If you’ve read An Orphan’s Journey Home, you already know a piece of my story—but not everything.

Truth be told, I was never much for the classroom. Looking back, I sometimes wish I’d hit the books harder, but then I realize I’d have to be a different person entirely to have done that. I’ve always been someone who learns by doing rather than by reading. I found my own education right in my backyard, studying the plants, the insects, and my dog, Spot. I was only in the second grade when I named her, but

In school, I leaned toward the arts and music. My art assignments usually turned out I found her personality and her way of communicating with me absolutely fascinating. If you’ve ever had a dog, you know exactly what I mean—it’s both perfectly normal and deeply profound. Sometimes I think dogs might rate a little higher in God’s eyes than we give them credit for.

In school, I leaned toward the arts and music. My art assignments usually turned out well enough—or better—but I struggled with the teacher himself, chafing at his direction and his constraints. Looking back, I suspect he and I may have been too much alike. It wasn’t until my senior year that I realized I could actually tell a story that others might enjoy. My teacher was an elderly lady named Mrs. McCall, who lived down the block along the bayou. Her husband was the county judge, though he never seemed to be home. Us kids would walk by her house on the way to our favorite swimming spot—a wooden bridge that sat where a “real” bridge had been years before on the Old Spanish Trail. Practically everyone knew it as the Walk-Bridge. Even the judge called it the Walk-Bridge. I’d always stop to say hello to Mrs. McCall, and occasionally I’d visit. She played the piano, and so did I. I saw her piano once, but I never played it.

We lost touch during my teenage years—which were, to put it mildly, a tough season for me. But as a senior, I ended up in her class, and she remembered me instantly. I think we were both fixtures in that neighborhood. She was pleasantly surprised to discover I had a knack for storytelling, and I was even more surprised than she was. My biggest hurdle was learning to craft the English language; my vocabulary was decent, but it wasn’t until she taught us how to diagram sentences that the pieces finally clicked. I ended up doing well in her Advanced Composition class—the only “advanced” anything I’d ever taken. It was because of her that I began to like, rather than loathe, writing.

Those skills came in handy in the military, where clear, accurate writing was a necessity for the Military Police. Later, at Michigan State, I majored in Criminal Justice. That was a formative time, as I studied the field through philosophical, legal, and ethical lenses rather than just the “nuts and bolts” of police procedure. Almost every class required a heavy amount of writing. I even took several independent studies with a professor named Vincent Lombardi. We got along famously; he once told me I was the best student he’d ever had—a kindness that meant the world to me. He wanted me to pursue overseas studies, but with a family starting, it just wasn’t possible.

During my years in Michigan, I also dipped my toes into politics, which demanded everything from detailed instructions to speechwriting for state campaigns.

After a twenty-year hiatus, I eventually returned to writing. I’ve never been one for crafting epic works of fiction, but I found I could build an atmosphere that communicated my experiences—describing how events changed me and, when appropriate, how they made me feel.

Some years ago, I read Stephen King’s On Writing. At the end of the book, he invited his readers to send him a sample of their work, promising he’d write back. I sent him something—I can’t even remember what—and he actually replied. He liked the piece, but he sensed my hesitation. His advice was simple: I wouldn’t be ready to truly write until I reached a point where I could not help but do it.

I finally reached that point a few years ago. Now, I write. I hope you enjoy these stories, and I hope your life is somehow enriched by what I share.