I have been writing for many years now, but I don't recall having been this excited about anything that I've written since grade school, and, to be honest, I feel a little bit silly to be so excited. The truth is, this book marks a special sort of landmark for me. The only things that I have written that have been published, up until now, have been letters to the editors of newspapers and magazines, and these were only infrequent. Outside of these, I have written stories, which I have allowed only friends and family to be privy to, and I have never tried to take them any farther than that. This book signifies an entry into a different level of participation in this hobby of mine; a level that it never occurred to me I might reach. But here I am, and I feel like an under-dressed restaurant patron who has had to borrow a jacket and tie from the establishment in order to dine; I feel a little awkward, but I intend to enjoy the meal. The stories I have included herein may seem a bit eclectic, but I never considered the possibility of publishing them, so you'll have to think eclectically while you read. They are a bit like modern art; they are about nothing but themselves. There is a story here about an adolescent coming of age in the tumult following the bombing of Pearl Harbor, and about a child learning about cruelty and loss at the hands of his unhappy and malevolent brother. There is a story involving a practical joke and ESP, and one about marital infidelity and revenge. Among the rest you will find such varied topics as espionage, deception, disappointment, death, appreciation of the outdoors, cricket catching, deer hunting, and breast pumps. How is that for eclectic? I think, though, that my stories, although all but two are fiction, are about life, with all its messes and miss-steps and its wonderfully complex tales, woven into the everyday of everyone like darning threads in a sock. These stories are about people that you have never met, in situations