I was born in April of 1946, arriving with the first of the baby-boomers. I would describe my childhood as uneventful, but my parents would say otherwise. I possessed a normal boy's curiosity along with a keen interest in science—a dangerous combination. My parents were understanding when a homemade rocket 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. The eggs hatched the following spring releasing hundreds of creepy-crawly caterpillars into my bedroom.

They must have been ecstatic when I left for college in 1964. I had a vague notion of becoming a science teacher, but the notion of having fun in college was not vague. After two years as an alleged student, I had a GPA of 1.67. 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. That was not my vision of school employment.

I returned to college in the fall of 1969 with all my limbs and the greater part of my brain still intact (minus some PTSD). This time I earned A's and B's—same I.Q. with an attitude adjustment. I received a B.S in chemistry from Michigan State University in 1971. A year later I received a B.A. in psychology. An additional year at Grand Valley State University provided a teaching certificate, which allowed me to teach high school chemistry and physics for two years while slowly going broke. It was time to return to school for a real education.

In 1977 I graduated from Western Michigan University's physician assistant program. I began my medical career at Marquette Branch Prison, which at the time was Michigan's only maximum-security prison. My brothers explained to friends I was doing time in prison. I preferred to think of myself as a government agent. Like writing—it was a matter of viewpoint.

I received my parole after fifteen years and then transferred to a mental institution where I tenaciously clung to my I.D. badge; it was the only qualifier separating me from the patients. After fifteen years in prison and one year in a mental institution, I was ready for the big time. I began working in small rural hospital’s emergency room until December of 1999 when life as I knew it came to an abrupt halt; I was diagnosed with vocal cord cancer. This shouldn’t happen to someone whose sole smoking experience consisted of one cigarette behind the woodshed. Thank you, Agent Orange.

It was unclear if I would ever work again as a physician assistant, so I took up writing. I was able to return to work, but writing is addicting. I now have fourteen books with my name on the spine. My books are a composite of my life’s many experiences. As I summed up in my autobiography, if life offered a do-over, I would not change a thing. I now live along the southern shore of Lake Superior with my wife of fifty-two years. Life is good.