I write short sentences. This classic six-word story speaks volumes.
For sale: baby shoes, never worn.
Ernest Hemingway and Mark Twain wrote short sentences. Both began as journalists. I also prefer short paragraphs.
I have never been sophisticated enough to enjoy William Faulkner’s sprawling, complex sentences. Although when he writes about a leaf’s texture, you can almost feel the leaf.
F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby is my favorite American novel. Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables is my favorite European novel.
My taste ranges from Reader’s Digest short stories to Louis L’Amour’s Western novels to Harper Lee’s novel To Kill a Mockingbird to William Shakespeare’s play, Hamlet.
Ernest Hemingway’s words from his short story “Hills Like White Elephants” come to mind almost every time I turn on the news: “Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?”
Autobiographies and biographies are my favorite genres. David McCullough is one of my favorite biographers. He is a storyteller who does not get bogged down with facts and dates, as I just did.
We have been taught in school that Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492. We have been given multiple-choice tests in school with a set of dates to choose from. It’s an easy way to test us.
But what is the relationship between Christopher Columbus and Queen Isabella? Explore her religious motivations. She became unhappy with him when he enslaved indigenous people and forced them into labor.
Now, that’s a story. You can tell your children the story as America celebrates Columbus Day or Indigenous Peoples’ Day.
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I’m a pantser, not an outliner, as a novelist or better yet a storyteller. That’s what I’ve always been since I began writing with Crayola Crayons.
What does pantser mean? The most popular definition is that of those who write stories “by the seat of their pants.”
I write novels as the inspiration comes. Where is the motivation if you know what the ending is before you begin? To me, that is writing with a foregone conclusion.
Of course, we know the end of most biographies when we begin writing them, such as The Story of Joseph Willis, which was the first book I wrote. He died in 1854, but what about his influence thereafter?
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As a writer, I’ve been taught not to use adjectives and adverbs ending in “ly.”
Stephen King declared, “The road to hell is paved with adverbs.”
Mark Twain wrote, “When you catch an adjective, kill it.”
Ernest Hemingway stated, “I distrust adjectives as I would later learn to distrust certain people in certain situations.”
As mentioned, I was blessed to meet several famous writers who graciously (adverb ended in “ly,” so sorry) gave me some “pointers.” The point is graciously not needed in this sentence.
What do you think when someone begins every sentence with the adverb honestly? Adverbs like “really” and “actually” weaken your prose and narrative.
Excessive adjectives create unbelievable prose. “Beautiful” and “unbelievable” are examples of overused adjectives.
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The best advice I can give is to omit unnecessary words.
Example:
“The administrative assistant ushered me through the open door into the CEO’s office, and I sat down in a chair across from the big, wood desk.”
Obviously, there would be a door. And even more obviously, it would be open. If I sat, I would sit “down,” and naturally it would be in a chair. Because I’m seeing the CEO, a description of his desk would be notable only if it weren’t big or wood.
So write it this way:
“The administrative assistant ushered me into the CEO’s office, and I sat across from his desk.”
I often read sentences like “he stood up.” “He stood” conveys the meaning without up.
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Don’t explain what you wrote. Let the reader come to their own conclusion. Imagine if Carly Simon, when she wrote You’re So Vain had revealed who the narcissist was she was writing about.
Did Bob Dylan write Like a Rolling Stone about Edie Sedgwick? Like Simon and Dylan, leave some mystery in your writing.
Consider your first half-million-word practice. No matter how talented you are, mastering the craft of writing takes time—a lifetime in my case. The only way to learn to write is by writing.
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Sonny Throckmorton has had more than 1,000 of his songs recorded. He has had over 50 top 10 songs. While he was going through a divorce, he stayed at my home in Austin. We discussed writing many times. He said he considered the first 100 songs he wrote as practice.
Sonny also said that when he hears one of his songs on the radio, he is never satisfied with how he wrote it.
I asked Sonny if it bothered him that, after writing all these hits, most people don’t know his name. He replied, “Pudding, can you tell me who played Hamlet?” When I hesitated, he added, “Can you tell me who wrote it?”
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I have never considered myself a great writer, but I’m an okay rewriter. I self-edit as I rewrite numerous times.
I feel like a sculptor molding a story. Painting a picture with words is my ultimate goal. William Faulkner was a master of this. He painted on a vivid canvas with words about the Deep South.
There is no set formula for writing. Every writer is different. Choose what works for you.
Perhaps I should end with Sonny Throckmorton’s song, “The Cowboy Rides Away.” Better yet, I will close with his hit “Middle Age Crazy.”
There is another writing tip I will close with: Show, don’t tell….
Show, Don’t Tell
Show, don’t tell; is a creative writing rule that lets the reader draw their own conclusions and feel their own emotions.
Telling: She was nervous.
Showing: She tapped her foot against the dance studio floor, biting her trembling lower lip as her heart pounded against her ribs
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My novel Beckoning Candle begins with one of the most difficult scenes the generation before me faced. My father’s first cousin, Robert Kenneth “Bobby” Willis Jr., was missing after the attack on Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. The USS Arizona was destroyed. Bobby was on that battleship.
Daddy was devastated, angry, and vengeful. The other family members and friends dealt with it in their own way.
My story was inspired by true stories passed down by my ancestors, including Bobby’s siblings and cousins.
Beckoning Candle depicts real historical figures and actual events, woven together with imaginary conversations using fiction’s storytelling techniques. Truman Capote claimed to have invented the genre “nonfiction novel” with his 1965 book In Cold Blood. When I first read In Cold Blood, I was hooked on this genre.
As a writer, how do I show, not just tell, the facts of this tragic event that caused an arsenal of emotions in my family? I knew I had to do this in the prologue of Beckoning Candle.
Beckoning Candle Prologue
December 25, 1941, The Ole Willis Home Place
On Barber Creek Longleaf, Louisiana
Rand Willis arises before sunrise, nestles next to the fireplace, with hot coffee—as alone as the morning star.
The wind whistles through the dogtrot and awakens Julian. He struggles upright, half asleep, and rubs his eyes as he pours a cup of coffee.
“It’s our first white Christmas! Grab some firewood—please. And check on the horses, mules, and the dogs, too.”
“Yes, sir, Daddy. Merry Christmas!” Julian shivers as he chips through the frozen water trough with a horseshoe. He gathers the firewood, now covered in two feet of snow. Icicles adorn the trees overhanging Barber Creek. It is cold and rather barren, but it has the loveliness of a Christmas card. And, like a Christmas card, it will hold that image in Julian’s mind for years to come.
Rand’s eldest son, Howard, drives his International Harvester truck, which can be heard a mile away as it plows through the snow on the red dirt road. The family knows there will be no snowfall, preventing Howard from delivering a Christmas tree to the homestead—a real tree, and not one of those artificial, awkwardly bent imitation trees with no texture, fragrance, or fullness.
“That’s a big cedar. Let me help.” Julian drags the Christmas tree out of the truck bed.
Howard’s wife, Zora, cries out, “I need help, too.” Rand clasps her. “Ah-ha! All my favorites: freshly baked pies, peach preserves, and okra in mason jars. Oh, my, and even your famous buttermilk pie.”
Rand’s wife, Lillie, collects each family member’s handcrafted decoration for the tree. “Let’s hang them.” The aroma of cedar, sugared fruit, and gingerbread brings back memories of Christmases past.
Today is Rand and Lillie’s grandson Donnie’s fourth birthday, to boot. “Can I play with my birthday gifts, Grandpa?”
“Yep, but keep the stick horse at a trot. Let him get used to this colder weather, eh? See what else Santa left you. The new game Shoot the Moon and a wooden jigsaw carton puzzle.”
Good, long-time neighbors, John and Ruth Duke, and their two kids, Johnnie, Ruth, and Jerry, arrive with a pumpkin pie and two fruitcakes.
Rand fidgets. “The better part of valor is not to mention that to Lillie. Her definition of what constitutes a mortal sin may be different from ours. Let me taste-test the cake for moisture.” He pinches off a nibble and smacks his lips in approval. “Now, indeed, that’s the moistest cake ever! I may have another slice or two later.”
Johnnie Ruth and Donnie sit on the floor. Donnie prefers Conflict, a military board game, and Johnnie Ruth, paper dolls. Howard reaches and hangs the star of Bethlehem on the tree.
“It almost touches the ceiling.” His brother Herman carved it from a piece of hickory. Christmas stockings, stuffed with nuts, candy, and fruit, hang on every available nail. Lillie had placed books, tablets, pencils, wooden soldiers, and even a rockin’ horse under the tree.
The children’s faces glow from the fireplace. Herman stokes the fire with a piece of pine kindling.
The sunrise colors glisten in the snow. “Who can paint like the Lord of creation?” Lillie proclaims.
Donnie and Johnnie Ruth grab a shovel, and off they go sledding from the barn. They slide down the hill to the banks of Barber Creek.
“You kids, get back up here,” Lillie yells. “That’s too dangerous. Ten more feet, and you’d both be frozen lollypops!”
Julian blows in his horse’s nose to calm him. It’s not the first time the animal has experienced snow, but it has been a long time, and any sudden change in the weather makes horses skittish until they get reassurance from their masters that all is well and everything is still okay. “The Comanche use to do this in Texas. Helps you bond with the horse.”
“I’m going to churn ice cream in my new pewter pot,” Lillie promises. She stirs snow, milk, cream, butter, and eggs. She also prepares Rand’s favorites, especially dewberry pie and a cup of kindness called Community dark roast coffee.
Rand grins. “I hung some mistletoe.”
Lillie looks him in the eyes and kisses him on the cheek. “The kids.”
“We have enough to feed Camp Claiborne’s 34th Red Bull Infantry,” Rand says. The nearby U.S. Army camp, which accommodates 30,000 men, does not give Lillie a sense of safety. A world war is still raging, and every American is on alert.
Lillie’s eyes sparkle. “Please play my favorite Christmas carol—O Holy Night?” Rand’s father bought him a fiddle on a cattle drive from East Texas when he was barely twelve. He spent his evenings teaching himself the fingering and bowing techniques.
“How can I refuse a woman of such virtue—and one so beautiful? Our home overflows with your sweet joy.”
Lillie hugs him. “Will it be our last Christmas with our sons?”
The snow drifts against the windows and doors, begging for entrance into their lives like the events of the previous three weeks. “There’s nothing as peaceful as Louisiana Longleaf pines covered in a fresh layer of snow,” Rand muses. “Ah, if only the world were that way.”
Rand’s eighteen-year-old nephew, Robert “Bobby” Willis, Jr., enlisted on July 31, 1940, and reported aboard the USS Arizona battleship at Pearl Harbor on October 8, 1940. A surprise military strike by the Japanese Navy Air Service on the morning of December 7, 1941, detonated a bomb in a powder magazine. The battleship exploded and sank. Hundreds of marines and sailors were trapped as the ship went down.
The family held out hope, but those hopes were vanquished a week ago, like a shadow darkening all elements of light. Rapides Parish Sheriff U. T. Downs, Robert’s pastor from First Baptist Church, Pineville, delivered a Western Union telegram to Robert’s father.
Downs struggled to speak with tears in his eyes. “It has been confirmed that Robert was entombed in the USS Arizona at the bottom of Pearl Harbor. I just can’t tell you how grieved I am to bring this news to you, especially so soon after Thanksgiving. This is the part of my job that I dread the most. If there’s anything I can do for you folks, just say the word.”
Howard and Zora took Donnie to the Pringle Picture Show in Glenmora to see How Green Was My Valley. “We need to seem as if nothing has changed for Donnie’s sake,” Zora insists. “I fear that we will be one of many, many families who will receive telegrams before this war is over. Our hearts are broken, but we must carry on.”
Julian now works with the horses and mules—plenty of grain, hay, and water. He grooms their coats of hair and checks that they are sound and well-shod. He’s gentle with horses, the elderly, and children, but as tough as rawhide on no-account men. “I wish I could ride you guys into battle, but an airplane will have to do.”
Two stray goats, covered with ice, nudge their way into the barn. Julian jumps up to shoo them back outside. “Get out of here. You’re going to break Daddy’s deer horn hat rack I made. It’s his Christmas gift.” The goats resist but then yield when Julian gives each a swat.
Herman, quiet and soft-spoken, takes off without saying a word—impeccably dressed, as always. Howard and Julian help their father with the firewood.
“You two should find him—now! Take my Ford,” Rand insists.
They pump ten gallons of gas into Rand’s ’40 Ford Coupe at Bob Johnson’s Grocery Store at Shady Nook. “Where do you think he’s at?” Howard asks.
“Charlie’s Cafe in Glenmora is the closest—let’s try there first.”
“He just left, but not until he whipped two men for making fun of his khaki pants,” the owner tells them when they arrive.
“Did he say anything?” Julian asks.
“He mentioned he would never be back, and he preferred Boom Town’s honky-tonks. Not sure which one, but they’re all outside Camp Claiborne’s main gate. Those places will thrive as long as that base keeps bringing in new boys who are wet behind the ears and willing to waste their pay during a weekend pass. Check ‘em one by one.”
This time, one man lay on the floor in need of medical attention. “Let’s check the Wigwam in Forest Hill,” Julian says, “before someone kills him or, God forbid, wrinkles his pants. I played steel guitar there several times in Horace Whatley’s band. It’s a rough joint.“
The sounds from the beer joint known for live music and its jukebox shake the windows as they drive into the parking lot. Chicken-wire fencing wraps around the bandstand to keep the band from being hit by beer bottles.
As they enter, the bartender yells. “Break ’em up before they destroy the place!” Three men hold Herman while two others land repeated punches and kicks. The jukebox blares Jimmie Davis’s hit—I Hung My Head and Cried.
Bleeding like a stuck pig, Herman calls out, “Are y’all going to help me or just stand there, whistlin’ Dixie?”
“I’ll take the three holding him, you the other two. Use that chair, Howard.”
After a melee of about ten minutes, they settle with the barkeeper for fifty bucks in damages and haul Herman outside to his truck. His lip is busted, his nose is bleeding, and one eye is starting to swell shut. He refuses to show any sign of weakness or pain, although he wheezes when drawing in a breath between bruised ribs.
They arrive home in time for a delayed supper. Rand examines Herman’s cuts and bruises. “Save all that anger for the Japs and Hitler.”
Lillie brings clean towels. “My three sons fighting in the Devil’s playground and on Christmas Day! May the Good Lord find mercy to forgive you for such behavior!”
Rand smiles. “At least they didn’t go to the Duck Inn…it provides more than liquor.” Her grimace reveals she does not find humor in his observation.
Lillie pulls her collar up, tightens her scarf, shoves her hands deep into her pockets, turns her face, and walks outside into the biting wind. “I need to gather more snow for the ice cream.”
She returns—but with no snow. “It’s suppertime.” Her words are all that is needed for family and guests to gather around the candlelit table.
As Rand says grace, light dispels the darkness in their hearts just as the Star of Bethlehem did long ago. The reflection on Lillie’s face from the beckoning candle contradicts the devastating news from Hawaii.
Rand bows his head as everyone joins hands. “Lord, we know the world will still turn, the songbirds will again make joyful sounds, and this too will pass. Keep our sons in the hollow of Your hand. Bless this food—and bless our nation. In the name above all names—Jesus.”
American men from coast to coast stepped forward to retaliate against the attack on U.S. soil. Shortly after Thanksgiving, Julian enlisted in the U.S. Army Air Corps. And Herman is in the Army’s ground forces.
Three weeks ago, President Roosevelt’s words on the radio became their heart cry: “No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory.”
Howard went with his brothers and did his best to enlist. However, the recruiter didn’t even need to wait for the results of a physical to see that Howard had a deformity that would make him 4-F. Howard had a severe head injury caused by a blow from a split-rim truck wheel. It had exploded while Howard was inflating a tire in Glenmora.
He tried to disguise the injury by pulling a cap down over his hair and forehead. Still, the recruiter—not new to his job—pulled off the cap, surveyed the scar, and motioned a thumb over his shoulder, indicating Howard was “out” of the running. Rand tried to assure Howard he could still serve the nation in other ways. For a scrapper and brawler like Howard, those words brought little appeasement.
Now, as they continue to enjoy what will probably be the last Christmas as a united family for perhaps years to come, Howard stokes the flames in the fireplace with a kindling-stick from a busted chiffarobe.
Rand raises his fiddle. “Join me in the family key.”
Everyone joins in.
“O holy night, the stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of the dear Savior’s birth;
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
‘Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.”
Rand leafed through his great-grandfather Joseph Willis’s six-inch thick leather-bound journal written long ago as the long day ended.
“What would Joseph Willis do?”
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And a newspaper clipping of his first cousin and best friend, Robert K. “Bobby” Willis, who was KIA on the USS Arizona. Bobby Willis is entombed at the bottom of Pearl Harbor today. Daddy, Julian “Jake” Willis, climbed Mount Suribachi after the Battle of Iwo Jima with the above paper clipping in his pocket about Bobby’s death.
The Ole Willis Homeplace on Barber Creek near Longleaf, Louisiana. Robert Kenneth Willis Sr. (1877-1951) has the reins in his hands. Robert’s first wife, Eulah Hilburn Willis (1884-1919), is in the backseat. She died in the influenza pandemic of 1918-19. Julia Ann Graham Willis (1845-1936) is standing and holding a catfish. Robert and Eulah’s baby girl, Flossie Litton Willis (August 5, 1905 – September 1985), is held by an unknown lady. Flossie told me that this photo was taken on her first birthday.
Robert Kenneth Willis Sr., son of Robert Kenneth “Bobby” Willis Jr., was killed on December 7, 1941, on the US Arizona when Japan attacked Pearl Harbor.
Daddy, Julian “Jake” Willis, climbed Mount Suribachi after the Battle of Iwo Jima with the above paper clipping in his pocket about Bobby’s death.
How I Write: Research and Have Fun!
The following is an example of how I have fun with research and writing.
I like to visit the location around the time of year the event took place. This happens when I write a story for a novel or biography. It helps me capture the essence of the scene. I want to experience the colors of trees and flowers at that time of year. And yes, it is an excuse to get out of my office.
In this case, I ride my horse down the creek. Then, I climb the steep bluffs to find out how much noise we make and how my saddle horse responds.
And finally, I reward myself with a dash of fun after a day or two of research. The latter keeps me from burning out.
Most of all, remember to have fun. If you don’t, you can burn yourself out and lose interest.
You can’t repeat the past,” Gatsby replies, “Why of course you can. — The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
Researching Texas Ranger Jack C. Hay for my novel, Texas Wind
Portrait of John Coffee (Jack) Hays, Texas Ranger, circa 1948.
Every Western novel and movie I have read, watched, and written about is influenced by Texas Ranger Jack C. Hays. The Texas Ranger led to the creation of Colt’s six-shot revolver. It was a time when the Comanche controlled the Texas Hill Country that I live in today.
John Coffee “Jack” Hays is one of my heroes. He became legendary in June 1844 on the Pinta Trail during the Walker’s Creek Fight.
The fight had several names. It was known as the Battle of Pinta Trail Crossing. It was also referred to as the Battle of Cista’s Creek. Another name was the Battle of Sisters Creek.
The exact location was at today’s Sister Creek. It flows into the Guadalupe River next to Sisterdale Road (FM 1376). This spot is one mile south of present-day Sisterdale, Texas.
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I smell the grass and watch the white-tailed deer drink from the creek. As I observe the breathtaking views, the story comes to life.
Get permission from the landowner. Saddle up. Trailer your cow ponies for a few hours. Hire a guide who works for the landowner (see the photo below). Then, you are ready to ride. Oh, I forgot to buy a pair of boots for my trusted friend as promised. I’ll make that later with dinner and music by a youngster named Willie.
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The Texas Hill Country, with its rivers, animals, and scenery, is my sanctuary. It is my “City of Refuge”, as the Bible describes it. Here, I seek His face, His peace, His wisdom, and, yes, His joy!
Jack C. Hays led fourteen men from his ranger company on a scouting mission. They were searching for a Comanche war party led by Yellow Wolf. This group had recently been raiding Bexar County.
The “Houston Morning Star” characterized Walker’s Creek as “Unparalleled in this country for the gallantry displayed on both sides, its close and deadly struggle, and the triumphant success of the gallant partisan captain of the West.”
This fight marked the first time a company of rangers used Colt revolvers in combat. The Comanche participated in the battle. Later, a Comanche complained that the rangers “Had a shot for every finger on the hand.”
The Comanche were right. Hays was the first to use the Colt Paterson five-shot revolver. He quickly sent Samuel Walker to meet with Samuel Colt. Their meeting led to the design of the legendary Colt Walker six-shot revolver used in the Old West. I’m reminded of that every time John Wayne reaches for his six-shooter!
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The next day, we drove an hour to Whitewater Amphitheater. It is near Canyon Lake and New Braunfels, Texas. We went there to celebrate our research. We also planned to see another hero perform, Willie Nelson, who also lives in the Texas Hill Country.
Now, I’m ready to write the story. An excerpt from my novel, Texas Wind
June 1, 1844, Pinta Trail Crossing on the Guadalupe River
The Texas Hill Country
The sounds of change brought glorious news that blew like trumpets from heaven. The first trumpet sounded like a story Theo Cormier had shared with Joseph in a letter.
Fifteen Texas Rangers left their headquarters in San Antonio. They were looking for a Comanche war party that was raiding and terrorizing the settlers. The Rangers traveled on the Pinta Trail as far as the Pedernales River without a trace of any Comanches.
After nine days, the Rangers decided to turn back and make camp at a crossing on the Guadalupe River. One Ranger saw a large band of Comanches after climbing a bee tree. “Must be a thousand of ‘em!” he yelled. Those fifteen rangers found what they’d been looking for…and then some.
Theo had ventured to San Antonio in search of employment. A couple of German immigrants hired him for protection. They explored the Pedernales River to find a place to start a settlement.
The German immigrants told Theo they wanted to name the town after Prince Frederick of Prussia. One tried to call it Fritztown, and another suggested Fredericksburg. When they returned to the Pinta Trail, they heard guns firing like never before. Theo figured there must have been a hundred or so firing the number of shots. He discovered the number to be only fifteen.
Theo told the immigrants to wait for him down the trail. “I got to know what kind of guns they’re usin’,” he said.
He managed to identify himself to the men’s leader and soon discovered they were Texas Rangers. Remembering our friend Jim Bowie, a former Ranger, Theo began to fire. The Ranger told him, ‘Your gun will be of little effect again’ ‘em. Use one of my five-shooters!’
Those Indians started yelling bad things in Spanish at the Rangers. They called them cowards and all sorts of things. The Rangers’ leader saw Yellow Wolf, who led the Comanches.
The Ranger said something like, “Yellow Dog, son of a dog-mother, the Comanche liver is white!” That’s when the fighting began picking up. Theo thought, Who is this man?
Theo began to shoot and soon discovered he was no match with that Ranger. Within five minutes, Theo was hit with an arrow. It knocked him to the ground, and he lay there, stunned. He lifted his head and could see the shaft of his demise sticking straight up in the air. He asked himself, “Why ain’t I dead?”
With a trembling hand, he reached inside his coat. There was no blood. As Theo sought to find his wound, he touched the bloody Bible in his coat’s pocket. He thought, “I’ll be! It would seem this little Book has saved my life!”
Who was Jack C. Hays?
Captain Jack C. Hays—Legendary Texas Ranger. Hays built a reputation for fighting marauding Indians and Mexican bandits.
An Indian who switched sides and rode with Hays said the Indians called the young Ranger Captain “bravo too much.”
Rachel Jackson, Andrew Jackson’s wife, was his great-aunt. In 1836, at 19, Hays migrated to the Republic of Texas. Sam Houston appointed him a member of the Texas Rangers because he knew the Hays family from Tennessee. Jack Hays met with Sam Houston and delivered a letter of recommendation from his uncle, Andrew Jackson.
He moved to California during the 1849 gold rush. In 1850, he was elected sheriff of San Francisco County. Later, he became one of Oakland’s founders. The San Francisco 49ers football team was named after the 1849 gold rush.
The same holds true for my novels
I have researched and written a story for my “nonfiction novel,” Texas Wind, while making it a fun adventure.
Truman Capote claimed to have invented this genre with his 1965 book In Cold Blood. Yes, I know the term nonfiction novel is a misnomer.
Texas Wind depicts historical figures and events accurately. These are woven together with imaginary conversations using fiction’s storytelling techniques.
Texas Wind was inspired by true stories handed down by my ancestors.
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Everything I write is dedicated to nine people: my three sons and six grandchildren. And throw in two daughters-in-law for good measure. They are the joy of my life.
Anyone else who would care to listen in is welcome.
Everything I write is dedicated to nine people: my three sons and six grandchildren. And throw in two daughters-in-law for good measure. They are the joy of my life. Two of my grandchildren were not yet born when this photo was taken
“Many today have just enough religion to inoculate them from knowing Christ.” —Randy Willis
