Terry

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Posts by Terry

• 
  14

  TODAY is my 51st ANNIVERSARY of going to prison. I was 20 years old.

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  today is my 51st anniversary.

  of going to prison.. i was 20 years old.

  i stood before district judge leo brewster and made a plea of "guilty".

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  Terry

  mickbobcat
  

  I know elders who did hospital work instead of going to Vietnam. Back in the early 70s.
• 
  14

  TODAY is my 51st ANNIVERSARY of going to prison. I was 20 years old.

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  today is my 51st anniversary.

  of going to prison.. i was 20 years old.

  i stood before district judge leo brewster and made a plea of "guilty".

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• 

  Terry

  TODAY is my 51st ANNIVERSARY

  of going to prison.

  I was 20 years old.

  

  I stood before District Judge Leo Brewster and made a plea of "Guilty". Refusal to comply with the Universal Training and Military Service Act.

  I was termed a "Conscientious Objector" during the Vietnam War.

  I'd never been in any legal trouble before in my life - so this was a BIG start to my criminal career
  
  

  Since I wasn't an "adult" yet - the judge had to sentence me as a "YOUTH" under the Youth Correction Act.

  I remember asking what sort of "correction" could be expected since it was a matter of religious conscience and belief.
  
  

  The Judge made one of those faces an adult makes when a kid is a smart-ass.

  "The maximum sentence for an Adult is 5 years in prison. Since you are not an adult - I sentence you to the maximum sentence for a Youth, which is 6 years."
  
  

  Technically speaking, it was termed an "Indeterminate" sentence which meant the Federal Correctional Institution's parole hearings would determine how long I remained locked up.

  Judge Brewster dangled a bit of mischief in front of me.
  
  

  "IF at ANY TIME during your incarceration you decide to CHANGE YOUR MIND, send word to me and I'll have you out in 24hrs and you can satisfy your duty to Alternate Miltary Service."
  
  

  Here's what that means:
  When I couldn't take it anymore - I could get out. I could simply go to my Alternate Service job in a Hospital. Easy Peasy, right?
  
  

  Jehovah's Witnesses, like any Conscientious Objectors, were not required to serve in combat, but only to serve equivalent time performing hospital service. Sounds very reasonable, doesn't it?

  Of course it is!
  
  

  But here is the rub! Jehovah's Witnesses are not allowed by their Governing Authority to accept alternate service. It was deemed a "compromise" and viewed exactly as the same thing as having gone into the infantry and pulled the trigger!

  Crazy? Sure.

  Unreasonable? Certainly!

  JW's claim to not be a CULT. Does this sound like "not" a cult?
  _____

  I was sentenced and taken immediately to the Tarrant County Jail for processing.

  My butt was searched for god knows what and I passed inspection, then put on an elevator up six floors to a long corridor of concrete and steel.
  
  

  I'd have to get used to the echo of slamming steel for awhile.
  
  

  I entered a large cage with 20 inmates who stared at me with the kind of expression monkeys see on human faces at a zoo.

  Ironic.

  I am six feet 4 inches and I weighed 165 lbs. It's hard to blend in with 80% black and Mexican inmates.

  Every one of them had cigarettes lit and thick smoke in that cell never went away. Cheap tobacco - not regular cigarettes. Roll your own stench.
  _____
  
  

  I sit here this morning at the age of 73 looking backward through time at that 20 year old nincompoop who was me.

  I wasn't so much "scared" as I was in a state of hypnotic, self-willed "determination".

  I began an interior dialogue:

  "If I were outside and free I'd be standing or sitting or walking. So I CHOOSE to stand in here, sit in here, and pace about in here. I CHOOSE THIS."
  ____

  And that's how it began ...51 years ago this day in 1967.
  
  

  My Brothers and Sisters in the local Congregation would never send me a postcard, come to visit, write a letter or indicate they knew I was alive.

  The day I got out in 1969, nobody in my congregation threw a party or patted me on the back.

  Several asked me, "How was college?"

  My prison sentence was viewed as a kind of sabbatical for self-indoctrination.
  
  

  The human mind is a mysterious place where anything can seem noble and courageous if one is committed to BELIEF.

  I went in wanting to "Do the right thing" and came out with a mind wrecked and dazed.
  
  

  I threw myself into Full-Time door to door ministry until I crashed and burned and had a quiet nervous breakdown.
  
  

  In 1974, I took my family and fled from Texas to California to escape the clutches of my "Brothers and Sisters" who didn't give a flying fork about me.
  
  

  None of those people will talk to me - my old "Friends" and Brethren view me as a "mentally diseased Apostate."

  They have been stuck in that cult for these 51 years.
  
  

  At the funeral of my (former) best friend (who pulled me into the JW religion) I looked at their hang-dog, depleted faces filled with weary steadfast obliviousness and I shook my head:

  *There but for the grace of *________* go I." (Name withheld to protect the guilty.
  ________
  
  

  From my book:
  I Wept by the Rivers of Babylon (A Prisoner of Conscience in a Time of War)
  
  

  "Jail is like living at the bottom of a drain with the hair, spit and rotten teeth. Jail is for cheaters, thieves and molesters, bullies, sober drunks and dangerous creeps. There is no safe distance or personal space or intermission within the s-t-r-e-t-ch-ing elasticity of time. Jail is not for 20 year old virgin Christian boys who had never hurt a fly."
  
  

  
  
  _______
  Publisher's blurb:
  
  

  I imagine there are a great many young men and women who--unless I warn them--will go down the self-same path I took, wasting my youth.

  I WEPT BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON is a cautionary tale for unwitting travelers on their imagined road to heaven or paradise. I mark the blind alleys, pitfalls, side-tracks to nowhere and last horizon where sanity drops off and HERE THERE BE DRAGONS.

  IF I can stop just one more person from going along with the Watch Tower allure of empty promises and broken dreams, I can stop my nightmare from its eternal return. You see, it was too late for me. But, while there is still breath in my body, I have determined to raise the cry:

  PLEASE! DON'T GO INSIDE!

  For the casual reader, it is a historical recounting of the conscientious objector grappling with the Draft Board, FBI and federal justice system during the Vietnam War.

  
  

  The 1960's was an incredible decade in which all the old values were turned on their head and a youth movement unhinged the power structure of modern society. Totally at odds with the hippies, flower children, rock n' rollers, druggies, war protesters and existentialist poets--young Jehovah's Witness men were clean-cut, polite, squeaky clean oddballs about to be fed by their Governing Body into a meat grinder on purpose. My book reveals that purpose and the human rights violations wrought by men of hubris who ran the publishing business cum religion of Jehovah's Witnesses. The path from ancient Rome and early Christianity up through the centuries to the time of Pastor Russell and Judge Rutherford provides an enlightening contrast. Each denomination, sect and cult insisted they read the same Bible and followed the same God--and yet--the results of their absolute certainty were ever at odds! How does it happen and what will make it stop? Read my book and hear my own answers. I WEPT BY THE RIVERS OF BABYLON has succeeded in granting me peace of mind, at last.
• 
  10

  Second-Temple Period Messiahs

  by Doug Mason in

  1. watchtower
  2. bible

  writing is a lonely discipline that is constantly beset with self-doubt and constant self-criticism.

  that is the way it needs to be.. there are times when i need to reach out for help in the form of criticism from others.

  this is particularly the situation with this material.. https://jwstudies.com/second-temple_period_messiahs.pdf .

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  Terry

  Simply from a reader's standpoint (not a scholar's) a more "friendly" opening is suggested rather than a mile deep plunge into the etymology of a word. By friendly, I of course mean "inviting curiosity" motivating curiosity and drawing the reader into investigate.
  For example:
  "Pouring, smearing, or sprinkling olive oil on your furniture or your priest or a king seems ridiculous!
  Why would smearing oil on a person come to signify special selection by Almighty God? It's an odd ritual, is it not? Most of us who hear the word Messiah certainly don't connect any smearing of oil to its meaning. Yet, that's at the root of Messiah.
  Could it be the absence of soap in ancient Israel that motivated the use of oil as a natural cleanser and beautifying agent which created an association of the oil with beauty, cleansing purification and therefore ritual symbolism was the natural result?"
  _______________
  Most of the minutiae concerning etymology "feels" like it belongs in the margins for academics with boundless and ravenous appetite for the meaning of meaning itself :)
  
  A reader's attention must be arrested by a mystery, an unanswered provocation.
  "Were the ancient Jews the only people pouring and smearing olive oil and heads and sacred furniture?"
  "How many Messiahs have come along over the decades and centuries? How do we know which ones were recognized as legitimate or illegitimate?"
  "Where do we find the answer to history's confusing plethora of pretenders, poseurs, counterfeit Messiahs and how important is it to know which distinctions make such differences?"
  _______
  In other words, your "audience" must detect a grand plot and sort out the cast of characters (historically and religiously) provoked by the realization "Messiah" is in modern parlance tossed about casually rather than knowingly.
  Where did this "murder" occur and how do we solve it?
  This is not much help, I'm sure. But it is the only suggestion I'm qualified to offer.
  "There's gold in them thar hills."
  The reader who recognizes the presence of gold shall be strongly emboldened to become a prospector hellbent on excavating the rich vein of information you are uncovering.
  
  Great job, Doug. Keep on keeping on!
• 
  13

  I almost died ...allow me to explain

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  in 1923 i almost died.. allow me to explain .... .

  i wouldn't exist for another 24 years ...but.

  for a few seconds, on top a building, my grandfather, jack hybarger, stood with tears running down his cheeks and a small caliber pistol in his right hand.

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  Terry

  Amazing to reckon our "what if's" and remain at peace with Life.
• 
  13

  I almost died ...allow me to explain

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  in 1923 i almost died.. allow me to explain .... .

  i wouldn't exist for another 24 years ...but.

  for a few seconds, on top a building, my grandfather, jack hybarger, stood with tears running down his cheeks and a small caliber pistol in his right hand.

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  Terry

  
  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=32TBUIam7kA&ab_channel=TheSquirrelWhisperer
  
  
• 
  13

  I almost died ...allow me to explain

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  in 1923 i almost died.. allow me to explain .... .

  i wouldn't exist for another 24 years ...but.

  for a few seconds, on top a building, my grandfather, jack hybarger, stood with tears running down his cheeks and a small caliber pistol in his right hand.

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  Terry

  Iown Mylife, that's a brutal realization! Whew. Hard to handle.
  I'm 73 and when I look way back at the sorts of men I grew up around (through today's standards as a filter) I see wretched guys straddling social taboos while trying to at least appear to be upright.
  Lots of dirty secrets abounded and few clean hands. But there is never ever ever any possible excuse for harming children.
  Even if it turns out people are "just born that way" I can't grasp a liberal sentiment of acceptance.
  When I found a KKK robe my grandfather kept locked in a cabinet, I asked him about it much later and the answer I got was more or less self-exculpatory (as you might expect.) I feel shame on his behalf but in his own eyes I doubt his calculus saw beyond "birds of a feather flock together", in his own words.
  I deplore my father's alcoholism, my grandfather's KKK background, and I suppose I should be very grateful I had so little parenting from the males in my family. Of course this made me susceptible to Jehovah's Witnesses and the offer of a Heavenly Father as replacement. But - that's water under an old collapsed bridge.
  We must move forward in life. Ever forward while finding a shelf inside our heart where dark memories are stored as cautionary tales of how easily we can head over the next cliff.
  
  
• 
  13

  I almost died ...allow me to explain

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  in 1923 i almost died.. allow me to explain .... .

  i wouldn't exist for another 24 years ...but.

  for a few seconds, on top a building, my grandfather, jack hybarger, stood with tears running down his cheeks and a small caliber pistol in his right hand.

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  Terry

  Thanks!
  I remember reading about a Russian guy in a nuclear bunker who had "saved the world" by NOT following orders to launch against the U.S. His gut told him it was a glitch in the system - and he was right.
  My foot slipped on my accelerator pedal when the light turned green during a heavy morning fog in darkness and at that instant a huge truck roared passed running the light!
  The foot slipped meant the difference between a sure fatality and the rest of my life.
  
  We're always a hair's breadth away from extinction it seems!
  
  ____
  (edited) I found it!
  https://www.bbc.com/news/world-europe-24280831
• 
  13

  I almost died ...allow me to explain

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  in 1923 i almost died.. allow me to explain .... .

  i wouldn't exist for another 24 years ...but.

  for a few seconds, on top a building, my grandfather, jack hybarger, stood with tears running down his cheeks and a small caliber pistol in his right hand.

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• 

  Terry

  In 1923 I almost died.

  Allow me to explain ...

  I wouldn't exist for another 24 years ...but

  For a few seconds, on top a building, my Grandfather, Jack Hybarger, stood with tears running down his cheeks and a small caliber pistol in his right hand.

  ...

  If he had pulled the trigger, not just one man--one very depressed and hopeless man--would die; he'd take with him the four children his wife would never carry, their children (including me) and so it goes...ripples of death.

  My grandfather told me about his "almost" suicide on the day he drove out to the prison where I was to be released on parole.

  ____

  "I was going to shoot myself in the head."

  (All I could manage to speak was the one word, "Why?")

  ..

  "My wife - your grandmother- was going to leave me. She had met somebody else. I followed her. I saw. I knew. I climbed a ladder outside a dance hall and watched them. I climbed back down and bought a gun at the pawn shop and returned. I walked in and straight over to the table where they sat."

  My grandfather pulled into a barbecue stand where we used to go for lunch way back before prison had crashed into my life and all was 'normal'.

  He had gone quiet for a while, lost in his own memories. I recall wondering if he was even aware he had said what he'd said out loud.

  I bowed my head for a silent prayer before our meal. When I finally looked up, I could see he was embarrassed. Suddenly, so was I.

  We ate in silence and got back in the car. We'd be 'home' in another twenty minutes.

  I was often uncomfortable being in his presence.

  He carried secrets, never met my gaze, and sometimes gave in to tempestuous fits of anger.

  At other times, he was generous, fun-loving and upbeat.

  He was a climate unto himself.

  I learned early on to keep an eye out for brewing storm fronts.

  We rode along the turnpike between Dallas and Ft. Worth with our windows down in his 66 Ford Falcon. I had so many thoughts and emotions on my release day--I couldn't really put two thoughts together about my future.

  I stared at the OUTSIDE WORLD which was now MINE. Again.

  Except - this old man next to me had blurted out his deep secret and just left it hanging in the air!

  ____

  I waited and he finally continued.

  "I pulled the pistol out of my pocket and stood in front of them. Until that moment, I really had no plan--it was all anger and adrenaline. I cocked the weapon and found myself pointing it--not at HIM--but HER. I don't know what I said. I was in a fog. Sad, confused, desperate. I said whatever I said and walked out.

  I wandered around the French Quarter for about an hour. We were living in New Orleans at that time. Then, I climbed the fire escape to the top of a men's store called Maison Blanche. I needed to look out at the city and at the world; at life itself a final time.

  At the top, I walked to the edge and looked down. That's when I saw it. I bent down and picked up a stray bit paper under my foot.

  I read it and decided to live.

  It was just an advertisement--a handbill that a breeze somehow had blown on top of a building."

  ____

  We were turning down the final few streets before the driveway of the house where, before prison, I'd spent 20 years of my life. I couldn't wait to see it and rush inside and experience the passionate thrill of security in my own home.

  As we turned into the long driveway, I saw my cat sitting alert on the front porch swing. His tail was snaking nervously at the car's approach. Did he know? Is that possible?

  We drove past the familiar trees I had climbed as a boy, the pecan tree, pear tree, and I could smell honeysuckle. The four o'clock flowers my grandmother planted all those years ago swept over me and it was a gust of perfumed happiness!

  This house, the yard smells, my cat, and the sweet life I'd left behind to serve the fearsome God Jehovah---it was all too much to bear! I began weeping uncontrollably.

  ___

  My grandfather pulled into the overhang of the garage and switched off the motor. He was lost in his own feelings of 'overwhelm' at that moment. Memory can be kind, or cruel, or punishing.

  ___

  He finished his thoughts out loud.

  "The handbill was an advertisement for Art School. I discovered in that instant of time a pause between life and death--I wanted to be an artist of some kind!

  I climbed back down the fire escape, off the building-- never again thought about what I'd almost done."

  Engine off and radiator burbling. The free world rushed into my heart.

  And ... I'd just been told a dark secret about - my own existence.

  ___

  I sat stunned.

  In the blink of an eye--the only reason I existed at all was that a handbill for Art School caught a suicidal man's eye before he shot himself. He found his dream between heaven and hell.

  ..

  That day was April 15, 1969, and I wouldn't completely understand what my grandfather told me for another 5 years, in June of 1974.

  It was to be the day I decided to leave this world--of Fort Worth and Jehovah's Witnesses--and start a new life in California--as an Artist.

  ...

  What strange mystery runs in our blood? I cannot say.

  Art is there. Art saved my life.

  TWICE.

  _____________________________

  In 1923 I almost died.

  Holy shit.
• 

  Third Time's a Charm

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  our night had sprung a leak.

  the moon was spilling in.

  the time has come for you to go.”.

• 

  Terry

  Our night had sprung a leak. The moon was spilling in.

  Crouching on our skyline--all that green cheese--ours for the taking.

  “We must hurry.” You said, “Make lots and lots of toast”.

  “No, a cracker or two will do.” I replied.

  
  

  Then, from the corner came a new gleam.

  “That’s a new lock on your door I spy with my little eye.” I trembled slightly.

  “You won't need to return your key.” You said flatly.

  “Ah, a kindly souvenir--how thoughtful.” Poison in my voice.

  Where had all the silence come from? Had it crept in on cat’s paws?

  “I’m not getting through to you.” I managed to say.

  Your faced changed. The color drained. Your eyes darkened.

  “We have to say goodbye. We have to stay within the scheme of things. I have to send you away now.”

  I cocked my head like a Spaniel.

  “Nothing I did...nothing I said made the slightest dent?”

  A crack in my chest began widening into ice.

  You turned your face away gesturing like a child.

  “Let’s put another sticker on your luggage saying ‘Hotel Silly, U.S.A.”

  Your hand swept toward the packed luggage. How had I missed seeing that?

  “That bag isn’t going anyplace. I’m rooted to this spot. You along with me.” I placed a cold hand on my chest and felt the rumble.

  You looked cross suddenly.

  “October’s obstinate. Stalled like the dog at the door.”
  

  “It’s almost midnight. We stayed out too late. You know?”

  “Your scheme--you deliberately kept us out late.”

  “It was wrong. I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t much care for midnight. I don’t believe in midnight. So, there!”

  You clenched your jaw a bit and narrowed your eyes.

  “There is no philosophy inside you to allow me to do this my way?”

  “Like what? So long kid, it’s been great?”

  “That isn’t philosophy. It’s Hollywood. I don’t ask questions anymore--I never like the answers. You should try that.”

  “Straight out--you never once thought of letting me stay?”

  Some thought climbed and fell as your lips formed soundless replies. You turned, moving toward the hallway.

  “I think I forgot to pack your toothbrush.”

  I reached, bending forward--my legs wouldn’t move. Grasping your wrist, I turned you toward me. You barely resisted.

  “You know, standing here in this dopey light right now...all this stupid moonlight...wasted green cheese and no crackers...the thought of leaving you or you wanting me to leave can only be something I made up in my head. Why would I do that? A piano must have fallen on my head. Yes. That’s it. I’m really just lying in the street someplace right now dreaming all this. Under, of course, someone’s busted piano.”

  Your eyes downcast at the floor.

  Your chest was heaving as though heavy furniture had been carried upstairs. We could hear leaves racing across the yard in a sudden gust of wind.

  Then the church bell tolled midnight and the moonlight failed as snow began falling.

  My blood was now an icy river.

  “I despair. I god damn despair.”

  I could no longer breathe without effort. I would not let go of your hand.

  Your head lifted--eyes straight ahead. Your voice played dark music to my ears.

  “I need you to leave now. The time has come for you to go.”

  “But--why?”

  “It’s when you love me the most--it’s the right time. Don’t wait too long or it ruins everything.”

  “But…”

  “Because I know. I have an instinct for time. It lives all around me. What I have of it is mine. I have to use it my way.”

  “You once told me time doesn’t count when we’re together.”

  “You’re a silly man. It’s infectious, your silliness. I succumbed. I’m sorry. Time does count. It counts very, very much.”

  The sound of a key in the new lock rattled.

  I dropped your hand.

  The door swung wide.

  Cold air rushed inside. We turned to stare.

  “Oh, um--sorry. Am I too early--or--I mean, too late--I’ve got all my bags with me?”

  He was a nice looking fellow; a bit clumsy with his things; utterly clueless what he was walking into.

  The two of us just stood silent like misplaced statues as he removed his overcoat--and as an afterthought--remembered to shut the door and block the remaining leaves and snowflakes from invading the room. Finally, he beamed a ridiculous smile and spoke cheerfully.

  “Hi. It’s twelve o’clock. Here I am.”

  You were looking at me. Your face said everything.

  I didn’t care for its tone. No. I am sometimes slow about things, but not this time.

  I did not like what your face was saying.

  You shook your head and whispered barely loud enough for me to hear.

  “I hoped you’d be gone before he got here.”

  I barely nodded, not taking my eyes off you as the unwelcome intruder made himself at home.

  I shook my head and became aware of all sorts of creeping things inside me. Swarming feelings, like invasive locusts, or a nest of spiders had come alive. If I didn’t leave, I’d be devoured by them bit by bit.

  Then it became clear. You really did plan for me to see him. It would make it possible for me to hate you. Yes. That’s it. You planned a clean break--my heart, that is.

  The idiot was still hovering close to the door, shaking his coat as his cheeks took on color.

  “That snow is really something, isn’t it? It wasn’t expected.”

  Unbelievably, he plodded over to the both of us, removing his glasses and affecting a tone of jolly goodwill.

  “I really didn’t expect to see you.” He didn’t offer his hand. He was gazing at me curiously, but without any emotion.

  I kept looking at you with a new and wondering appraisal.

  I drank you in--all of you, as though you were water and I was a man about to be turned out into a desert.

  The fool just kept babbling.

  “I would have held the cab for you--if--if I’d known you were still here. As it was, I---”

  He finally seemed to absorb the situation. He’d finally grasped it fully. He gulped.

  “Look, um--you want me to go back out for awhile and come back in? It’s very easily done?”

  You were staring directly at me in a peculiar way. What were you thinking? Your face took on an intensity that frightened me at first--until I realized, you too were memorizing. I was being tagged and filed away in some secret compartment inside your soul.

  “I didn’t mean to make anybody feel uncomfortable. Look--I’ll just put my coat back on and go outside and--I guess...wait.”

  You and I reached a silent moment of complete honesty as we stared into one another’s eyes. I closed mine and turned toward the door.

  “No--wait. I’m intruding on your time.”

  He was now capable of embarrassment.

  “Oh heck--what’s a few extra minutes. . .”

  “No. You stay. It’s my turn to go. Stay there, please.”

  He instantly relaxed.

  I turned toward you this one last time. You were now looking away from both of us witless men in that room. We were amateur actors who’d flubbed our parts and you waited for us to set ourselves right again in our own private way.

  
  

  I approached you and placed my chin on your shoulder as my hand grasped your arm. I felt a wave of heat tearing through me and for a small second, there was something electric and mysterious in the room.

  I leaned my head closer to your ear as I whispered gently.

  “I’ve got you with me for the rest of my life in a place nothing can ever touch. Brimful, I am. Staying longer would only chase me into the hereafter. Nothing will ever take you away. I’ll remember.”

  I smiled and pulled the hair away from your cheek and kissed you softly; a priest of love.

  You started to turn toward me. I stopped you.

  “No. Don’t turn round. I’ll turn into a pillar of salt.”

  I let go of your arm and collected my bag, allowing the new fellow to open the door with solemn courtesy as I walk out into the wind and leaves mixed with new snow.

  --------

  Barely a year later, I felt something inside--unaccountably sad--it wouldn’t leave me alone.

  I asked around and found out where I could find you.

  That’s why I’m here today. It’s why I’m telling you all this like the idiot I am and always was. I really did start to hate you and I’m here to apologize.

  Your dad was the one who told me.

  Leukemia had found you twice before and you’d beaten it twice. Just not the third time. It was exactly as you’d known. Time can be so much more important for one person rather than another.

  “I’ve got you with me for the rest of my life in a place nothing can ever touch. Brimful.”

  I promised.

  These flowers are for you. You cannot see them or catch their scent on the air. Somehow, you’ll know.

  They’re Forget-me-not’s.

  I gave them to you when we met. I gave them again when you whispered, “I love you.”

  You know what they say: Third Time’s a Charm.

  _____________
• 
  8

  MICKEY SPILLANE and MIKE HAMMER novels (A tough guy JW back in the good old days of Knorr)

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  spillane, mickey spillane.

  he pulled no punches and his pen was as fast as his gun.

  after all, it took almost three whole weeks for mickey to type his first novel.

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  Terry

  
  
  I think the first book I read of this sort was by Erskine Caldwell or Harold Robbins.
  Supposedly dirty. But by today's "standards"? Ha ha ha ha.