My Bucket List

It may seem out of character that someone as weird as me has something as mainstream as a bucket list. Now it just occurred to me that possibly a bucket list may not be mainstream. I don't know how to compile that data. In a recent (like two minutes ago) random double blind poll of the residents in my house, we are a 50/50 split. I have a bucket list, my wife does not. Feel free to let me know if you have insight, research, or an opinion on that subject.

Of the more notable things on my list, there are a lot of places I would like to see and adventures I would like to undertake. I would love to cruise around the world and step foot onto each continent from a boat that I built. I would also like to build 100 more boats for missionaries. Obviously, at my age, I may run out of time before I run out of list.

While all that may seem normal enough, maybe my oddest dream is to collect ISBN numbers. Today I registered a fourth one to my collection. I don't actually have a target number, which is also peculiar for me.

What all that means in English is: Let The Adventures of Boathouse Mouse begin!


On the Cusp of Publication

As I wrap up the final draft of Book 2 in The Adventures of Boathouse Mouse, we are coming ever nearer to press time for Book 1. I want to rush Book 1 to print, but the artwork is absolutely masterful and cannot be rushed!

What is so special about the Boathouse Mouse Adventures?
I'm glad you asked.

For starters, the storyline is a delightful journey of discovery through the eyes of Boathouse. His unpretentious, guileless worldview is refreshing as he explores the world in the mid-1800's. He has an ever-replenishing series of adventures and some misadventures along the way. And nothing dampens his curiosity or his sense of wonder.

Those qualities are timeless, priceless, universally applicable, and seemingly in ever-decreasing supply. That's my unbiased soapbox view.

Besides all that, The Adventures of Boathouse Mouse are just plain fun. And, as if all the aforementioned stuff was not enough, um, there are ships. You know, like, with sails.

Ultimately, I am anticipating this publication with the same kind of patience a five-year-old has on Christmas Eve.

Back When We Were Tent Dwellers

We lived in a small pup tent when we first got married. For some reason people seemed to think we were peculiar. I never gave a second thought to what unimaginative people thought. We were living an adventure.

Our stint on the Rogue River was only one summer long, but it was packed with adventures. You see, I lived with the notion that adventure and imagination were interwoven. Our tent was sufficient as a home, and the river provided us with an endless supply of exploration and discovery. Wild creatures were a few threads of fabric away from our bed, which simply made the whole event real. It was the perfect honeymoon!

We got our water from a spring. We ate a lot of wild blackberries and took our baths in the Rogue River. Black bears were abundant, if not amicable, neighbors and deer walked through camp every day. It was a twelve mile round trip hike to the Agness post office where we had a box. I guess we would have been classified as homeless by today's bureaucrats.

We were not actually homeless, it was much worse than that. Back then I assumed I was normal.

Somewhere along the line, we bartered our way into the possession of a DC3 inner tube and suddenly we owned the river. Mind you, we did not have sense enough to wear life jackets when we shot the rapids … it is probably a miracle we survived that part.

Our three-days-per-week post office provided us with a schedule to live by, so we made that trek on those days. At least once per week we included a detour to the store, such that it was, on the other side of the river. That only added six miles to our trip, which rounded it off to an eighteen mile hike. Yes, hike, like walking, with our feet. Together we could do that trip in three hours and forty-five minutes. Alone I could do it in just under three hours, but that was really getting it on. I was a lot younger thirty-odd years ago.

Because I was under the delusion that I was normal, it seemed to me that everyone else suffered from a profound lack of imagination. It turns out that normal people do not have intense, vivid, wildly imaginative dreams. And they certainly do not act on those dreams. I've since come to grips with the fact that I may not be normal.

I've heard that some people read more than one book at a time. I have eight … that I am currently writing … of the twenty three that I have slated. You tell me, is that normal?