The White Bridge

Yesterday, I sent The White Bridge packing. It is about to embark on an extended journey to its uncle and aunt. Phil and Deb Harris, the publishers of All Things That Matter Press, have promised to take care of my little tyke. I hope they will not put it in baby farm. After toiling and re-writing for about two years, this painful journey is ending. Writing about some of the horrors of our nation's past did not help the joviality of my spirit. But my inquiry into the links between capitalism, racism and justice has taken me on an odd journey through time. I realize i am an unstable element in this, the year of our Lord, Two thousand so and so. After the age of sixty-five, all bets are off anyway. Except for truthful inquiries and wild encounters with willing women or volunteers. But, while acknowledging the amazing research of Edwin Black and John Loftus, I am gratified to have given my pen toward remembering the " rock we were hewn." The White Bridge and Ghost Runners. The journey continues.