at him. Daddy gave the goat to a neighbor who, I believe, later shot the goat. I guess he was incorrigible.

The goat story was handed down to me as was another story involving more goats while we resided in that house. There was a shed out back which was not being used by Daddy and so a neighbor, who had a “rag top” car kept it in our shed during heavy rains (since the top invariably leaked). Daddy had traded something for a bunch of little young goats which he enjoyed very much. He liked to watch them play and jump on top of hen coops, barrels, etc. But he was not amused early one morning when he looked out back and saw the goats, running and playing. They were running in single file in a circle. They ran into the shed, jumped upon the back of the neighbors car, then upon the top, then to the hood and on the ground again for another round. One can only imagine what those little hooves did to that car (especially the top). Daddy had to work up the courage to go tell the neighbor. The neighbor took it well. After all, he was using Daddy’s shed. There were no more goats on that farm while we were there.

I recall clearly riding my tricycle in the yard and when I lost a tiny pocket knife that someone had given me. I decided later that my parents knew the whereabouts of the knife, but they felt that I should not have it, and rightly so. The tricycle was stolen by a person Daddy hired to help us move to our next house. That loss I still remember too. Daddy couldn’t afford to get another and the man who helped us move had left the area, so I just did without a tricycle and I adjusted well without psychological rehabilitation. Children, in those days, could play with just about anything by using initiative and imagination .

We drove up the field road past the Habel house, turned left and passed the big two-storied Jones house. Then we turned right on the road that took us to the “main” road (later a highway) and turned right and drove through Mooresville (quite exciting to me) and on to the beautiful farm of Mr. L.M. Newman. The farm started with pasture extending from the “main” road atop the crest of the line of hills south of the Cow Bayou and the bottom lands. A little white house was on the left sitting on a little plateau which extended to another steep drop, through more pasture land where a road trailed to the rich bottom lands for crops. A big red barn and several smaller buildings were on the opposite edge of the plateau from the house. The house was painted white (wow, paint!) and it had a white picket fence around it with a big long chicken house behind it (with a real burglar alarm on the door to guard against chicken thieves should we ever get that many chickens). The was dwelling was very small, but it had inside walls and electricity (no indoor plumbing, though). Mr. Newman had a cream separator (cranked by hand) and Momma would pour milk into the top, turn the crank, and milk would come out one spout and cream the other. It was a miracle. Mr. Newman also had a beautiful horse, something new to us. He also had a beautiful daughter in college who came to ride the horse periodically. I fell madly in love with her (she was later one of my school teachers, and I still loved her). I walked the top rail of the wooden barnyard fence for her entertainment one day, barefoot. She smiled and complimented me for my bravery.

I vividly recall playing in the front yard one day when I saw dozens of airplanes, flying in formation, going in different directions and when one group passed, another came. I ran inside the house to get Momma, We seldom saw airplanes back then and this was really a show. I can still see Momma leaning close to the radio listening intently and waving me off. I did not understand the significance of that day for some time. That was the beginning of World War II for America. The attack on Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s declaration of war on the United States, which followed. It was many years later, as I read his headstone in the cemetery, that I learned that the man who married Mr. Newman’s beautiful daughter and later moved to our little community, was at Pearl Harbor that day. His headstone reads “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” I had never heard him, in all the years I knew him, even mention that he was in the war.

I have many wonderful memories of that place…and some a bit shaky. My brother is six years older than I. So I was five and he was eleven. We reached a “get even” cycle in which each of us attempted to retaliate when we felt we were mistreated by the other. I was too small to fight him, so I usually “told on” him when he did something wrong. He would get into trouble when I told on him and he would “get even” with me when we left the house, which, well, resulted in his getting into trouble again. And so it continued for several years. I still have scars from some of those encounters.

　

One time my brother Billy, was riding Mr. Newman’s horse in the barnyard. I went to see what he was doing and, being a practical joker, he decided to scare me….and he did. He said he was going to run over me with the horse. I took off running to the fence as he charged at me on the horse. He reined in just before running over me, but the horse unexpectedly stepped on one of my heels and peeled a good deal of skin off. I was, as usual, barefoot. Billy got off the horse and genuinely apologized (or made it seem that way). He persuaded me to tell Daddy that a cow stepped on me. It was a long time after that before he bothered me again. We did some heavy dealing before I lied to Daddy about my injury and how I got it.

I guess the most memorable payback came when Billy took one of Daddy’s smoking pipes and took it to the barn (that big red barn with the big hayloft and fenced lot knew a lot of secrets) and smoked it. He decided to hide it in the hay would be safer than trying to return it and he would have it next time he got his hands on some smoking tobacco. I, being the intelligent one, told on him in his presence, but I whispered it to Momma. I didn’t know how he knew I told on him… Daddy had looked all over the house for the pipe (which happened to be his favorite one at the time) and finally settled for another older pipe. Billy really got into trouble for taking it and lying about it. Again, being the intelligent one, I ran to the barn with Billy the next day to “play.” Inside the barn, Billy had some tape which I thought was odd. He quickly stripped me of all my clothing and taped my hands behind my back. He then ran to the main road and hung all my clothing on a barbed wire fence which was a good fifty yards past the house. But I did not go for the clothes. I went straight to the house screaming and bawling like a stranded calf in a hailstorm. Momma ran out and grabbed me and took me into the house. Billy didn’t show up until supper time, but he had to “face the music” when he did.

We had an old 1930 something Chevrolet that had been wrecked in in back. The top was cut off by torch just behind the front seats. It had no doors. The seat and fenders were off the back and it made a good vehicle for hauling hay from the barn down to the cows in the “bottom” (the flood plain of the Cow Bayou). One day (and one day only), Daddy let Billy drive and I rode along to “help.” Daddy warned that Billy should drive very slowly and to come right back. He followed Daddy’s instructions until the hay had been distributed (and we were out of sight) behind trees and the hill. At that point, Billy decided to do some acrobatics. He spun out and opened the throttle. He then yelled “Hold on!” and made a sharp left turn. I reached for something, but there was nothing to hold onto. I sailed out and hit the ground and scooted a few yards. I was crying and skinned, but I thought, over all, it was a pretty exciting event. I helped rake dirt over the tracks which made obvious the foolishness of our actions. I don’t recall exactly how I explained my skinned head and hip, but it was not exactly (or even closely) the way it really happened. Daddy didn’t look at tracks or anything else. He simply said we were never to deliver the hay again. He knew, for gosh sakes.

I must confess that my brother was, even though he was hard on me, a good brother. He took up for me and he was just doing what came naturally.

That beautiful red barn with the giant loft and granaries along with one room where the harnesses and all the hook up equipment for the mules (to pull wagons, plow, etc.) and the wooden lot fence was the scene of many battles. We had “corn cob fights” there at least once a week. All the boys in the area would come and we would choose sides. One side got the barn (defensive position) and the other got the outside and tried to take the fort. There were plenty of corncobs lying all over the area (we broke them in half to make them more user friendly) and we would build an arsenal ( like a five gallon bucket filled with corn cob halves) and the war would begin. My brother thought of a good plan to get better range from the cobs. We had noticed that the old cobs which were soaked with barnyard mud and etc. (that etc. smelled pretty bad) were heavy and would really go far and leave a mark when they hit someone (they were more accurate, too). A livestock watering trough was placed in the lot fence so that it was half inside and half outside (for all animals to reach). Knowing that the next fight we would be on the attack, we put a large number of cobs in the water in the trough and let them soak. We got them out just before the war began. After those waterlogged cobs started bouncing off rafters, posts and people the insiders called a truce. They accused us of cheating (war crimes) to which we confessed. After a great deal of laughter and complaining, we went back to conventional weapons and had a really good time. It was not unusual at all for some boys to go to school on Monday with an imprint of corncobs on their foreheads or cheeks. It was all in fun. After a good rain, we usually had mud ball fights (but not in the barn).

Today, a very nice house sits where the big red barn stood and there is no visible evidence of the little white house where we lived.

Mr. Newman sold the farm the M.A. “Speedy” Walker of Waco and we stayed on with him for awhile. The most memorable event for me with Mr. Walker was that he gave us a little black and white wire haired terrier pup named Henry. Henry was with us until I was eighteen years of age and he became a legend in the area. The only memory of Henry on the Walker place was when I (a five year old) took Henry for a walk on a leash down to the woods. Henry was just a pup and he was constantly playing. We began to play and he tackled me. Every time I tried to get up he would jump on me and start licking my face. The problem was that I was rolling around in a grass bur patch and they were sticking all over me. I was finally rescued by Momma and she removed the grass burs and soothed Henry’s feelings that he did something wrong. Henry and I grew up together. He was, without question, a remarkable dog. I will discuss him more as I grow older.

Mr. Walker, I believe, turned the farm into a ranching operation and Daddy was not a cowboy, so we moved up the hill about a hundred yards to the old Bowman house (which had once truly been a mansion).

“Slim” and Ruby Oswald moved into the little white house. Slim was slim and he was truly a cowboy who later managed some very large ranches in South Texas. Ruby could drive and she took Momma and me to Lott most every Saturday where we enjoyed a soda at the fountain of Ruble Drug store, went to the “picture show” at Mr. Haley’s theatre and shopped. That was a great treat for me and Momma. Momma learned to drive when I did. We would take the car out on country roads (I was then 15) and we practiced. When we were ready, I drove to Marlin (without a license) and we both passed the test. Few women my mothers age drove back in the 1940’s (until the war started, at least, and some had no man at home to drive them).

Since those wonderful days, much has changed. Daddy built our own house on a little farm he purchased in 1946. I completed my education and worked in professional positions during my career. My wife and I have five children and thirteen grandchildren (plus four wonderful adopted dogs). We were fortunate to have traveled and seen places and things that neither of us ever expected in our youth. We witnessed television images of men on the moon, the advent of electricity in rural America, running water and enormous ( even unimaginable) changes in technology , medicine, transportation and communication during our growing our years, but I shall never forget those days long ago, unknown or forgotten by most folk today. In spite of all the hardships, my growing up years were truly the best and my experiences then molded my character, personality and philosophy of life. I return to those days, often, while sitting outside under the stars and enjoying the heavens that remind me of God’s goodness and his love for humankind. My wealth lies in family, friends, memories and God’s wonderful creations (including children and puppies, especially). These memories and experiences and my values system (which places wealth near the bottom) provides a refuge from the greed, hatred, prejudices and religious intolerance which lead to conflict and wars.

can tell you that no one mentioned preserving it as a possible historical site. It was beyond restoration when we resided there. I have some distinct memories of events in that house (although I would have to have been very young at the time). One was when (I learned later in life) a “cyclone” struck just south of us near the community of Cego. One person was killed and I recall people telling of seeing chickens completely plucked of all feathers by the terrible winds (they were called cyclones around home until the “news” began reporting tornadoes after the 1953 tragedy in Waco). It was later, during my formal education, that I learned that cyclones and tornadoes are not the same. I vividly remember seeing fear in my Daddy’s eyes as he held me while looking up at the storm clouds and when the thick paper on the rafters (to keep out cold winds) collapsed and dumped a large amount of water at his feet. The other memory is a clear sight of my older brother walking across bedded ground in a field as he came home from school. I do recall sitting just inside a torn screen door, but nothing significant happened that I recall. I was told that I was crawling on the porch and fell off into the “slop bucket” (for feeding hogs) and almost drowned before being rescued. I do not remember it, but I have often wondered whether that affected my personality. I usually do not tell people, especially in polite society, “I fell into the slop bucket when I was a baby.” About the same time in my charmed life, I crawled, undetected, under a car driven by Uncle “Snooks” and when he backed out of the yard, a tire caught just a bit of the top of my head between it and the ground and pinched a piece of skin from the top of my scalp. I still have the scar, along with many others (most of which are not results of such a close call).

The only other clear memory of life in that house was when a “peddler” drove up to the house and Momma went out to look at the goods he carried. The back of an old Model A truck had canvass sides rolled up and I was lifted to see the wonders there to behold: cook ware, cloth and clothing, thread, vanilla extract and many forms of medicinal concoctions……and candy. I doubt that Momma bought anything. Money, if we had any, was not available for such. Daddy would take a list along with eggs, what money he had, and sometimes some chickens when he went to the store. The list was prioritized and that meant only necessities would be bought. The kids got candy, in most cases, when the men returned from the cotton gin after selling the first bale of cotton and at Christmas time. Peddlers usually sold little out on the farms at that time. Exceptions were the “Rawleigh Man” and the “Watkins Man” who sold salves, balms and spices (including their renowned vanilla extracts).

The house in which I was born was located on the Jim Wilkerson farm. Mr. Wilkerson lived in Waco and I believe that he was the founder of the Wilkerson and Hatch Funeral Home in Waco. The farm was very big for the time and there were several families who lived on the farm (including Ma and Pa Johnson and several other families from which life mates were found by Johnsons). One could stand in the yard and see several houses either on the Wilkerson farm or adjoining farms. Currently, that entire farm is a small part of someone’s vast farm or ranch. The old, collapsed barn that stood behind the house where Pa and Ma lived was the only indication that there had been occupants of that land when I most recently drove past it. It is hard to believe that the land was teaming with people and animals in the fields working, houses with orchards and vegetable gardens and one room schools and churches about every four miles apart. Now it is all pasture and fields. Life, in the form of livestock, can be found in the vast rolling pastures. Sadly, few remain who can remember the way it was back then. In many ways, the quality of life was better back then. Everyone cared for and looked out for each other. Hard times were shared by all just as, when someone made homemade ice cream, that, too, was shared by all. I loved it when our German neighbors brought fresh baked bread and pastries, especially. Momma would usually give them home preserved jellies or some other home made item. The ladies all had a quilting form in one room of the house which could be raised and lowered as needed. They took turns sitting around someone’s quilting form and made quilts from cotton brought from the gin that fall and from scraps of cloth. Those quilts were not for sale. They were for covering during the winter in houses with a wood burning stove in one room and plenty of places which permitted the cold winds to enter the house.

We moved southeast and across a little creek, but still on the Wilkerson farm when I was about three or four years of age. This house was a little better preserved and it had a big barn for Daddy’s mules, milk cow and “pet” goat. Daddy always found attachment to birds and animals, especially the unusual and exotic. Now when that goat caught Daddy leaning over into the corn crib shucking corn for the mules after a long hard day in the fields (behind a walking plow), he just couldn’t resist. The old goat shook his head and charged. He hit Daddy in the rear and knocked him into the corn crib on his head. Momma saw what happened and hid the gun before Daddy got to the house, hoping he would cool off soon. Daddy was in no mood to play, though. He got the ax from the wood pile and hid behind a corner of the barn. When the goat came around, Daddy put his entire weight behind a swing of the ax, aimed at the goat’s head. The goat jumped, the ax hit the ground so hard it broke the handle and jerked a “kink” in Daddy’s back. Poor Daddy had to buy a new ax handle, nursed a bad back for several days and still had the old goat, standing there shaking his head and “baaing” at him. Daddy gave the goat to a neighbor who, I believe, later shot the goat. I guess he was incorrigible.

The goat story was handed down to me as was another story involving more goats while we resided in that house. There was a shed out back which was not being used by Daddy and so a neighbor, who had a “rag top” car kept it in our shed during heavy rains (since the top invariably leaked). Daddy had traded something for a bunch of little young goats which he enjoyed very much. He liked to watch them play and jump on top of hen coops, barrels, etc. But he was not amused early one morning when he looked out back and saw the goats, running and playing. They were running in single file in a circle. They ran into the shed, jumped upon the back of the neighbors car, then upon the top, then to the hood and on the ground again for another round. One can only imagine what those little hooves did to that car (especially the top). Daddy had to work up the courage to go tell the neighbor. The neighbor took it well. After all, he was using Daddy’s shed. There were no more goats on that farm while we were there.

I recall clearly riding my tricycle in the yard and when I lost a tiny pocket knife that someone had given me. I decided later that my parents knew the whereabouts of the knife, but they felt that I should not have it, and rightly so. The tricycle was stolen by a person Daddy hired to help us move to our next house. That loss I still remember too. Daddy couldn’t afford to get another and the man who helped us move had left the area, so I just did without a tricycle and I adjusted well without psychological rehabilitation. Children, in those days, could play with just about anything by using initiative and imagination .

We drove up the field road past the Habel house, turned left and passed the big two-storied Jones house. Then we turned right on the road that took us to the “main” road (later a highway) and turned right and drove through Mooresville (quite exciting to me) and on to the beautiful farm of Mr. L.M. Newman. The farm started with pasture extending from the “main” road atop the crest of the line of hills south of the Cow Bayou and the bottom lands. A little white house was on the left sitting on a little plateau which extended to another steep drop, through more pasture land where a road trailed to the rich bottom lands for crops. A big red barn and several smaller buildings were on the opposite edge of the plateau from the house. The house was painted white (wow, paint!) and it had a white picket fence around it with a big long chicken house behind it (with a real burglar alarm on the door to guard against chicken thieves should we ever get that many chickens). The was dwelling was very small, but it had inside walls and electricity (no indoor plumbing, though). Mr. Newman had a cream separator (cranked by hand) and Momma would pour milk into the top, turn the crank, and milk would come out one spout and cream the other. It was a miracle. Mr. Newman also had a beautiful horse, something new to us. He also had a beautiful daughter in college who came to ride the horse periodically. I fell madly in love with her (she was later one of my school teachers, and I still loved her). I walked the top rail of the wooden barnyard fence for her entertainment one day, barefoot. She smiled and complimented me for my bravery.

I vividly recall playing in the front yard one day when I saw dozens of airplanes, flying in formation, going in different directions and when one group passed, another came. I ran inside the house to get Momma, We seldom saw airplanes back then and this was really a show. I can still see Momma leaning close to the radio listening intently and waving me off. I did not understand the significance of that day for some time. That was the beginning of World War II for America. The attack on Pearl Harbor and Hitler’s declaration of war on the United States, which followed. It was many years later, as I read his headstone in the cemetery, that I learned that the man who married Mr. Newman’s beautiful daughter and later moved to our little community, was at Pearl Harbor that day. His headstone reads “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” I had never heard him, in all the years I knew him, even mention that he was in the war.

I have many wonderful memories of that place…and some a bit shaky. My brother is six years older than I. So I was five and he was eleven. We reached a “get even” cycle in which each of us attempted to retaliate when we felt we were mistreated by the other. I was too small to fight him, so I usually “told on” him when he did something wrong. He would get into trouble when I told on him and he would “get even” with me when we left the house, which, well, resulted in his getting into trouble again. And so it continued for several years. I still have scars from some of those encounters.

　

One time my brother Billy, was riding Mr. Newman’s horse in the barnyard. I went to see what he was doing and, being a practical joker, he decided to scare me….and he did. He said he was going to run over me with the horse. I took off running to the fence as he charged at me on the horse. He reined in just before running over me, but the horse unexpectedly stepped on one of my heels and peeled a good deal of skin off. I was, as usual, barefoot. Billy got off the horse and genuinely apologized (or made it seem that way). He persuaded me to tell Daddy that a cow stepped on me. It was a long time after that before he bothered me again. We did some heavy dealing before I lied to Daddy about my injury and how I got it.

I guess the most memorable payback came when Billy took one of Daddy’s smoking pipes and took it to the barn (that big red barn with the big hayloft and fenced lot knew a lot of secrets) and smoked it. He decided to hide it in the hay would be safer than trying to return it and he would have it next time he got his hands on some smoking tobacco. I, being the intelligent one, told on him in his presence, but I whispered it to Momma. I didn’t know how he knew I told on him… Daddy had looked all over the house for the pipe (which happened to be his favorite one at the time) and finally settled for another older pipe. Billy really got into trouble for taking it and lying about it. Again, being the intelligent one, I ran to the barn with Billy the next day to “play.” Inside the barn, Billy had some tape which I thought was odd. He quickly stripped me of all my clothing and taped my hands behind my back. He then ran to the main road and hung all my clothing on a barbed wire fence which was a good fifty yards past the house. But I did not go for the clothes. I went straight to the house screaming and bawling like a stranded calf in a hailstorm. Momma ran out and grabbed me and took me into the house. Billy didn’t show up until supper time, but he had to “face the music” when he did.

We had an old 1930 something Chevrolet that had been wrecked in in back. The top was cut off by torch just behind the front seats. It had no doors. The seat and fenders were off the back and it made a good vehicle for hauling hay from the barn down to the cows in the “bottom” (the flood plain of the Cow Bayou). One day (and one day only), Daddy let Billy drive and I rode along to “help.” Daddy warned that Billy should drive very slowly and to come right back. He followed Daddy’s instructions until the hay had been distributed (and we were out of sight) behind trees and the hill. At that point, Billy decided to do some acrobatics. He spun out and opened the throttle. He then yelled “Hold on!” and made a sharp left turn. I reached for something, but there was nothing to hold onto. I sailed out and hit the ground and scooted a few yards. I was crying and skinned, but I thought, over all, it was a pretty exciting event. I helped rake dirt over the tracks which made obvious the foolishness of our actions. I don’t recall exactly how I explained my skinned head and hip, but it was not exactly (or even closely) the way it really happened. Daddy didn’t look at tracks or anything else. He simply said we were never to deliver the hay again. He knew, for gosh sakes.

I must confess that my brother was, even though he was hard on me, a good brother. He took up for me and he was just doing what came naturally.

That beautiful red barn with the giant loft and granaries along with one room where the harnesses and all the hook up equipment for the mules (to pull wagons, plow, etc.) and the wooden lot fence was the scene of many battles. We had “corn cob fights” there at least once a week. All the boys in the area would come and we would choose sides. One side got the barn (defensive position) and the other got the outside and tried to take the fort. There were plenty of corncobs lying all over the area (we broke them in half to make them more user friendly) and we would build an arsenal ( like a five gallon bucket filled with corn cob halves) and the war would begin. My brother thought of a good plan to get better range from the cobs. We had noticed that the old cobs which were soaked with barnyard mud and etc. (that etc. smelled pretty bad) were heavy and would really go far and leave a mark when they hit someone (they were more accurate, too). A livestock watering trough was placed in the lot fence so that it was half inside and half outside (for all animals to reach). Knowing that the next fight we would be on the attack, we put a large number of cobs in the water in the trough and let them soak. We got them out just before the war began. After those waterlogged cobs started bouncing off rafters, posts and people the insiders called a truce. They accused us of cheating (war crimes) to which we confessed. After a great deal of laughter and complaining, we went back to conventional weapons and had a really good time. It was not unusual at all for some boys to go to school on Monday with an imprint of corncobs on their foreheads or cheeks. It was all in fun. After a good rain, we usually had mud ball fights (but not in the barn).

Today, a very nice house sits where the big red barn stood and there is no visible evidence of the little white house where we lived.

Mr. Newman sold the farm the M.A. “Speedy” Walker of Waco and we stayed on with him for awhile. The most memorable event for me with Mr. Walker was that he gave us a little black and white wire haired terrier pup named Henry. Henry was with us until I was eighteen years of age and he became a legend in the area. The only memory of Henry on the Walker place was when I (a five year old) took Henry for a walk on a leash down to the woods. Henry was just a pup and he was constantly playing. We began to play and he tackled me. Every time I tried to get up he would jump on me and start licking my face. The problem was that I was rolling around in a grass bur patch and they were sticking all over me. I was finally rescued by Momma and she removed the grass burs and soothed Henry’s feelings that he did something wrong. Henry and I grew up together. He was, without question, a remarkable dog. I will discuss him more as I grow older.

Mr. Walker, I believe, turned the farm into a ranching operation and Daddy was not a cowboy, so we moved up the hill about a hundred yards to the old Bowman house (which had once truly been a mansion).

“Slim” and Ruby Oswald moved into the little white house. Slim was slim and he was truly a cowboy who later managed some very large ranches in South Texas. Ruby could drive and she took Momma and me to Lott most every Saturday where we enjoyed a soda at the fountain of Ruble Drug store, went to the “picture show” at Mr. Haley’s theatre and shopped. That was a great treat for me and Momma. Momma learned to drive when I did. We would take the car out on country roads (I was then 15) and we practiced. When we were ready, I drove to Marlin (without a license) and we both passed the test. Few women my mothers age drove back in the 1940’s (until the war started, at least, and some had no man at home to drive them).

Since those wonderful days, much has changed. Daddy built our own house on a little farm he purchased in 1946. I completed my education and worked in professional positions during my career. My wife and I have five children and thirteen grandchildren (plus four wonderful adopted dogs). We were fortunate to have traveled and seen places and things that neither of us ever expected in our youth. We witnessed television images of men on the moon, the advent of electricity in rural America, running water and enormous ( even unimaginable) changes in technology , medicine, transportation and communication during our growing our years, but I shall never forget those days long ago, unknown or forgotten by most folk today. In spite of all the hardships, my growing up years were truly the best and my experiences then molded my character, personality and philosophy of life. I return to those days, often, while sitting outside under the stars and enjoying the heavens that remind me of God’s goodness and his love for humankind. My wealth lies in family, friends, memories and God’s wonderful creations (including children and puppies, especially). These memories and experiences and my values system (which places wealth near the bottom) provides a refuge from the greed, hatred, prejudices and religious intolerance prevalent in politics and society which often lead to conflict and wars.

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It's been a long (and very rough) couple of days for me, so I'm going to keep things quick and simple: Here's the progress I've made on a piece I'm working on. Hopefully I'll have it done sometime next week.

Steve

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I haven't even confessed to Robin yet-- well, until now, that against my better judgement, I went ahead and agreed to a particular school visit as part of my pre-launch plan that we both agreed was pushing the limits for this card-carrying introvert.

Remember the Comfort Level Inventory she presented to help us decide what marketing activities work best for us? The categories were:

FEELS COMFORTABLE
COULD GET USED TO IT
DEFINITELY UNCOMFORTABLE
COLD DAY IN HELL

Then she gave us a long list of activities to consider in the development of our marketing plan. Things like radio interviews, internet interviews, television, postcard mailing, press releases, teaching, message boards, book signings, school classroom visits, school ASSEMBLY visits-- (sound of me choking on that last one). We were to assign the various activities to the categories above. She gave us permission to stay in Feels Comfortable and Could Get Used To It. She's nice that way.

I do a lot of public speaking in my work and while I still get clammy pits, once I get going, I usually enjoy it. I love teaching, especially adults. The only activity that hit the COLD DAY IN HELL was talking to an Assembly of the wee ones.

So, it follows that I went ahead and agreed to do this. Wha-a-a-t?? To very, very many children. Of very, very many ages. (And, just in case their principal is reading this-- Oh, hi! I can't wait! Wheee! It is going to be so much fun! And, um, could you please stop reading now and go to an urgent meeting or something?)

Help! This is a classic example of me trying to be paisley when you'd think I'd learned by now that I'm polka-dotted. Both sides, top and bottom, too. I might as well stick a high voltage energy-sucking cable right to my brain and throw the switch to Total Melt-down Mode.

Stand back, friends, I'm buzzing through a few fingernails here. Hold on while I go get a brown paper bag to help me breathe.

Okay, better. Actually breathing now. Big sigh. You know, I have a wise friend that says "Don't anticipate pain." Same could be said, I suppose, for all sort of things we dread. Don't anticipate chaos, or mayhem, or failure. I've got to stay in present. Hey, maybe by the time the date rolls around, I'll be in jail or something, and I'll have a really good excuse for not showing up. I could just get lucky.

Before I forget, don't forget to vote on whether you like Ms. Viola's *new* look, or like the pre-makeover version. She's waiting, desperate to hear from you. Email me your vote and you'll be entered in the drawing to win a great marketing book called Plug Your Book! by Steve Weber. Last day you can enter is this Thursday, January 31st.

Back to work on Marketing Plan for now. Adding a note on Assembly Day entry to take books, postcards and several brown paper bags.

Later, friends,

Mary

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Does the calendar picture look familiar? It should. It's going to be the visual equivalent of Alert! Marketing Tasks Ahead!

So, there are a few other marketing tasks I want to talk about, only because they involve creating or becoming a part of a supportive community, which also involves a long head start time.

• Visit your local independent bookstore and introduce yourself. Or, if that’s too hard, just visit the store and try to visit it regularly enough so that you become familiar to them. Basically, become a regular.

• Consider joining online forums or lists or communities. With one huge caveat: Only do this if you are truly interested in what those forums or communities have to offer. There is nothing worse than a drive by marketing plug on a list serv, and that will only get you banned or booed. But sometimes the publication of our first book can be a good time to step out into the world and make new connections. But again, you want to do it well before your pub date so it’s clear that your intentions are to become a contributing member of the group, not just a fly by marketeer.

A couple of other things to think about doing if you haven't done so before is to take our Comfort Level Inventory, then once you have an idea of what's comfortable for you, create a working marketing plan from your strengths.

And lastly, back to our discussion of Facebook. Right after Mary and Miss Vi and I were talking about Facebook, another author I'm on a listserv with posted a very detailed explanation of the ins and outs of Facebook as a tool for authors. With her permission, I am reposting it here.

One of the great perspectives Robyn Schneider brings to this discussion is that in addition to being the author of two YA books, Better Than Yesterday and The Social Climber's Guide to High School, she is also a college student, which is the exact demographic that Facebook was designed for, so she brings a terrific dual perspective to this discussion.

Facebook: A Guide for Authors by Robyn Schneider

I've been getting a steady stream of friends requests lately from authors. I know there have been some discussions on here about "I just got a Facebook! Now what do I do with it?" and "How do I promote my books on Facebook?" so, as a long-time Facebook user (since my sophomore year of college), I thought I'd share some info:

What are the differences between Myspace and Facebook? Basically, Myspace is an open network--you can view mostly anyone's profile, click to see who their friends are, leave comments on someone's wall who you aren't already friends with, join discussions, add people you don't know. Myspace is a place to connect with friends, but it's also a place to meet people you don't know in real life. You don't put personal information, such as full names, class schedules, addresses, phone numbers, on Myspace. It's like a blog--public.

Facebook is a closed network--most student-age users have profiles that are private, or only viewable by people in their school or hometown networks. Because of this, the site is used mostly for keeping in touch with old friends, for sharing photos with friends, for keeping tabs on your friends and classmates, and for daily communication with friends. You cannot leave a comment on someone's page, or most likely even view it, if you aren't already friends. Facebook is not a place where most teens are receptive to "friending" people they don't know, especially adults. Because of the fact that profiles are private except to their friends and network, most students have loads of personal info up: phone numbers, dorm or home addresses, their class schedule, photos they don't want their parents to see. And, MOST IMPORTANTLY, first and last names. You know how myspace profiles can be under internet handles like BookWritur21? Well, Facebook profiles are firsty-lasty plus either home town or school name. Why should a teen allow an unknown adult access to this information? Some teens don't care about having their stuff out there, and will be okay if you request them as a friend, but some do care, and won't.

I know a lot of authors are getting sick of promoting on Myspace because the site is so spammed these days, but most students don't want to be spammed on Facebook--and there's rarely even an opportunity to do so.

Say you want to let teens know about your new book on Facebook--how would you do it? One way is to join open-network groups for teen books and talk about your stuff. Another is to search for teens with certain interests or certain iRead books, and then, without being able to view their profiles, request that they add you as a friend--maybe send a private message first? The second option is where it gets sticky, because if the teen does add you as a friend, you have access to everything on their page that wasn't made public for a reason. Of course, there is a way to friend someone so they can only see a limited version of your profile, but that requires manual settings of what's limited and if you forget to tick the box for limited viewing, as I have on occasion, you've just given a complete stranger your life story. Crap.

So how do I use the two sites? I keep a Myspace profile that's 100% promoting my books. Links to amazon, jacket copy, blurbs, the works. It's like an extra page of my website, nothing that isn't already out there on the web. Teens can friend me without being afraid that I'll know where they go to school or what face they make when they do a shot of tequila at parties. Very few of my "real life" friends are friends of mine of Myspace. I use the site strictly for promotion and connecting with teens publicly.

But I also have Facebook. I'm on a closed network for my college, and although the profile is "clean" enough that I wouldn't be embarrassed if a future employer took a browse, it's also very much filled with private information. Photos of myself and my family. And worse, my wall of comments from friends. Things like, "Are we still on for coffee today at 3PM, the 110th
street Starbucks?" Because, most students don't email each other anymore--they send private messages or wall posts on Facebook, which can be forwarded automatically to their email inbox.

When authors who I don't know "friend" me on Facebook, I add them if I've heard their name before in the blogosphere, because I don't want to be rude, but I also wonder why they're adding me. What's the point? Do they want to go through my photo albums every week?
I'm easy to contact via my website or blog. I doubt they have such a burning desire to challenge me to a game of online scrabble.

However, I love it when teens find and friend me on Facebook. It's so cool. They've already read my books and want to connect. And even though I totally shouldn't let them see all my personal stuff, you can view the profile of anyone who requests to friend you before you make a decision to friend them back. So if they look okay, it's limited profile viewing time for them. I leave a message on their wall saying hey, and that's that.

So what do I recommend? If you want to have a Facebook profile to connect with people who already know you exist--including readers--go for it. But also know that a lot of people prefer Facebook to Myspace so they can avoid self-promoters. And know that if a kid turns down your friend request, it's probably because you might be a friend of their Mom's who can now keep tabs on their private profile, or because, you know, they learned the lesson well not to
let strangers see their business. I can't imagine how you'd get an overwhelmingly positive result trying to promote yourself on Facebook, but if you can prove me wrong, go for it! And then, um, would you mind letting me know how you did it? Because, I have a paperback coming out this August...

Thanks you, Robyn!

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