It’s Been Fun

It’s Been Fun

I’m happy to say that my book is all done, at least the first draft. We’ll have to yet “proof read” it a few times to ferret out the mistakes, then in a couple of months we’ll se if we can get some books printed.

It’s been fun to write the stories of my ancestors, this has been my first attempt to write a historical novel. I’ve kept the facts as much as I could as per records plus oral history as well. It’s plain to see that oral history is not all that accurate, it just depends who told the story and how many times it has been told!

It’s been fun for me, an adventure really, writing the book has taken me back in time to a whole different world. Where once I could hardly imagine what it was like to live one hundred fifty years ago, now it’s almost as if I’ve been there in person!

Since these ancestors had neither the time, tools, nor the inclination to write their life stories, I’ve done my best to do it for them!

It’ been a pleasure!

Tog (The Old Geezer from Geezerville)

AKA Ray Evans



Writing Your Ancestors Story

Have you ever considered writing a life story for one of your ancestors? One who may have been long deceased? They’ve all had a story even if they never got around to writing it themselves. If you would, you would find their story very interesting.

I’ve been writing just such a thing, only the story includes a whole bunch of families that eventually brought me into existence!

Since only a few facts are known about some of the characters and we have to imagine the rest it’s become my first historical novel.

The first draft is about 75% complete, just about fifty more pages and I will have a book. It’s a fun thing to do and I highly recommend it!

 TOG, (The Old Geezer from Geezerville)




If Typing Skills are Lacking

Typing by Dictation

For those of you who’s typing skills are not very good, you can still write your life story. Just dictate your story to a recording machine, and have someone else do the typing, or do like I’m doing right now, and let the Dragon program do the typing for you! Typing is not my forte, yet I have written six books, “granted” it wasn’t easy poking the keyboard with two fingers, yet it can be done!

I’m hoping this Dragon program will make my typing easier and faster. It’s just amazing to see the typing progress as I speak! I’m on learning curve here, making lots of mistakes and corrections but I’ll get the hang of it eventually. I think the Dragon program will be a big help, once I get used to working with it! Now that I have my Dragon, I’ll have no excuse to not finish my last book!


Practice What I Preach

Writing a Life Story for Others

Thinking about what I’ve been posting on this blog page makes me think that I should “practice what I preach”. To that end, I’m restarting a historical novel that has been set aside for seven years! This novel will chronicle the lives of some of my ancestors, it will include facts that are recorded, oral history and also text on how we may just imagine things were going on in their lives!

They never wrote their life stories, so my plan is to write it for them. They lived very exciting lives, perhaps they were too modest to tell about it, or perhaps they just never knew it!

I’m going to practice what I preach, at any-rate, and write a life story for others!

TOG, (the Old Geezer from Geezerville)



Writing Someone Else’s Story

Writing For Someone Else

Would you consider writing a life story for someone else? Someone who may not be able to write their own. Maybe a relative or a friend that has passed on, for instance. Perhaps they have not left their story behind, their life story, lost forever unless someone takes the time to tell it!

Everybody has or had an interesting life, their lives only need to be put into perspective. The time they lived, how they lived and where they lived. This will all make an interesting story for someone, someday!

Would you not find some of your ancestor’s lives interesting? I think so, even if it’s just some writings on scraps of paper placed into a three-ring binder, or some other place where it could be found!

Yes, think about it, if it’s someone you care about, consider it, do it!

TOG, (the Old Geezer from Geezerville)


Ordinary Things Will Be History

Ordinary things

Ordinary things will be history someday, ranging from “the exciting” to “the mundane”. What may seem unimportant to you today could seem very exciting to your Great-Great-Great grandchildren!

Think about it, would you not be a little bit interested in something that was written by one of your ancestors three generations ago? And won’t your progeny be just as interested in your life as it is lived today? Even the bad times are interesting after enough healing has taken place!

Our lives can be likened a little bit to our wading in a shallow pool, we each make some ripples that go out, bounce off the rocky banks and though now smaller, then return! As long as we keep wading, the ripples continue! Then at the end of our lives, we wade no more and the ripples cease! How would anyone know if you’ve ever been in that pool if not for what you left behind?

The big advantage of writing your memoire is that it is your story, your life, the way you see it and the way you saw it! The way you lived it!

TOG, the Old Geezer from Geezerville

Just One Incident in a Lifetime

Just a Silly Story

Just to show you how easy it is to write your story, I’m posting this excerpt from my latest book, (Random Ramblings of an Old Geezer). This little incident happened when I was just a young boy and is now just a memory.

The Great Chicken Stampedes of the Early Forties

When you read the title of this little story, you may assume that I’m going to tell you some wild story about getting run over by a herd of chickens, no, that’s not the case at all. Some of the old geezers have been known to exaggerate a little bit but I wouldn’t want to be guilty of such a thing.
What I am about to relate to you is a story about three young boys, our bedroom of one full-sized bed, a smaller bed and a room full of noisy baby chicks. I come from a big family, you see, our folks raised ten of us little whelps in a small house of four bedrooms, a rather large living room, a fairly large kitchen where we would eat and also take our baths and early on, we would take the dirt path to the outhouse out back for other needs.
The larger of the two beds was where an older brother and I slept, he about ten and one-half years old and myself about eight. The smaller bed was for my little brother about four years old. The room was not all that big, not big enough to have a closet or any other furniture that I can remember. A single light bulb hanging from the ceiling on an electric cord was the light source, turned on and off with a pull-chain. One window with a pull down blind with a curtain hanging there, pretty much completes the picture.
Our mother always raised about fifty chickens each year for fresh meat. This was before we had a refrigerator so if you were to have any meat for dinner, it had to be fresh. In the case of a chicken, it had to be, “here’s the chopping block today, gone down the gullet tomorrow.” We also raised a lot of rabbits for the same reason but they were not a problem to us three boys as you will see later in this story.
It all started in the early springtime; when our mother would raise about fifty baby chicks for our summer’s food supply. Sometimes she would order the chicks from the Montgomery Ward or Sears & Roebuck catalog. They would arrive in a cardboard box, perhaps they would arrive with motion sickness or maybe they were just homesick, at any rate there would always be two or three dead ones in the box. These chicks would have to be kept warm in a “brooder” until they had enough feathers to keep themselves warm enough to survive on their own. Other times she would incubate about fifty eggs in an incubator. This took about three weeks for them to hatch and then they went into the “brooder”. The rabbits never became a problem for us because our mother never could figure out how to incubate them—I guess she would have tried if she had ever been able to find their eggs!
The incubator was a rather large wooden affair about three feet square, maybe sixteen inches deep and it was set up on a small table on one end of the kitchen. It had a little kerosene heater about the size of a lantern base, a wick and flame much like a lantern but the chimney went on through the contraption and then came out through the top. This is what kept the contraption warm. If I remember correctly, it had some kind of thermostatic damper heat control and some kind of water container to control the humidity. It also had a couple of trays which contained the eggs which my mother had to turn over a couple of times per day.
We kids could scarcely contain our eagerness to see the first baby chicks wake up and peck their way out of their shell. These chicks would always be of the red varieties, such as Rhode Island Reds or some others best known for their value for what we called “fryers”.
The brooder was made of galvanized sheet metal, about three feet square. It had little watering and feeding troughs around the outside and little windows where the little chicks could stick their little heads through and dine or sip. There was a fifty or sixty watt light bulb in the center of the contraption to keep the chicks warm. The light bulb was contained in a tin can so the chicks would not get too close to the hot bulb and as a result, burn their fuzzy little behinds. This tin can was very significant to this story as you will see as it unfolds. The brooder had a false bottom made of screen, so the droppings could be cleaned out through the openings provided below. The whole contraption was placed on a small table at the foot of my little brother’s bed.
It was fun to watch these chicks hatch and we looked forward to seeing them placed in the “brooder”, we were going to have our very own fifty chicks in our very own little room. We just didn’t know that this was going to be the last night that we would get peaceful sleep for about three or four weeks.
It wasn’t too bad the first couple of days when the chicks were real small. They sure looked innocent enough and they were fairly quiet. Not after three or four days though. They soon turned into savage chicks from Hell; there wasn’t a whole lot of discipline shown in these hellions. I guess you couldn’t really expect much, considering their mother was a tin can. What could one expect her to do with fifty of these overactive brats anyway?
First they would run around one direction and then they would run around the other. Then they would settle down a little bit until the ones in the outer edge of the bunch got a little cold, and then they would all crowd and struggle to get closer to their “mother”, the warm tin can. When any of those chicks got too cold or too warm there was a mad chicken stampede right there in our bedroom.
This was not a noise that one could become accustomed to, it was too random. The bigger those chicks grew, the more noise they made, and the more crowded that brooder got as they grew, the bigger the stampede, first one direction and then the other. We had thought these feathery little critters cute before, now we wanted to wring their scrawny little necks. What could anyone expect from those little beasts who were raised by a tin can anyway? Surely one could not expect a great deal of order and discipline, now, could we really?
This whole story could lead to a whole bunch of dumb chicken jokes; I can feel them coming on already.
Can you imagine what life might be like for a young rooster who had a tin can for a mother? It could change his whole view of life. Think about his first date, he’d most likely ask a “cute little tin can” out to the chicken prom.
One might hear a conversation in the barnyard between two roosters like this, “hey, check out that cute little tin can over there”, “heh, heh”, “she can spend the night on my roost any time she wants to.”
Or one might hear a very sad rooster say “Did you hear what happened to Red”, “yeah, too bad”, might say the other.” “Well, I told him to stay away from those recycle trucks”, says the first, “but he just wouldn’t listen”, “he got into the driver’s blind spot and now he’s just a grease spot”. “He was a good chicken though, if you needed anything, he would give you the feathers right off his back”.
Or you might hear one young rooster say to another, “I heard that Red got dumped by that cute little tin can that you see over there”. “Really, why?” “Well, he took her to a dance. All he wanted to do was the Fox Trot and the only dance she cared about was the Can-Can.”
Finally one might think of an old joke about why a young rooster wanted to cross the road, the answer of course, is that it’s just because he can.
All of us old geezers have some stories to tell about those same years, but I’ll remember this one as the great chicken stampedes of the early forties.

Copyright C 2012

By Raymond C. Evans

You can see by reading this excerpt how this silly little incidence in my life easily became a short story or chapter in my book. You have many an incident that took place in your life that can do the same thing!

TOG, (the Old Geezer From Geezerville)




Your Life is Unique

You can do it, “yes you can”

Warning! “Writers bloc”, “writers bloc”! What in the world can I write about that folks will find interesting regarding writing their life story? Let’s see now! Oh I know! I’ll just do what I always advise folks to do when they suffer from this malady, I’ll just start writing and see what happens! That has always worked for me before!

Let’s see now, what are the things that make a lifetime interesting? The differences between the years gone by and the present day could be one thing! The changes in transportation, technology, personal perspectives, the vast changes in our environs, etc. could be more. How about the days you were learning how to ride a bicycle and then fell off and landed on your “punkin’ head”! Or some other interesting thing!

Where you were born? Where did you go to school? Where did you travel? What you did for a living? How you met your mate? Or why you chose to stay single? How many children? The characters that you met along the way! These are the things about your life that make your story! The things that make you who you were then, and who you are now!

There, in spite of “writers bloc”, I’ve managed to write three paragraphs here already! “What you see is what you get”!

Don’t ever think that your life would be dull and uninteresting to those that follow you! You are a very unique person and for that reason your story would also be unique and interesting!

Tog (The Old Geezer) from Geezerville

Aka Ray Evans



Writing Your Life Story

Some folks seem to think it’s difficult to write a life story, really it’s not all that difficult, once you get started! I find it’s easiest to write the story chronologically from your earliest recollections to the present day. You will be amazed how one facet, one little minute piece of your life, remembered and brought back to life will just trigger some other incident worth writing about. Before long, you will have written a whole book. The biggest hurdle that you will have, is just getting started.

You will see here below a little snippet of my life written in my last book. Just enough to make a short story or a chapter of a two hundred eighty page book. Just some “Random Ramblings of an Old Geezer” as my life really was!

Just an Old Tire

It was just an old tire, hardly any tread left on it, of all the fine qualities that a good tire might have, which would be many, this tire only had two. One, it was round, and two, it was black! Even so, this was not just an ordinary tire, this tire was valuable, this tire was still in one piece. World War II was going strong and tires were as scarce as knee caps on an earthworm. This tire had another special quality that I’ve never seen in other tires, this old tire could fly!

Our family had been invited to a barbecue, the weather bright and sunny; we had ridden up the mountain to our host’s house in the Thirty Seven Chevy. The Chevy is significant to this story because this was the car that the tire would fit. And tires, even old worn out tires, were hard to get. This was timber country; redwood timber covered almost all the slopes and valleys but still there were a few natural grass areas that we called prairies. Folks from the grand prairies east of the Rocky Mountains. would surely laugh at this because most of these areas that we called prairies would scarcely cover more than one hundred acres. Most of them were on high ridges on the south-side dry slopes where very few majestic redwoods would choose to grow, certainly not a smart redwood that would want to grow big and strong..

These were nice, generous folks that we were about to visit, not only would they treat us to a barbecue but they would give us an old tire that would fit our Chevy.

Through the gate and into the yard, the only flat place on this mountain, we went. My folks were elated when our hosts showed and gave us this wonderful old tire that would fit our Chevy. This was to be a day of fun, festivities and laughter, and a day to remember. This was the day that we would get a new, old tire for the Chevy. Or so we thought!
The elder folks all went into the house to visit, my older brother, thirteen years old and I, ten, chose to stay outside to play. It was a beautiful balmy spring day of sunshine, a good day to frolic, after all.—Now what better thing could a couple of young boys find to play with than an old tire? First my brother would roll it towards me to catch and then I would roll it back to him. This was all great fun. We were high on a mountainside playing in the warm spring sunshine, what could get any better than that?
Well, sometimes things can go awry, and sometimes even an old worn out tire can fly. This tire was fast, right on past me it went, through the gate and down the mountainside. First it just bounced a few feet as it went over the side of the road. The first few bounces were what you might expect from an old worn out tire but the next thing we knew it was tearing off down that steep mountainside like it had a fire in its britches. You could tell this thing was coming alive; it was reliving its youth of long ago.
First it was just bouncing, (in the present tense) and then it was leaping, (in the past tense), or leptus maximus if you prefer Latin. This thing took off down that mountain like a supersonic jet plane and those planes had not even been invented yet.—I tell you for sure, this tire had never, ever gone this fast on a car.
That last leap was really something, it was as if that old tire had wings, up over the poison oak and underbrush it soared, and beyond, to be lost in the standing timber.
Now, my father was never known for having a lot of patience. Most likely the only reason we survived was because he didn’t want to kill us right in front of our hosts. The only polite thing he could do was to spare them the gory mess.
“Tire? What tire? I didn’t see any tire”. “Well it was right here when we went in the house my father said!” “Well, I ah, uh, you see, it was like this, I think”—! My brother and I were in for it now, you better believe it!
My dad made many trips back to the base of that hill looking for that old tire but I can’t remember whether he ever found it or not. But I do remember that old tire could surely fly.