For sixty-eight years I told stories in paint, dabbing colors here and there to represent a country back porch or a small berg, a grocery, a service station, a deserted gold mine’s monumental headframe, or a gaggle of geese in a shady lane, all close to the heart of Americana.
I spent more time than I care to remember in classes of various subjects learning the how-tos of being a creative artist. Good and sincere teachers, yes, but the subject is vague. The great examples are at The University of Colorado, Pasadena’s ArtCenter College of Design, and Qvale and Associates (which is no longer in operation).
After years as a creator of watercolor paintings which leaned to the story illustration gender, wherein I could make up anything I thought appropriate, it was an easy jump from painting dabs of color to typing words of color. I’ve retired my paints and brushes in exchange for a laptop computer and colorful verbiage.
I don't pretend to be any kind of historian. These stories are just that. In my family back in West Virginia, any story that dickered with the truth was considered to be a yarn. It was intended to be just passed on down to a group of rapt youngsters. These stories do however reflect the life of a young whippersnapper living in a small town in the middle of 20th-century America, and could be a sort of chronicle of same. To witness my yarns all dressed up into a real book is a thrill and I hope you enjoy it.