Daydreamer by Bob Johnson

“Pa, do you think we might never have our own home, again. I mean someplace we can stay for a long, long time?” I asked quietly.

I sat on the lumpy couch that served as my bed. The blankets piled on top smelled like mothballs, and the odor from old worn-out quilt was even worse. Cat pee was what I thought.  The dim flickering light of the gas lantern cast shadows across the small trailer house walls. I had just finished reading a Donald Duck comic for the hundredth time. It was my only one. I had thought about sending in some money to get some of those sea monkeys they advertised on the back cover, if I had any money.

My dad was just sitting in an old cane chair, staring at the floor, yet another Camel cigarette tossing swirls of smoke into his eyes. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the rolls covering over the rips and tears. The denim jeans, almost white from wear, displayed a few patches that he had sewed on himself. They ballooned out from his thin body. His wide striped suspenders, now off his shoulders, hung loose on either side.

He was a hardworking man, but he had his hand around a drink glass full of whiskey. Not his first of the night.

“I’m almost eleven years old and that would be something I would like for my birthday.” I said and began dreaming about it coming true.

“Maybe we’ll find a genie in one of them bottles laying all over the place and he’ll grant us three wishes and one of them wishes with be a fancy home with running water, and an indoor privy, and maybe electric lights, and…”

“Now hold on just a hair Henry, it’s nice to wish for all them things but you gotta quit daydreaming, ya hear.” His father said with a touch of sadness, and lifted the glass of brown liquid to mouth one more time.

“That kind of thinking just confuse reality, don’t ya know.” He added.

The deep wrinkles and tan, wild black hair, and hands that felt like sandpaper were a testimony to the farmhand work he had performed ever since I could remember.

I stared at my father’s face for a short time, then lay back on the couch.  I knew he was right, and I knew all those bottles I was talking about wouldn’t contain a genie. They used to be full of liquor.

I lay on the lumpy pillow looking up at the dark water stains above my bed or couch, depending on whether you are sitting or lying. There was a constant leak every time of rain, which wasn’t very often. Pa finally slopped some tar across the entire roof to mend the problem. I was mighty thankful I didn’t have to cover up with plastic tarp any more when I went to bed. I rolled to the edge of the couch and looked down at the floor. The linoleum was scuffed and worn out in places where people had walked. It just showed black now. We put some loom weaved throw rugs in a few places, but even they were just about as bad.

The air in the old trailer house was stale and the smell of the dust constantly wafted through the loose-fitting windows and doors. Along with that, the cigarette smoke and the exhaust emanating from the lantern send me outside on a regular basis.

I would usually go sit on an old picnic chair just outside the door, my rear end sometimes slipped right through parts of the plastic weaved seat.

I decided now was a good time to head in that direction.

 The soup pot and bowls were still in the sink waiting to be washed, but that never happened very quickly. Pa would start a glass of whiskey before we were even done eating, and that would be the end of him wanting to do anything the rest of the night. I would wash them up after I got some fresh air, I thought.

I pulled off my shoes and socks, stared at my toes as I wiggled them to give them a workout, and slipped out the door.

The stars were beautiful and the summer night was warm. I was just relaxing when I heard footsteps.

“Well, Henry Harper, whatever are you doing out here by yourself tonight?” She exclaimed as she had walked by the trailer.

Mrs. Jensen and her husband, Gaylord, were the owners of the place. Pa had worked for them for almost a year. She was a nice woman and treated me alright. Her husband was mean.

“I’m just star gazing, I guess. How you been, Ms. Jensen.” I answered.

“Doing fairly well, just wished we’d get a little more rain, but ain’t that the way always?” she said and smiled.

“You know much about them stars twinkling so far away?” she asked.

I didn’t say anything.

“Well, Henry Harper, lets see if we can learn something tonight, okay.” She smiled again and looked up into the darkness.

She stood next to my chair and showed me all the things I had been wandering about. I now knew about the Big Dipper, the North Star, and Orion’s Belt. Pretty nifty.

“If I find a book about stars and constellations, I bring it to you.” Mrs. Jensen offered.

“That’d be mighty nice of you, that is, if you find one that ain’t too expensive.” I countered.

She laughed and walked toward the shop where I could hear the other hired man, Willard, and Mr. Jensen talking.

I raced back into the house to tell Pa what I had just learned. My excitement turned to a sadness, which I would often feel, when I saw Pa passed out leaning on the kitchen table. I could never figure out why he drank like that til he couldn’t drink no more. I hated it.

I did the best I could to sort of drag him to the back of the trailer where his bed was, but couldn’t lift hm up. I grabbed a pillow, tucked it underneath his head, pulled the ratty divider curtain across the wood rod separating his sleeping quarters from the rest of the place, and set out to do the dishes then get to sleep. I was dang dog tired.

I was dreaming about being able to fly over a huge city but that got interrupted.

The banging on the door roused me out of a deep sleep.

“Charlie, get your sorry ass out here, there’s a fire in the swamp.” The voice bellowed.

It was Mr. Jensen, yelling for Pa, like he had done many times before.

“Dammit Charlie, you better be up and at em’ in five minutes or else you can pack your bags, I’ve had it with you.” I heard the voice fade as Mr. Jensen walked away.

I wasn’t too concerned; I’ve heard all that before.

I scrambled out of bed to wake Pa up. He was right where I had left him the night before. It didn’t look like he had moved an inch.

“Pa, get up, you got to get out into the field. Mr. Jensen is mad at you, C’mon, Pa.”  I implored as I tugged at his arm.

He didn’t move, so I threw on my pants and shirt, slipped on my worn-out boots and raced out of the trailer, almost losing my balance on the old railroad ties that served as steps into the place.

“Mr. Jensen, I yelled as I ran toward the retreating man, Mr. Jensen!”

He stopped and turned.

“Pa’s sort of sick and has kind of a fever or something. He says he’s going to try to make it out but just has to lay about for a little while.” I said, making up the best excuse I could think of.

Mr. Jensen looked down at me and narrowed his eyes.

“Son, you don’t have to say a thing. I know what the cotton pickin problem is and so do you. It’s a damned shame but that is the way it is.” He said with a bristle to his voice.

“You tell your father to come visit me up at the house when he feels up to it. In the meantime, I’ll pay you a dollar to pack up all them bottles and garbage around the back of that sorry trailer you two are staying in, and toss them into the barrel over by the big storage bin. Can you do that?” he asked.

I set off to work almost immediately, thinking about the money already in my pocket. He had paid me before I even started.

Pa stumbled, kind of dragging himself out of the trailer, looking pretty tough. He swiveled his head from the big house to the work shed and back, then promptly sat on one of the beat-up chairs.

“Where’s Willard, he hesitated, and the boss?” he asked.

“I know that Willard’s in the west breaking running the John Deere. I think he pulling the twelve-footer and some harrows.” I answered.

“And Mr. Jensen wants to see you. He’s kinda mad, I think.” I finished and went back to my chore.

My father sighed, lit up a cigarette, and sat for the longest time, just staring at his battered and scuffed field boots. Finally, and slowly, he pushed himself up and walked to the Jensen home.

I wanted to run away from the noise but couldn’t. I could hear Mr. Jensen hollering and bellowing. I figured it was at my father. I kept the garbage pickup going until the place looked pretty clean, dumped the junk, and headed back to the trailer.

Pa was sitting at the little kitchen table, and I thought, maybe he was just waiting for me to show up.

“Henry, get your stuff together, we’re moving on. Got let go from the place. Figure we’ll head on to up to the border, hope they is looking for farm hands.” He said quietly.

I thought about the fact that we were moving again. Another school after this summer, listening to all the comments and explaining why I only had two fingers on my left hand. And everything else.

“Pa, do we own a gun?” came my first thought.

“Now what do you need a gun for?” his father asked.

“I’d march over to the house and shoot Mr. Jensen. He don’t have no right to talk to you the way he did. I hate him, Pa.” I said and started to cry.

“Ain’t his fault my work’s falling behind. I think down deep you know that, too. I know I’ve been hitting the sauce and sometime I just go overboard, like last night. Seems I can’t help it. Don’t know what’s wrong, he admitted, but I don’t need you thinking thoughts of killing.”

It was the first time he ever had said something along those lines, but it still didn’t make any difference.

“Maybe you’re like Ma and ashamed of me cause I’m deformed and all. That why she left? And maybe you don’t like things cause you’re stuck with me. Is that it, Pa?” I cried harder as I asked those questions.

My father got up from his chair and rushed across to me. He grabbed both of my shoulders and bent down to be eye level.

“That is not true and will never be, so just get that thought out of your brain. I have never been ashamed of you for anything. Takes a special person to accept what God gave him and live with it. Why, you can do things with that short-fingered hand that some can’t do with their full hand.” He said in an even voice.

“Your Ma took off for a whole lot of reasons, but you weren’t one of them. Life just wasn’t what she thought it would be, so she went searching for something else. Hope she found it, too. I was the lucky one, I got you all to myself. Now let’s figure out what we need to take and get out of this place, okay.” He finished.

 My father pulled me to him. He held me tight for the longest time.

I stood, my face buried in his shirt, digesting what he had just said. Things he had never talked about to me. I tried to slow down my tears and feeling down. I looked around at our home for the last year or so. Pa was right, it was time to get out of this dumpy place.

Right at that moment I had strong thoughts of wishing I could go back to our house that we owned free and clear. It was little but had a nice kitchen and water from a faucet and a nice outdoor two holer. It was a safe, comfortable place. Damned bankers, Pa had called them, came out and evicted the two of us. Wasn’t making mortgage payments, they said. I was confused. It was our house or so I figured.

Pa explained that the farmland he was working was on a lease, and some other sonsabitches bid a higher price than he could afford, and took over the whole shebang. Lock, stock, and barre was what Pa had said.

So, we loaded everything in an old international pickup and took off. We slept underneath the chassis of that old beater for a lot of nights until Pa found some work. Of course, he was drinking almost the whole time, but we somehow made it.

Been a few seasonal jobs here and there along the way and I went to school whenever there was one around. The old truck motor blew up somewhere around Tulsa, and some of our belongings were taken by some low-down no-good thieves. We didn’t hardly have anything when Pa got this last hire. The Jensen place had been the most permanent place and now we were leaving.

Now, we didn’t even have a vehicle, so we had a couple of suitcases, and packs on our backs and got to going. Our entire belongings were being carried down the road.

“Henry, oh Henry, hold up!” I heard from behind me.

Mrs. Jensen was running up with a wrapped package and a cloth bag. She slowed as she got closer.

“I’m so sorry things had to end like this.” She paused, looking back and forth at the two of us. “But I packed some food for your trip, and Henry, this is the book I promised. Mostly pictures with night skies, but things you can learn.” She smiled and quickly turned away.

“Thank you much, Mrs. Jensen. I sure did enjoy the time here and good luck to you,” came an oddly pleasant statement from Pa.

“We got some things to work out, Henry and me, but appreciate all the meals, and the roof over our head all this time. Be seeing you, now.” He nodded and tipped his billed cap.

Mrs. Jensen stopped and stared at us for a moment. I waved and we took off down the dusty road to somewhere else.

Chapter 2

The old yellow and silver bus raced east on US Highway 64. It was the first time I had ever ridden in one of them big things. The seats were soft and comfy and I could lean back far enough to stare at the top of the cab.  A lot of the windows were pulled open to let all the cigar and cigarette smoke out.  I sat eating an apple and watching the world go by.

I imagined I was sitting still and the earth was spinning past, and at any moment I would jump across the roadway be swept away with everything else.

Pa was asleep and had been conked out ever since we boarded. I kinda think he was worried about our future buy didn’t say nothing about it.

My mind went back to a few hours ago.

“Where you two gents headed?” an old feller asked as we sat waiting for the bus call at the station.

The man had the biggest belly I had ever seen. The little short polka dot tie hardly hung down from his neck. And he looked like he was choking from that tight collar. His cotton pants were cinched up tight by a fancy green belt. They would never fall off. He was wearing a straw fedora that had a colored band around it. I knew what the name of the hat was because mean Mr. Jensen had one like that. One afternoon he ordered Pa to fetch his fedora in the shed. Pa didn’t know what he was talking about and got belittled. Another reason that I’m really glad we don’t work for that farmer.

“Don’t rightly know. Farm work somewheres, I guess.” My father had answered.

“You just get put off a job, then, huh?” came another question.

“Something like that. Put in my time and we kinda wanted to move on,” came another answer.

“Don’t know if this will help ya, but a few days ago, I stopped into a farm up Burlington way. Widow woman is kinda desperate for a worker. She’s been my regular stop for years. I sell Watkins products. Name’s Cyrus P. Carney,” the man said and stuck out his hand.

“I’m waiting for the bus to bring me another shipment of the finest products made. Coming from Winona, Minnesota. That’s headquarters.  Been selling for years. Folks know of me far and wide. Great products, yes siree, Bob,” he continued.

“We got all kinds of spices, baking materials, the purest vanilla extract on God’s green earth, and medicinals. Why, we make a pain relief salve that, after you slather it on, you’d be ready to take your sweetheart out dancing. Got a ton more things geared for the average folks in the area. Love my work, yes siree, Bob,” he finished.

“About the job?” my Pa said kinda interrupting like.

“Oh, lady named Williams, got a good size spread about four miles outside of Burlington. Ask anyone in town, they all know her,” he explained.

“And she buys plenty of my products. A good woman, that Mrs. Williams, yes siree Bob,” he said as he looked out the windows, then abruptly stood up.

Figured his shipment was probably coming in.

“Pa, do you think it might be worth a look see. I mean we got nothing else, do we?” I asked.

My father seemed a little stirred after hearing the salesman.

He turned with a smile. ”Yep, got nothing else.”

I ate a cheese sandwich and had a soda at the Kiowa bus terminal.

We had switched buses and got on US Highway 281 for a while, but Kiowa was the end of our riding. We had about seven more miles to Burlington and only a gravel road to get there. Three in the afternoon and getting darned hot, but we hoofed it.

An hour into the walk, a light green and black Mercury pick up truck pulled up beside us. Lady rolled down the window to talk.

“You fellas headed somewhere in particular?” she asked.

“Headed for Burlington, understand its not too far away.” Pa said.

“Still a fair way, but I’ll give you a lift as far as I can,” she offered.

The woman wasn’t real pretty, but had happy eyes. Her hair was kinda blonde and white mixed in and she was tanned. Not as dark as Pa, but I could tell she spent some time outside.

“Son, climb in the back and hunker down by those bags of chicken feed. Don’t be standing up, though, ya hear?” she ordered.

“Yes ma’am, I understand.”

“Well, what brings you to this god forsaken neck of the state?” she asked as Pa climbed into the passenger seat.

The wind whipped my hair around but it felt mighty nice. At least we weren’t walking. Pa and the woman were talking up a storm. Pa probably glad to talk with someone about his own age.

The truck slowed down and turned down a dirt road. I wondered why we got off the main trail. A few more minutes and we stopped. I jumped down and looked around. Someone’s place, I guessed.

“Henry, why don’t grab our belongings now and toss them over to me,” Pa said.

I must have looked confused as I looked to the woman and my father.

“Henry, meet Mary Williams, she’s our new boss.” Came the words from my grinning father.

“Son, this is what is called a coincidence, yes siree, Bob.” He grinned even bigger.

Chapter 3

“The most dangerous thing I ever did?” I repeated the question posed to me as a group of classmates sat outside the Burlington School for recess.

“Well, I’d have to say when I tried to pet a piranha fish and look what happened.” I smiled and raised his left hand.

That got laughter from my buddies. His deformity, he discovered was not a big deal after that first day of school.

“Boys and girls, I’d like you to meet a new student, Henry Harper.  He offered to stand up and tell us a little about himself,” Miss Offerdahl announced.

I stood up and looked around at the class of twelve other kids.

“My Pa and I moved around lots so I’ve seen acres of country, but never been out of Oklahoma. I don’t have a Ma, but we get along okay without her. I like reading books about constellations and space travelers and all that. But I’m not very good at math. Every time I try to count to ten on my fingers I come up with a wrong answer,” I said and held up my hands.

“Pa says I was born without a couple of fingers, but on the other hand, I’m just fine,” I continued as they laughed.

“Another thing is that it doesn’t take so long to choose which finger I want to pick my nose with.” I grinned as the class groaned approval.

“If any of you want to take a closer look at ‘the claw’ just come on around,” I finished.

I flexed my two fingers and thumb into a claw-like configuration and growled.

Nobody had said a thing concerning my hand after that day. I decided his short count of fingers was more of a badge of being—what had Miss Offerdahl said?—unique. I even had to look up the word and decided I was proud of being unique.

The school bus dropped me off at the Breckenridge turnoff. I walked about half a mile to get to the bunk house me and my father had been calling home for three months now. The pathway cut across a stubble field, then into a coulee, across a long dried out creek bed, up the other side, and another two hundred yards through knee-high grass and weeds.

I usually ended up picking off cockleburs stuck to my pants and socks when I finally reached the buildings. 

“Dang things, don’t serve no purpose at all except to irritate me,” I muttered as I reached for yet another one of the prickly menaces.

“What you sayin’ there, Henry?” came a voice from beside the chicken coop.

That was widow Williams, carrying a basket of eggs. She owned a fair spread and took Pa and me on as hired help. Her husband passed some time ago and I think she was happy just to have the company around. Pa said she was the best boss he’d had in a long time, treating us fair and all. Plus, we never cooked a meal at all. Both of us were starting to think maybe bigger pants was in order.

“Just complaining about these stickery things, not much, otherwise,” I answered.

“Yep, those things have always been a problem and no matter what my husband, bless his soul, did, those buggers kept coming back. Guess that’s their place to grow now.”

I decided they were little space ship pods and the only way they could travel was to hitch onto something with their tentacles. They were going to invade the whole farm someday.

“How was school, did you learn anything new?” came the daily question that interrupted my wild imaginative moments.

“Same old stuff, I guess, but we’re going to try story writing tomorrow so I got to think of something exciting to tell a tall tale about,” I announced.

“Your Pa is over on the south forty mending some fence. Those critters belonging to old man Calvert keep trying to get across to the planted fields. Those lush green shoots get their appetite a-rolling. He should be back soon I should imagine.” She turned to walk toward the house.

I noticed that my pa and the widow seemed to enjoy the company of each other plenty. Now she tolerated a bit of alcohol now and then in her house, but Pa hardly never drank a drop anymore. We talked a lot about things after he got booted by Mr. Jensen, and it seemed to straighten out a whole lot of happy living for the two of us. Pa even laughs out loud every once in a while. 

The story writing ended up being almost like a strange fairy tale. I started the project right after lunch.

A young man, his name was Calvin, was walking in the countryside, who found a strange shaped rock in a ditch, that shone a bright blinking light. He picked it up and rubbed some dirt off of it and immediately found himself standing in the middle of a little village in China. He wandered around for a while, not knowing anybody or the language. The village people, thinking he might be an outsider who might bring harm, chased him to the end of town. He stopped, turned around to them, and rubbed that rock once more. Like abracadabra, or shazam, he was flying into space headed for Saturn. He loved the feeling of flying but asteroids were blasting by him so he did his thing with the rock and finally ended up right back where he originally started. He didn’t know what to do with the rock, but decided to bring in back home and store it in the root cellar since its powers were dangerous.

“That was a wonderful story, and exciting too, but I’ll bet the class would like to hear more adventures about the mysterious rock and Calvin, wouldn’t we class?” Miss Offerdahl said with enthusiasm.

The other kids agreed, so I spent my free time daydreaming about what else could happen to Calvin. I was excited for the next installment.

The next couple of months I sent Calvin on trips to the Moon, different countries, and even back in time.  My trouble in my writing was that the poor guy never knew where he’d end up and I couldn’t figure out a way for him to control that. I talked to my teacher.

“Henry, the story you are writing talks about the unknown. I think it would be less interesting if Calvin was to know exactly where and when he would land after rubbing the mystical rock. Keep the audience, your classmates, guessing on what might happen. Writers call that a page turner. They want to keep reading to find out what happens next. Keep it simple,” came great advice from Miss Offerdahl.

The last Thursday afternoon of the writing project was approaching and I had to think of some way to finish the story. The answer finally came to me and I thought it was proper.

Calvin was walking down the road one afternoon when an old pickup truck stopped beside him. An ancient looking gent, bent over the steering wheel, stared at Calvin. Calvin could feel his brain waves flopping around in his head and got quite scared.

“Son, I think you have something that belongs to me. I’ve been looking for it for days on end. That rock you picked up is my only transportation back home to the planet Zeto-5. If I don’t leave earth soon, I will die. I look ancient to you but I am only twenty-five earth years old. Would you be willing to give that traveler signaler to me. I am willing to reward you handsomely.

Calvin did not hesitate but rode with the old man back to his home and retrieved it from its hiding place. He had had enough adventures with that thing. The out worldly visitor was too weak to walk so Calvin brought the rock to him.

The alien touched the rock and it began to glow brightly. In a matter of seconds the old man and the rock were gone. Calvin looked on the seat and saw another rock, the same size as his mystical rock, only it was a solid gold nugget. Calvin rubbed it just in case it might transport him somewhere. He didn’t move an inch.

Calvin sold that gold and used the money to fix up his parent’s house. The house now contained a library that was filled with Calvin’s favorites; stories about time travel and science fiction. Every once in a while, he would look into the night sky and wonder about Zeto-5 and what it was like.

I was rewarded with an A+ for my effort, and whooped when I saw that grade. The kids all stared at me.

Chapter 4

My father and Mary Williams got hitched during the last year of high school. I had never seen my father the way he was now. He looked healthy, stone cold sober, and happy.

The good news, too, was that I got the bunk house all to myself. Half of the place was full of books, strewn notes, pictures of planets and constellations, posters, and anything else I could find pertaining to science fiction. I had started, stopped, completed, or tossed away multiple story ideas I had put down on paper. It kept me pretty busy.

“Henry Harper, are you, or are you not gonna take me to the Harvest Ball?” Sherilynn Hayden demanded one day.

“I really hadn’t thought about it, I s’pose I could if you can’t find someone else to go with,” I answered.

I got a devil’s glare from her. She didn’t take joshing very well. She wasn’t really my girl, in fact, I didn’t never have a sweetheart. Too busy, I guess.

“You pick me up Saturday night at 8 0’clock sharp. And dress up, those old jeans and that ratty shirt won’t fit the bill,” she said as she sized me up and down.

“And get me a corsage from Anderson Mercantile back in the cooler. Light blue is perfect. And I want carnations,” she finished.

Girls can be such a pain.

I was late for my date. I wanted to finish War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells first. I had read it a few times but there always seemed to be new things on each page. A wonderful writer. I wished I could be like him.

I got spiffed up, wearing a tweed sport jacket that one belonged to my step-mothers’ first husband.  I had a white shirt, bolo tie, black slacks, and some nicely polished shoes. My black dress socks had a great big hole at the ankle but I used shoe polish on my skin and things blended right up. I looked pretty good. I used some goop to hold my hair in place and I was off.

The dance was fun with kids and parents dancing. Sherilynn laid her head on my chest as we dance close and slow to the record music. She dreamily looked up at me.

“What are you thinking right now, hmm?” she said softly.

“Honestly, I was wondering if a strong enough light was beamed into space could maybe some alien beings see it,” I answered.

“Well, I never, Henry Harper.” Then slapped my chest and walked off.

She didn’t even offer that I might give her a kiss goodnight. Some things I could never figure out.

Graduation was approaching. I had done okay in the sciences, math, and social studies, but the English and literature curriculum was my favorite. Learning writing premises, style, content, and characterization was, to me, like unwrapping gifts on Christmas morning.

I was encouraged to submit some of my writings to schools, in the hopes of receiving some kind of monetary scholarship. I had concluded I would, most likely, be working to help get me through each semester. College was darned expensive.

I received a letter stating they had approved my admission into Northeastern State University in Tahlequah. That was only a couple of hundred miles from the farm. I was ecstatic. NESU was my first choice actually.

The night of the graduation was a big deal, the whole town had turned out. The people were all dressed in their Sunday best, a big spread of food for after lay out in the back of the gymnasium, and an air of excitement buzzed about in the preparation room across the hall. All my friends, since I was twelve years old, were getting ready for the next great adventure.

I expected to get up to receive my diploma and that would be it, but when scholarships were announced, the school superintendent stood up to speak.

“One of our graduates has been awarded a full scholarship to their chosen college. I have been in contact with the English department Dean at Northeastern. He tells me that a submission by Henry Harper is some of the best writing he has read in years. So, it is with great privilege to award this to Mr. Henry Harper,” he finished.

Loud applause followed me across the stage. I was floating. I looked over where Pa was sitting. I waved with my left hand, our secret greeting. He had his handkerchief out and was wiping his eyes. I was so proud of him. I loved that man.

Chapter 5

So, here I am, situated at this table in the basement of Seattle’s famous Elliot Bay Bookstore, signing the inside cover of my new book. It all started with Calvin and the Mystical Rock, a story that went through many changes from when it was first written years and years ago. My target audience is kids eight to thirteen years old. My other Calvin sci-fi books, six in all, have sold well. Hopefully Calvin and the Arzod Invasion will continue that string.

I looked up from my writing and glanced at the most beautiful woman in the world leaning against a support post and smiling at me. Sherilynn Hayden-Harper, my wonderful supportive wife travels to all corners of the country with me. She lets me bounce ideas off her grounded down-to-earth brain. A tether, I would think, as my head is usually in the clouds. She finally let me kiss her and that was that.

Success, as I look back, came during a young age, and because of a need to escape this earth and all the worldly problems it was presenting. I was just a daydreamer. Still am.