The short stories in Grandpa's Ashes are written in the vein of the back porch and late summer evenings of my youth. The children present were my brothers and sisters, a cousin or two, and some close friends. The adults were our parents, or grandparents, or their parents, or grandparents. Occasionally, among the adults, was a random stranger; who, finding us on the porch, found a willing audience, and willingly spoke of old things that were new to us.

      As the sun disappeared, the only light would be the red dot of a lit cigarette, or the ever present, but elusive fireflies who taunted the children from a safe distance. By this time we children would have been tired out from jumping rope, or playing tag, hide-n-go seek, red light – green light, and/or hop-scotch. The last of the captured fireflies would have been set free so they would be available to be caught another evening. Yes, some inquisitive child would have detached the lighted end of an unlucky creature from its trunk, in a fruitless attempt at discovering how they lit. That child was the future scientist, doctor, nurse, or serial killer among us.

      The only smell, contrary to that of nature's summer evening, was the well seasoned pipe filled to the brim with Acapulco Gold tobacco. The sounds would be the occasional sip from a can of pop, a glass of whiskey, a cup of water; or the pop and following fizz of a just opened can of beer. The only voices heard would be that of an adult.

The stories imparted to the other adults, younger children, and the winds of time, would be repeated with variations and elaborations, by those who were privileged to here them that night. It was how the young became parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents who told the old tales made new by fresh ears.

      There was no cable TV with its 24 hour news. There were no cell phones, or computers that could link you to the internet because there was no internet. There were no video games, and it was too hot for board games. Occasionally there might be two people playing checkers, but by this time the checker board would have been set aside. The story teller, by custom, respect, curiosity, and the promise of an incredible journey to be had; commanded our full attention.

     Here, on a summer evening of my youth with this book in-hand, it is time to explore this world of my imaginings. For those who love to read, there is a seat for you in this vehicle of my design. In this new world of words, there are many people to visit, and just as many places to see. For our journey to begin, you need only to turn the page. 

for those who love to read