For eight long years of my life, I believed in something other than myself. I believed in people. It was the happiest time of my life.

On the ninth year, all of that changed. All of that changed, and I turned into what I am now.

I wonder if I still exist sometimes.

I was born in a small farm house in 1936 to a freshly wed Robert and Angela. My father was a car salesman for 20 years. He died of a gunshot wound to the heart at the age of 36. My mother raised myself and my 4 sisters up by herself. Working two jobs, and she still found time to read us bedtime stories.

I guess what I remember best are those stories. I remember expecting adventure and exploration. Those stories stuck with me. I suppose that is why I do what I do.

I was a journalist in the years preceding my favorite eight years. I worked for a small newspaper in Michigan. Before that, I worked at a law firm in New York.

I live now in a ranch just outside Fishtail, Montana. I run a shop, and I write stories.

So that is me.