About Author

XXXI was born in April of 1946, arriving with the first of the baby-boomers. I would describe my
childhood in Sparta, just north of Grand Rapids, Michigan as uneventful. My parents might feel
otherwise. I had the normal boy's curiosity along with a keen interest in science—a dangerous
combination. My parents were somewhat understanding when a rocket I created from homemade
gunpowder prematurely ignited, blasting a crater in my wooden desk and setting the curtains on fire
as the rocket swished about the room. They were less understanding when my pet Cecropia silk
moth laid eggs on my bedroom wall. They hatched the following spring releasing hundreds of
creepy-crawly caterpillars into my bedroom.
XXXThey must have been ecstatic when I headed off to college in 1964. I had a vague notion I
should be a science teacher. The notion that I should have fun in college was not vague. After two
years at Grand Rapids Junior College, I had a GPA of 1.67. For some reason, the draft board
declared this insufficient progress, and in 1966 Uncle Sam came with chain and shackles and
dragged me off to the Great War (WWII & ½). With my alleged scientific knowledge, the military
assumed I would make a fine medic. That might explain why, at the height of the Tet Offensive, I
found myself with the 4th Infantry Division, curled up next to a burned-out schoolhouse in
downtown Pleiku. This was not how I had envisioned employment at a school.
XXXI came home with all my limbs and part of my brain intact in the fall of 1969 and returned to
college on the G.I. Bill. This time I earned A's and B's—same I.Q., but with an attitude adjustment.
I received a B.S with major in chemistry from Michigan State University in 1971. A year later I
received a B.A. degree in psychology. An additional year at Grand Valley State University provided
a teaching certificate. Now I was ready to head for the classroom—this time with a salary.
XXXI taught high school chemistry and physics for two years and slowly went broke. After a full
year of teaching, my wife and I were only able to save enough money for a TV! It was time to go
back to school for an education. In 1977, I graduated from Western Michigan University's
physician assistant program with a Bachelor of Science in Medicine degree; I was now capable of
gainfull employment. I began my medical career at Marquette Branch Prison, which at the time was
Michigan's only maximum-security prison. My brothers like to explain to friends that I was doing
time in prison. I liked to think of myself as a government agent. Like writing—it was all a matter of
viewpoint.
XXXI received my parole after fifteen years and immediately sought employment at a mental
institution where I tenaciously clung to my I.D. badge; it was the only qualifier that separated us
from the patients. After fifteen years in prison and one year in a mental institution, I was ready for
the big time. I began employment at Helen Newberry Joy Hospital in Michigan's Upper Peninsula
where I worked in the walk-in-clinic and the small emergency room. I worked there for twelve years.
XXXIn December of 1999, life as I wanted to know it came to a screeching halt; I was diagnosed
with cancer of the left vocal cord. This was not supposed to happen to someone whose sole
experience with smoking was one cigarette behind the woodshed. During my years as a P.A., I had
heard rumors that cancer kills people—bummer! It was not a pleasant forecast, and I wondered
how I would weather the storm. If I were lucky, perhaps I would survive with a permanent
tracheostomy. I could hold an electronic vibrator to my throat and make noises like Darth Vader. I
assumed the entertainment value of this skill would be short lived. Not wanting to be on welfare, I
began searching for ways to make money without talking. The only occupation I found worth
pursuing was writing. Little did I know this was usually a preoccupation and not an occupation.
XXXThanks to two excellent surgeons at the University of Michigan, my tracheostomy was
temporary. The cancer was surgically removed, and the vocal cord reconstructed. I have now been
cancer free for ten years and counting. My voice is breathy, and I give a good imitation of the
Godfather, but I can talk. The administrators and staff at Helen Newberry Joy Hospital were more
optimistic than I had been; my job was still waiting for me when I recovered. In the spring of 2006,
I retired from gainful employment and took up writing full time, although I still provide volunteer
medical service at a free clinic.
XXX Now I devote my energy to filling cyberspace with short stories and editors' in-boxes with
prospective novels. I hope you will find time to read some of the short stories. If you provided any
feedback, I would be ecstatic. I prefer compliments, but I need criticism.