Thursday, July 29, 2021

One White Pearl blog post #508

 Photo Courtesy of Dreamstime

It’s interesting to note that the most readers for the past few months have been from Indonesia. Sweden, Germany, and Russia have vied for second place, and the good old USA often falls to fourth place. Wonder what’s behind that?


This week’s post will likely put everyone fighting for last place because I’m going to post about something personal this time. I really don’t know why I do this, as I’m probably the least interesting fellow on earth most of the time.

Here we go.




Thank goodness the last week is behind me. And I say this as someone who needs to think twice before he willingly lets go of each day, much less a week.

Monday I held a meeting of my Wordwrights Writing Group, a class at North Domingo Baca I’ve taught for over nine years. Normally a day to look forward to. But the pandemic has brought changes, and I’m not someone who embraces change. If it worked for nine years, why change anything? Because we haven’t been able to meet in person for a year and a half—thanks COVID—we either needed to shut down something that’s gone on for 18 years (someone else ran the class for nine years before my co-host and I took it over) or adapt. Adapt meant Zoom. Zoom means technology, and I don’t deal well with technology. Nonetheless, what had been a twenty-to-twenty-eight-person weekly class became a twelve-to-sixteen- person Zoom class. Okay for exchanging information, but not so hot for camaraderie.

When the state reopened the civic centers, we were invited to hold classes on the premises of North Domingo Baca (NDB) again. Okay, but our situation had changed. One long-time class member moved to Australia, another to Idaho, a third to Texas, and a fourth to North Carolina. All wanted to continue, plus some of our in-town members weren’t comfortable in public yet. Ergo, we started holding classes on the campus at NDB, but still provided Zoom service for those who want it. So now we have change to the change I dealt with before. The first class was miserable, the second got aborted so the Roomers held their own meeting while the Zoomers did the same.  Thereafter things have worked out reasonably well, except that some of the laptops in the room produce squeaks and squeals, even if microphones are muted. I rated this day as a Black Pearl.

To describe Tuesday, I have to go back a bit. Over six months ago, I developed some internal bleeding that abruptly disappeared after the doctor had me go back on some GURD medication he’d allowed me to terminate. Nonetheless, my primary care doctor wanted me to do a colonoscopy. Because of COVID (here we go again), the hospital wasn’t able to schedule the procedure until June 26. So on that date, I underwent not only the colonoscopy but also an endoscopy. Results were favorable, nonetheless they wanted to do a capsule endoscopy, wherein I swallowed a capsule camera to pass through my GI tract to cover areas the other two couldn’t reach. Okay, that required some of that wonderful Golightly stuff (which definitely impacted Monday and contributed to that day’s Black Pearl classification) So I went in at 7:15, swallowed the camera, and was asked to return at 4:00 p.m. so the staff could retrieve the big, awkward black belt I had to wear all day so they could read the results on the bulky device affixed to said awkward black belt. The camera was left to its own devices. Well, when I got ready to drive to the hospital, the Good Lord deemed it appropriate to open up the heavens and mimic Noah’s flood in Albuquerque. The 30-minute trip took one solid hour (rain all the way) in my own Ark, a 2012 GMC Terrain. The clinic was closed, so I roamed around until I found someone to take the belt. Definitely a Black Pearl day.

Wednesday was notable for a pleasant lunch in an outdoor venue with five friends, although one revealed a potentially serious medical problem. Likewise, my intestinal tract was still touchy.  Even so, I rate it as a White Pearl day.

Thursday also requires some explanation. I have taken up eating popcorn again. When I come across a kernel, I test it gently between my teeth, and if it’s soft, I grind on it until it’s pulp. A week and a half earlier, I had done just that, and that kernel became the crunchiest thing I’d ever eaten. That night when I brushed my teeth, I discovered I’d crushed and devoured a crown on a premolar. Thursday was the earliest appointment with the dentist available, (I had no pain), so I went in that day for tooth repair. An hour and a half later I walked out of the dentist’s office with a new temporary crown and with almost $1,300 less in my savings account. Most definitely a Black Pearl day.

Friday and more background. In late June my surviving son and I took my elder son’s ashes to Valles Caldera (the most beautiful place on earth to me) to spread them in a lovely, peaceful Ponderosa pine grove overlooking the grassy plain and Little La Jara, a pine-shrouded volcanic knoll. Once that was done, I promptly fell flat on my face, scratching my forehead, skinning my nose, and making a mess out of my knees. I do not remember the fall, but definitely recall hitting the ground. My son said I was standing still and toppled over on the forest floor without putting out my hands or otherwise trying to break my fall. I’ve fallen before, but that one was different. I made the mistake of letting my primary care doctor know about it, and he scheduled an appointment. That rolled around on Friday. The result? He wants me to have physical therapy. Bummer. As much as I hate exercising, the ten-mile one-way trip to the hospital is even worse. Maybe—just maybe—we’re going to be able to get the therapist to come to me, not the other way around. Regardless of how that comes out, it was a Black Pearl day.

Count ‘em up. One white pearl in the middle of four black ones.


Thanks for indulging me in some personal bitching. Come to think of it, I guess it’s good to be able to be around to bitch.

Watch JMS Books for a release date on Mark Wildyr’s novel Charlie Blackbear.

Stay safe and stay strong.

Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

See you next Thursday.



New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, July 22, 2021

Charlie Blackbear, A Guest Post blog post #507

The photo that follows is the old cover. He hasn't received the one for the upcoming book as yet.

Thanks for your comments on “The Tease.” I get most of my comments on Facebook or on my private email (given below), so my online remarks are virtually non existent.

My writing buddy Mark Wildyr has a re-release of his Charlie Blackbear novel coming up soon. Right now he’s in the middle of his “Gabacho” story on his own blog, so I told him I’d allow him to do a guest post if he wanted. He accepted. Ergo, this week’s post will be the Prologue and part of the first chapter of his book. WARNING: Mark’s writing is pithier than mine, so be prepared.

Without further ado, let’s get started.




                                                                         By Mark Wildyr                                                                        


             A key in the door brought him half awake. He blinked and rubbed his crusted eyes. It looked like morning on the other side of his lids. A maid entered, gasped, and backed out quickly. The light from the doorway before she shut it behind her like to of turned him blind. He looked down at himself. Nekked.

His mouth was dry. Hard to swallow. Head throbbed. Man, musta been some drunk. Wished he could remember more of it. Where the hell was he, anyway?

Despite the headache, he tried to remember. Something about passing out and getting left behind. Started walking. Caught a ride. Yeah, that was it. Some white dude gave him a ride to town. The guy had a motel room where they could sack out for the night. They’d shared a bottle before the lights went out.

Suddenly he bolted straight up on the mattress. Son of a bitch! He remembered coming awake creaming in the bastard’s mouth! Then what? Shit, he’d passed out again. He scrambled out of bed, but the guy was gone. Cleared out.  The dude had left a message and a couple of twenties. He got pissed off again reading the note.

You were wonderful. I’ve never had an experience like last night before, and I’ve had a few in my life. Such magnificent equipment! You don’t run into many uncircumcised these days. You’ve got something to be proud of there. So young, and yet so well-endowed. It must have been good for you because you ended up whooping and hollering.

I hope you don’t mind, but I used your leg after that wonderful experience. I tried to do it again for you this morning, but you didn’t get hard, so I just stood beside the bed looking at your angel face and hunky body while I took care of myself. Hope I meet you again someday. I left a little something for you in gratitude. I also paid another day on the room in case you wake up after checkout time. So you have the room for another night if you want it. Wish I could be here with you.


He tossed the note aside. The fucker’d bought and paid for him. Used him like a whore. Skin crawling, he rushed to the shower, lathering up and scrubbing so hard his skin was raw. Then he stood under the pelting water, drawing a breath that was almost a sob.

Shit! He wasn’t a fucking queer.




April 4, my eighteenth birthday. Took its own sweet time rolling around. Talk about Indian time! They was pretty good years, till a drunk ran my old man off the road two summers back. They always talk about drunk Indians killing white folks. Well, this whitey wiped out my mom and dad, two brothers, and an aunt. Only reason I not laying over in the graveyard with them, I was out to my uncle’s place helping him catch a pony. Been with him ever since. My aunt was his woman, and since they didn’t have kids, him and me was all we had left.

At first, things was okay with him, but then he took to the bottle to make the hurt go away. Damned near everything went but the hurt. His old pickup broke down and was rusting away on blocks in front of the house. His job dried up. They couldn’t abide never knowing when he’d show up. His horses got sold for bottles of booze and cases of beer. The last thing to go was him caring for me, but that was dead too. We was nothing but a habit now. Oh, we got along okay…except when I try to steal his bottle. And that was whenever I could.

Only reason we’ve still got a roof over our heads is we live way out in the boonies on this little Indian reservation. When the pickup went down, I scrounged a bicycle from the dump and fixed it up enough to get around. It’s got harder to do lately, because things leaned up a bunch last winter, and riding that bike sure worked up an appetite.

Toweling off from a bath, I examined myself in the cracked mirror. What I saw looked Grade-A-Choice-Prime. I’d been fed good till the accident, so I was filled out like a full-grown man. My belly was sorta gut-shrunk since coming by a meal got harder, but my chest was deeper than most guys I know. I like my face and thick black hair, and from the way girls came on to me they must like it too.

I figured out my cock was good for something besides pissing the year I turned thirteen with Mazie Longbow out behind the scrub bushes at Rock Springs. It was big even back then. Pretty soon I heard it was going around that I had the biggest one in school. After that, I got my candle lit pretty much whenever I wanted.

In fact, the big fucker kept me in booze and groceries last spring when I ran onto this white woman in town looking for somebody to take care of her yard. I piddled around in her lawn grass until she invited me in for a cold drink. After that, I took care of her belly grass for the summer. She couldn’t believe it when I told her I was just seventeen; course, I look a couple of years older’n I am. She claimed I looked and screwed better’n any man she ever knew. I was sorta sorry when she’n her old man moved out-of-state, even if I was getting kinda tired of showing up once a week. Too much like a job.

Funny thing. I’ve never had a steady girl. Never did form a real attachment to one. I’d latch on real tight for a couple of weeks, making her feel real special, and then start looking around for another one.

Most of my buddies were guys who’d hang around and drink with me after my folks was gone. Couldn’t get away with it when they were around. Not too hard to get hold of alcohol even if this is a reservation and I’m underage. I got real close to a couple of guys—drinking buddies—but it only lasted till one got serious about a girl. Then I’d forget him and go hunt up another best buddy.

I have to admit getting taken care of nowadays wasn’t as easy as it used to be. My own fault. I’ve been through all the available girls on the reservation and in Blue Valley, the town just outside the rez. I had a reputation ‘em and leave ‘em. So except for three or four who always give it to me when I’m desperate, my wick wasn’t getting dipped much without going to new territory.

Well, today Charlie Blackbear was going to new territory. Charlie Blackbear, that’s me, eighteen-year-old-Plains Indian super stud. There was a powwow over at Flynn’s Corners about a hundred miles down the road, and I was gonna find me something new. If I was lucky, I’d latch onto a white woman who liked red meat so I could put something in my pocket alongside the lone dollar bill already there. Then I’d hunt me up some of the Native fluff I liked and treat myself to a birthday present.



Sounds like Charlie’s going to town. But our young stud may have some surprises in store. Watch JMS Books for a release date on Mark’s novel.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time. 

Thursday, July 15, 2021

The Tease, Part 2 of 2 Parts blog post #506

 Photo Courtesy of Depositphotos

Last week, it looked as if Chuck was about to pull his cock tease stunt on Wade Weatherman, college quarterback and big man on college. Let’s see how he manages it.



The apartment complex where Wade lived was typical of its breed. Four stories of studios and single or double bedrooms. Cookie cutter stuff. Nonetheless, it beat living in a dorm the way me and my three cronies did. I punched a button, and Wade buzzed me through without even asking who it was. Confident son of a bitch. Good. His comeuppance would be monumental. I smiled to myself all the way down the hall to his apartment.

When Wade opened the door to my knock, he’d made himself more comfortable by changing into sweatpants—nothing under them probably—with a sleeveless basketball jersey cut off so that it only reached his midriff. I had to admit it was sexy as hell.

“Chuck,” he said, low in his throat. “See you found the place.”

“Yep. Nice digs.”

“It’s okay. Keeps the rain off my head. Actually, it’s pretty handy. Campus is just a couple of blocks, so I don’t have to run the wheels off my car getting to and from school. Beer?”

“Sure. I haven’t reached my limit yet.”

He collected a couple of cans for us and led the way into his living room, plopping down on a long couch and indicating I should take the other end. Predictably, he turned sideways to face me, one bare foot on the couch, the other on the floor to make sure I got a good view. Nope, he didn’t have anything on beneath the sweats, that was obvious. There was nothing restraining his equipment.

He handed me my can and took a sip of his Coors. “Make yourself comfortable.”

So I slipped off my loafers and put one foot on the couch, almost but not quite, touching his crotch. I saw his eyes frankly studying me down there, so I returned the favor. Impressive, and I don’t think he’d even started to get an erection. Might as well hurry things along.

I stretched and my foot somehow ended up in his crotch. “Sorry.”

Before I could remove my foot, his legs scissored and trapped me. He lifted his gaze to meet mine. “No big deal. If you’re comfortable, leave it there.

This guy was moving fast. Damn, he was good looking. Good looking and sexy. Whoa! Where did that thought come from? I smiled and wiggled my toes, feeling him stir beneath my foot.

“Ummm,” he mumbled deep in his throat.

He lifted his bare foot from the floor and placed it in my crotch. His flesh added warmth to an area already generating some heat on its own. My time to mumble. “Ummm.”

I’m not really sure what happened next, but all of a sudden, he lay atop me, his face inches from my own. I’d never noticed how full his lips were. I’ll swear he had a surprised look on his face just before he lowered his head to mine. Startled, I opened my mouth—to protest?—and his tongue invaded my oral cavity.

I should have bitten it off, I suppose, but I didn’t. I merely moaned some more. The next thing I knew, he was unbuttoning my shirt while I lay motionless, as though paralyzed. Now was the time to do it. To get up and walk out the door. The guy was panting for it. Throw him off and stalk out the door.

But I didn’t. I had neither the strength nor the will. His fingers on my torso as he worked the buttons felt…. Hell, they felt good!

I still lay inert as he fumbled with my belt. Well, most of me was inert, but not the flesh behind my fly. And it really sprang to attention when he finally touched me without my clothing between us.

“Chuck,” his voice rasped. “I want you, man! I want you.”

Now! Now was the time. But I couldn’t move. Couldn’t or wouldn’t. Did it matter? My nerve endings crackled as he ran his strong hands over my naked body, studying me intently with eyes that reminded me of deep pools of melted chocolate as he touched each part of me.

And then, the unimaginable happened. As I lay in the twin grips of indecision and desire, he lifted my legs and got into position. I cried aloud as he entered me, but immediately his lips closed over my mouth, bringing relief and… and desire. As he lifted his head to gaze into my eyes while his powerful hips thrust against me, a voice from somewhere gasped, “Harder. Deeper!” It took a moment to realize it was my own voice. It took another to believe I meant what I’d said.

Later—much later—he fell against me gasping for air, my semen trapped between our heaving bellies, his deep inside me. We lay silent, except for the rasp of air being pulled into oxygen-starved lungs until he spoke, his voice full of wonder.

“T-this didn’t…go the way it was supposed to.”

“No, it didn’t,” I acknowledged. Then the import of his words struck me. I lifted his head from the crook of my neck and gazed into those amazing eyes. “What… what do you mean, it didn’t go… the way….”

He touched my lips with a long finger. “I was supposed to get you hot and bothered and then toss you out on your ass.”


“Friend of mine. Said… said you were a cock tease. Damn near had him creaming in his pants three different times and then walked away laughing. Promised I’d teach you a lesson.”

I thought that one over for a minute. “Guess you did. Taught me a lesson, I mean.”

He laughed, stirring my stones. “Did at that, didn’t I? And what a lesson.”

He stirred against me, and I knew I was in for another hard ride. One that neither one of us would willingly walk away from.


Sometimes things work out one way, and then sometimes they work out another. Don’t think either one of them saw this one coming. I also wonder if Chuck’s three drinking buddies will figure out what happened.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, July 8, 2021

The Tease, Part 1 of 2 Parts blog post #505

 Photo Courtesy of Depositphotos

Once again, thank you for indulging me a personal post last week. It helped me more than I can explain.

This week, let’s get back to a short story, this one a two-parter. Hope you like it.



I grabbed the guy’s wrist and removed his hand from my fly where he’d been exploring for the last couple of minutes. “Sorry, fella. You’re not my type.”

The blond guy with chiseled features looked shocked. “Wha-what do you mean? You’ve been leading me on for the last half hour.”

I assumed an innocent air. “Really? Sorry about that, I gotta go join my friends now. They’ll be wondering where I’ve gone.”

Ron or John or Don or whatever his name was blinked in disbelief. “They’re sitting right over there at the table in the corner.”

I glanced around the Upperclassman, our favorite tavern. We were sitting on stools at the far end of the bar where the dim lights made the game I’d been playing less obvious. Nonetheless, my three buds at the table knew what I was doing.

Chuck,” Dickie said to me as I slid into the booth to rejoin my college mates, “are you up to your old tricks again?”

Darrell smirked. “Why do you get off on teasing those guys?”

“Because it’s so damned easy for him,” Bill said. “He’s better looking than most of the women in this place, and sexy as hell.”

Darrell shifted his smirk to Bill. “You saying you’d like to—”

“Hell no! I’m a dyed in the wool hetero. But facts are facts. Chuck’s good looking and sexy.”

“Must be,” Dickie agreed, “or he wouldn’t get them to drooling like they do.”

Them, of course, were the gay patrons or students or library fairies who haunted rest rooms or sat alone at bars. And it was true, I did get off on teasing them.

“What gets me,” Darrell said, “is how he can fool the same dude half a dozen times.”

“Easy,” I said. “Just spread your legs so they can get a look. Hope springs eternal, you know. Or so they say.”


Saturday night, the four of us claimed our usual booth at the Upperclassman, the neighborhood bar we favored. We never dated on Saturday nights, although before the evening was over one or more of us might make a hook up with some chick or the other. We’d just finished our first round when the door opened, and in walked Wade Weatherman, our college football team’s quarterback.

“See him?” Darrell asked.

“Hard not to,” I said.

Bill threw a thumb Wade’s way. “There’s the only guy in the whole damned city that can give Chuck a run for his money in the looks department.”

Wade noticed we were looking at him and nodded.

“Think he’ll join us?”

That was quickly answered, Our local football hero collected a beer and claimed a stool at the dim end of the bar.

“Wonder why he’s alone Usually a chick’s hanging off each arm,” Dickie said.

“Maybe he’s waiting for someone,” Darrell suggested.

I smiled. “Nah. He’s looking for something else.”

Bill speared me with a look. “You’re not thinking he’s….”

“The hell I’m not. He’s already glanced over here three or four times. Look, I’m gonna go place an order for a round. But if I sit down beside him, one of you guys come collect your drinks.”

Bill tried again. “You’re not gonna….”

“What better target than some jock who thinks he’s the cock of the walk. If I play this right, he’ll fall hard.”

“That’s assuming he’s looking.”

“He is,” I said. “Here I go. Wish me luck.”

I locked eyes with Wade before I was halfway across the room. I stood not three feet from him as I got the bartender’s attention and ordered a round for the table. Then I turned and faced my quarry.

“You’re Wade Weatherman, aren’t you?”

He nodded and held out a hand.

“Guck Grieg,’ I said, accepting his clasp and holding on to it a bit longer than necessary. He didn’t fight me.

“Think I’ve seen you around,” he said.

“Probably on the tennis courts.”

His handsome face cleared. “That’s it. Barbra and I were playing doubles last week, and you were on the court next to us. You’ve got a killer serve.”

“Thanks. Don’t do bad, yourself.” I eased down o the stool right beside him and snagged one of the bottles the bartender put on the counter. Bill came over and collected the others.

It was easy to get Wade talking. I just mentioned last night’s football game, and he was off and running. He was a pleasant guy, much nicer than I thought a super jock would be. He asked my opinion on some details of the game and seemed genuinely interested in my answers.

And right on cue, he twisted to face me and opened his legs. It was too dark to really see anything, but it was an invitation I’d often used on my marks. So I did the same, bumping knees as I did so. He glanced downward for a moment. Natural enough, I guess. Jocks always measure themselves against others.

Not long after that, I could see he was getting anxious. He drained his glass and set it down.

“Come on, let’s blow this joint.”

Inuendo? I played along. “Where to?”

“My place. I got some Coors on ice.”

“On campus?”

“Naw. I got digs right off campus on Roma. You game?”

I smiled. Perfect. I could leave him at his place waiting for a no-show… me. “Why not? “Okay, but I’ll take my own car.”

“Sure..” He gave me his address and headed out the door.

I stopped by my table and arched an eye at my buds. “He’s asked me to his place.”

“So what are you gonna do, leave him in the lurch?”

I frowned. “That was the first thing I thought of, but… but….”

Dickie laughed. “You’re gonna go get him hot and bothered and then walk out the door.”

“Yeah,” Bill said.

“Just make sure you have an exit ramp,” Darrell warned.

“Not a problem.”

As I slid into the front seat of my Camero, I paused to rethink things. Yeah. This was better. If I just never showed up, I wouldn’t get to see the look on his face when the big man on campus got trashed. This way, I could get him all hot and bothered and just walk out on him. He’d probably expose himself, and I could take a hike, leaving him pulsing in the air.


Have you ever known someone like that, someone who deliberately leads you own and then walks away laughing. I did… a long time ago. Let’s see how his scheme works out next week.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



 New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.

Thursday, July 1, 2021

Goodbye, My Son blog post #504

Photo of Cerro Little La Jara, Valles Caldera National Preserve

Last week, my son Grant and I took the ashes of his older brother to one of the most beautiful spots on earth… at least to me. As regular readers know, my older son Clai died on January 22 of this year. It was totally unexpected… again, at least for me. I spoke to him one day, didn’t hear from him for three days, and then got a call from my sister in Texarkana, Texas saying he had been in the hospital for three days. Clai suffered from a host of ailments, but appeared to be handling them okay. A thousand miles removed from my older son, I believed he was seeing his doctors regularly and was handling things well. He had complained of “leaking from the legs,” a form of weeping sepsis but assured me he was seeing his doctor regarding the problem. Apparently, he was only talking to the doctor on the telephone… and it killed him.

 But this post is not about that. This is about the beautiful spot his brother and I settled on as his final resting place, the Valles Caldera National Preserve, some 100,000 acres encompassing a huge volcanic caldera. A place of vast grasslands, towering mountains, fishing streams, and a strange hillock peopled by evergreens that walk across the top of the mound and abruptly halt at the bottom— as though afraid to dip toes into the sea of grass surrounding them. The photo at the top is of one such mound called Little La Jara.

 For several years, we owned a cabin on the back side of the “Baca,” so called because for a hundred years or so the caldera was privately owned and known as the Baca Ranch. As we returned to Albuquerque after a weekend (or a week) at the cabin, we passed the ranch and always commented we’d like to take a drive across it. But it was private property, and we were unable to do so. Now it is a federally owned National Preserve and open to the public. Alas, Clai never got to walk it, but now he’s resting there amid splendid beauty and an air of peaceful serenity, something he did not have a lot of in his time on this earth.

 I chose the general area, but Grant selected the spot, and he picked well. It is a small clearing in a forested area with a good view of the grassland and Little La Jara, screened by a few pines. I asked why this spot, and he answered this was where he’d build a cabin if he were able to do so. He chose well.

Somehow, I feel that Clai had the last word. As we were leaving the clearing to return to my GMC Terrain, I tripped on the uneven ground and fell hard. Managed not only to skin both knees badly, but also got my forehead and my nose. Took Grant forever to get me to my feet… and he has bad back problems without a dad flat on his face. Why did I think Clai had the last word? Perhaps he was saying, “Come on, Dad, you and Grant spend a little more time with me.”

 Would that we could. Goodbye, Son I hope your approve the spot we chose as your final resting place. I love you… we love you.


Readers, thank you for once again indulging me in a personal moment. But in this hectic world of uprisings and pandemics and political infighting that threaten to render our nation apart, I thought an interlude like this might serve all of us… not just me and my family.

 Stay safe and stay strong.

 Now my mantra: Keep on reading and keep on writing. You have something to say… so say it!

 A link to The Cutie-Pie Murders:

 My personal links:



Twitter: @dontravis3

 See you next Thursday.



New Posts every Thursday morning at 6:00 a.m. US Mountain time.


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