This is an example of a WordPress page, I edited this little page to put information about screwmyself because I have no insight. But wordpress told me that readers would want to know where I’m coming from. Well, like Jimmie Rodgers, I’ve been from several places and I’m going to be from here. My advise is work hard and you will be rewarded.

So, there’s a little story of life that sounds like me so I’ll just insert it under the critter.

Hard Luck

Folks, I want to tell you what a hard luck man I really am.
I was born hard luck, on part of the desert where the land’s so poor you’ve got to put fertilizer around the poles before you can speak over the wires.
But it’s a good place to come from anyway.
And I didn’t have but little age on me when the old man come to me and said, I’d have to get out of there, he was tired of feeding me, so I struck out folks and here’s what’s happened to me ever since.
I worked like heck, and been worked like heck, been drunk and got others drunk.
I’ve been blackjacked, walked on, cheated, squeezed and mooched.
I’ve been stood for War bonds and liberty bonds, and the bonds of matrimony.
I’ve been red-crossed, and double-crossed, lost all I had and part of my furniture because I wanted go around now and then and spend some little part of that which I did earn, and not go beg, borrow, or steal.
I’ve been cussed and discussed, talked to and talked about, lied to and lied about, held down and held up, hung up and doggone nigh murdered and the only reason I’m sticking around now is to see what will happen next.
[with thanks to Curley Dekle, first rawhider I ever met with a business card]

I really did start my life on the desert, seventy-five miles north of Los Angelos, in a little town between litter barrel and resume speed signs on the way to Reno, or Las Vegas or nowhere in particular. But it was a good place to be from, and a whole bunch of people you’ve never heard of came from there. And by dint of hard work (my dad’s) I moved to the San Joaquin Valley for High School where I didn’t read In Dubious Battle, but met the children of the book.
It was right after high school and a year at the local college that I became determined to see the world, which brought me my epigram of life–The fun never stops, and the stops are never fun. I thought I would ride herd on some intelligent things to say and do. Unbeknownst to me, I was becoming part of the herd who do and say what passes (like gas) for intelligent things. I enrolled at the University of California at Santa Barbara. Not heaven, but at that time you could see Heaven when the fog lifted.
I loved UCSB. So did lots of other people. Not so long ago there were five alums on lower Brompton Street where we live now in Fredericksburg. Virginia. One block and we had five graduates! Baby Boomers. When I started at Santa Barbara the fees were $62.50 per semester. With two jobs and the $600 I’d saved moving water pipe and suckering orange trees during the summer I could afford it. Of course all good things have to come to an end. Ronald Reagan was elected governor and quickly ejected any sense of doing the right thing, he packed the governing board of the University of California and started jacking the costs up–keeping them working class types out of the system. He signed my diploma and I must give him credit for helping make the person I am today. Every two years I need to explain to some sweet young thing on the telephone what a “yellow-dog Democrat” is.
While I was soaking lots of really interesting ways of seeing life and death and such, there was trouble in paradise. Tulare County was running out of fit young men. So five months short of my graduation, I received notice that my draft board had reclassified me and I needed to be poked and prodded and examined to see if I was healthy enough to be in the Army. My ideas are weak, my logic is faulty, but it’s always been my misfortune that I’m healthy.
I was certified fit for service and the draft board promptly made another entry for their quota and I was Army-bound. Seeking to make the more impressive obituary, I hustled down to the Army recruiter and signed up for an extra year of duty with the promise that my entry date into service would be postponed 120 days, and I could complete my Bachelor of Arts degree. In return, the Army could, if it desired, send me to Officer Candidate School as an 11-Bravo.
[To be continued]

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