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 | December 8, 2008 10:30 pm

When I was younger, one of my favorite past times after a hard day of horse work was to come home and read. My parents and grandparents had been good people who imparted to me a love of words at an early age. I can’t remember a time when sitting in the sun with a good book settled between my legs wasn’t an enjoyment. It would work out the knots in muscles cramped from hours spent in a saddle.

Horse work was a wonderful privilege too, but after some hours sitting astride an animal, it felt good to get a change. God never intended for man to sit on certain bones for very long.

Along with the love of reading came a strong imagination and a love of creating my own stories. When I was a small boy, I can recall the sagas born, nurtured and let loose from the minds of myself and friends. In a time when the deserted block of city – half house, half field – seemed the expanse of an entire world; and when creatures of magic – faerie, elf, gnome, giant – walked the woods a stone’s throw away from my door. It was a time when empires, knights, indians and pirates arose, fought, loved and died before dinner and then it began again each morning. Some of those sagas (the lucky ones at least) found their way to paper.

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