Wednesday, April 16, 2014

ONE MORE TIME



FARM  HISTORY


By Delores Miller



Digging deeper in the  family archives, found receipts and vouchers from automobile and truck purchases and repairs.  Paraphernalia.  Equipment.  Tax papers from 1952, with farm expenses and income.  Property tax statements going back to 1880 Michael Zillmer owner. $4.19.  By 1893 it was   $7.30 plus a 31 cent collection fee. At one time five parcels of land at 40 acres apiece.   1934 was $134.00.



Doctor and hospital expenses.  Dr. Mulvaney, February, 1931. $6. Dr. R. E. Van Schaick, March 14, 1923 for surgery, $48.50.  Linda Schewe was the nurse.  Doctors made house calls out to the farms in those days.



Harvey and Mary Luschow Feed Mill vouchers, cow, heifer, pig and chicken feed.  Trekked to town almost every day. (Harvey belonged to St. John Lutheran Church, Mary to the Catholic church.  For fund raising, Mary, each Saturday morning made kolaches and sold for a dollar a dozen. Oh, how good they were, my favorite was a prune filling, topped with strudel.)  I often rode along to town when they went feed grinding, two thin dimes clutched in my grubby paw, enough to buy a cherry, chocolate or butterscotch malted milk at Mees Drug Store, with Glenn Draeger as the soda jerk.   A February 1953 written slip showed expenses for the month at $143.57 and income of milk $237.89, calves $272.70,  (how many calves was that?)  and hogs sold of $310.20.  A profit of $677.22.  They were rich and able to pay off the farm mortgages, liens and other loans.  And get an indoor toilet, to replace that outhouse.


Delores Miller lives with husband Russell in Hortonville, Wisconsin.    In the summer of 2007 they  celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary with a party hosted by their five children and ten grandchildren.  It’s been a long road.  Dairy farming until retirement in 1993, they continued to 'work' the land, making a subdivision of 39 new homes on their former hay fields.

Sunday, March 30, 2014

Mattress Buying in 1948



 by June T. Bassemir

Buying a mattress in 1948 was a major purchase     and we chose a Beautyrest double mattress and box spring.  It was well made with wrapped inner  springs and it was heavy.  A very comfortable mattress that lasted over 25 years, and then  passed on to a daughter for another 10 yrs.  In those days we were told the mattress would last  longer if we flipped it over every six months and  this we did quite regularly.  It took two of us to do  it but no doubt that helped to lengthen the life of it.     

  There have been many beds bought since 1948  but that Beautyrest remains in my memory as the best made.  Today when you buy a mattress  you should be aware of several things.  The  sales pitch that is used today is that “You don’t have to flip” their mattresses.  And the reason is there is no padding on the underneath side, so if  you flip it you will not be doing much sleeping. It is not that you don’t have to flip them…it’s that you can’t flip them.  How clever of the industry to create a cost saving design and thus enhance their  profit.  This they do and then pitch it as if they are doing us a favor.     

   One nationally known company promises a ten year  guarantee but that only means you are tied to them  for the next purchase because you see the mattresses  they are selling will not last 10 yrs. Indeed it may not last a year and a half.  This was my experience.  Sure, they stood behind their guarantee BUT I had to pay  for an upgrade (I didn’t want the same mattress),  delivery and tax.  This second mattress has lasted four  years and again I am back at the same store. “Surprise”….as a former customer, I am entitled to a discount and yes I can go through the whole process  of having an inspector come to my house to do some  measuring of the mattress to see what my credit would  be, but do I want to go through that whole process  again?  No. 


I would like a mattress that is better than that….  I would like a mattress that it is built so well that  you don’t have to depend on a guarantee.  I would  like a mattress that you can flip to extend the life of it.  Sadly, there is no such thing.   


Actually, this subject of mattresses is one that fills  my essay file with many stories.  I suppose it’s  because my earliest recollection of sleeping was  on a straw mattress in a cold alcove... not even a bedroom.  By today’s standard we were poor but I didn’t know it, so I was happy.  When the  Beautyrest mattress came along with someone to  share it, I rested in Heaven every night.    



copyright June T. Bassemir  2013 


 June Tuthill Bassemir is the widowed mother of four and grandmother of 10.  An artist and writer, she  volunteers as a docent in a 1765 farm house.   June loves old cars and antiques, and has also enjoyed furniture stripping and rug hooking.  "I used to say I was a stripper and hooker.but with so many trips around the sun, no one raises an eyebrow anymore. They only laugh."  June has given up furniture stripping, but is still an avid rug hooker.

Thursday, March 20, 2014

My Father



By Robert J. O’Connell



 I suppose that it is natural to think back about earlier times in order to bring order to the jumble that makes up the fragmented memories of our family. The passage of time is like looking through either end of a telescope. The here and now we see magnified with all the bumps and bruises on our family history, but as time passes we see less of that and begin to see through the other end where it is possible to see much more of the big picture.


My father remains a shadowy figure in my remembrances. I suppose that this arose from my Mother’s persistent warning that he was always about to die. The  particular fact was that my father had Hemophilia. He was a bleeder. We were all taught to wait for the next big hemorrhage that was sure to kill him. Many had already occurred and left him a cripple. In fact, she told us that if we were not good he would have to beat us and this would cause the  next big one to happen. As a consequence I and all five of my younger siblings were very cautious around Dad. Although he started off his adult life being the prosperous proprietor of several local barber shops, the depression put him out of business. He often remarked that at that time you couldn’t give away a nickel haircut. This always made me imagine a whole crowd of bearded and shaggy men in the neighborhood. Because he was on crutches and a bleeder he was not able to get regular work to support his growing family and as a consequence we lived on welfare and largely, I guess, by his wits.


I have since come to realize that many of the traits that I blamed him for at the time were common to all those who survived the depression. He always dealt in the barter economy even latter in life when he had enough cash to buy what was wanted.  He would put together very complicated many step deals that would allow him to swap something he had with a whole chain of cronies to arrive at the item he wanted. These chains of swaps often took long periods of time. When I was ten he promised to get me a much desired two wheel bike. In the long run (~six years) , the bike was provided although it lacked one pedal and a seat. They too came to me later over another year or so. As a consequence of this type of event I came early to believe that he was a liar. Now I realize that he just had unrealistic estimates of how long one of these deals would take, he always meant to accomplish what he said he could..


During the war, when I was four or five he did get a regular job with the Remington Rand Corp., in Syracuse making trigger guards for 45 automatics. The job advertisement asked for experienced precision grinders. Instantly, my father became one. As there were no able bodied men left in town he was hired with little investigation. After he was shown to his machine and waited for the supervisor to leave he asked the man next to him to show him how to do it. He learned fast and worked there for the duration of the war. Sudden prosperity however had a down side. It turned out that dad was fond of the creature as my Aunt Kate explained, and was likely to spend most of his paycheck standing drinks for his friends in one of the many local bars. 

Payday was Saturday, and my Mother routinely sent me to accompany him to get his check with the notion that he couldn’t take me into a bar. I can still remember the nutty, beery smell of the dark room. I got to watch the bubbles in the jukebox and sit on a tall stool and drink orange soda out of a small glass and eat all the peanuts I wanted. It was fun. But when we did get home and the deficit was noted my Mother took me aside and asked where we had been. I gave an ambiguous answer since I really didn’t know where we had been. Mom then asked what Dad had to drink. I said “tea with foam on it”. That was what I thought it was as we had never had beer in the house.


Mom solved this drinking problem in a very straight forward way. The next time he came home a little tipsy and with a lean wallet, she broke his nose by throwing an empty hammered aluminum coffee pot at him. I can still remember my fascination watching him lie on the bed with trickles of blood running down into his eye sockets from the exposed cartilage of his broken nasal septum. He mumbled that he was going to get even with her but as she out weighed him by at least fifty pounds it never come up and he abstained from alcohol the rest of his life. Although there was often whisky in the house, it was reserved for the occasional guest.


We were a very popular family in the Housing Project because we owned a TV set. Dad was able to swap something for a used one from one of his friends who worked for a local electronics store. I still remember the giant Dumont console with the small screen and a giant magnifying glass on the front. At 3pm every day the local kids would line up at our back door to come in and watch the cartoon show. Mom made them all remove their shoes and to sit quietly on the living room floor. After Howdy Doody was finished at five they all went home. Dad recognized that TV was the coming thing and instantly became a TV repairman. He put a sign in our kitchen window “TV Repair” and gradually business started to pick up. Now Dad knew absolutely nothing about how TV’s worked. But he did knew how to fix them.


I would go on service calls with him, largely to carry his tube caddy. In those days of vacuum tubes most service calls were caused by failed tubes. He would take the back of the set off, use a cheater cable to power it up and I would watch the display as he banged each tube with a screw driver. If the set flickered it indicated that the tube in question might be bad. A quick trip to the tube checker in the local drugstore would confirm the diagnosis and we would sell perhaps a new 12AX7 from the caddy and fix the set. As a result of a previous elbow hemorrhage which damaged his right ulnar nerve Dad could not feel the occasional shock that would occur when he banged the wrong thing with the screw driver. Occasionally this in-house procedure would fail to find the problem. Then the chassis was taken out and put on our kitchen table where it was carefully examined for burn marks or other signs of catastrophic failure. If this too failed, Dad called his friend John, who actually knew how they worked, and the two of them would snip and solder until the thing worked again. I don’t recall them ever failing, although the chassis would sometimes stay on the kitchen table for days at a time. Long enough to disrupt our diet.


Now that my two children are raised and leading their own lives I realize what an enormous task it was for my mother and father to raise six kids and keep them fed and clothed. I don’t know how they managed, but I suspect that it had something to do with light bulbs. I once overheard my father’s two sisters, Aunt Kate and Margaret argue about Dad. Aunt Margaret complained that whenever Dad visited her he stole the light bulbs out of all her lamps. My Aunt Kate responded that Margaret could afford to buy him a sack full and then skip the anguish. I still wonder what he swapped those bulbs for.  



copyright   Robert J. O'Connell,   2007


Robert J. O'Connel
Robert  J. O’Connell grew up in Syracuse, NY, known as the Salt City,  where he graduated from LeMoyne College and gained his PhD from the Upstate Medical University Center at Syracuse.   He was a career  neurobiologist on the research faculty of Florida State University, Rockefeller University, Worcester Foundation for Experimental Biology and the (University of Massachusetts)  UMass Medical School.  Semi-retired, Bob and his second wife were engaged in real estate and other endeavors, including continued academic work for the medical school.  Bob passed from this world just last week and will be sorely missed.

Tuesday, March 11, 2014

"Winter Wonderland My Ass!"

by Rebecca Crist


Gomez smiled behind her fleece balaclava at the muffled curse.  The teasing tone to her voice belied the harshness of her reply.

“Quit your complaining, Cohen, you volunteered for this mission.”

“Well, if I’d known it included a 10-mile trek through the freaken’ tundra I might’a reconsidered.”

A soft chuckle was barely heard above the frigid breeze.  The soothing tones of Maasi’s voice gently chided, “You do not hear me complaining and I had never seen snow before yesterday nor felt a chill below 5 degrees Celsius.  And I think we all know that, as you Americans say, “wild horses could not drag you away”.”

“Certainly,” said Zhou, “I thought Cohen was going to knock me down in her haste to offer herself up.”

The last member of their little crew was quiet through the exchange. Hlinka scanned the frozen hillside above them for signs of life.  Here and there the breeze stirred swirls of snow in a kind of frigid dance.  The pines and spruces that dominated the forest were frosted like an old-fashioned Christmas card but not a creature stirred in the cold afternoon air.  They needed to find their target in the next hour or else they would have to make camp.  Even the fleece, wool, and thermolite of their clothes would not protect them from the strong gusts predicted by 18:00 hours. The winds were expected to last at least 36-48 hours and they would have to stay in camp while they blew; getting restless and frankly bitchy. 

The winds that came through the Alaskan foothills at this time of year were the reason that a ground team had been assigned without air support.  The team was small because they knew their quarry was solitary and didn’t want to spook him by sending in a large group.  They were authorized to use force to take him but it was in everyone interest that they persuade him to return with them to civilization. 

Hlinka did not mind the cold.  Although she had been based in Avignon, France for almost five years, she had grown up on a farm in Latvia, helping her father and grandmother on the dairy farm they established after the fall of the Soviets.  She had weathered many harsh winters in sub-Arctic conditions and her time in the South had not thinned her blood.

“That is enough talking”, she barked.  “Move OUT!”



Continued CLICK HERE:


Wednesday, March 5, 2014

The 103rd Day of the Last Man on Earth



By Annie Fiore



As I begin to stir from a deep sleep, and before I open my eyes I pray that this time I will wake up and find that what I believed to be my life in a world without another human being is in fact a dream.  Sadly, as the many times before, the hopefulness dissipates when I open my eyes and I realize, again, that it is not a dream and I, Adam Charles Winston, am still alone in my shelter. I turn to the wall where I mark off the days.  Today is the 103rd day of my existence as the last man on earth.

The first day I awoke in my shelter from an unsettling night’s sleep, I couldn’t believe that I was still alive after the meteorite hit earth.  Afraid of what might be outside the door to my shelter I stayed in the confines of the 8x8 room, waiting and wondering what I would find when I finally got up enough nerve to venture out into what was left of the world.

After staying safely in my shelter for ten days, I decide it is time to find out what is happening outside.  Standing in front of the door that separates me from the unknown I feel my heart pounding in my chest as I reach for the latch to slide it open.  Apprehension grips my insides as I take hold of the door handle and pull the door open a crack … and then close it quickly.  Beads of perspiration form on my forehead and trickle down to my eyebrows.  I wipe them away with the back of my hand and take hold of the door handle again, this time pulling the door open all the way.  I am stunned to see the day of light, but have to shade my eyes as the sunlight is much too bright for eyes that spent ten days in a room with only the light from a battery operated lantern. 

My steps forward into the day were unsure as I looked at my surroundings and was overtaken by sadness for there was not a tree standing in what was a lush forest.  What remained of my ranch house was a pile of charcoal ashes dotted with some unidentifiable pieces of metal.  I fell to my knees and cried under a sky of blue with white clouds.

The days that followed were spent in search of life, any kind of life, an animal, an insect, something that was still breathing.  In my search, I found that devastation covered every acre of land that I walked on.  All evidence of life seemed to have disappeared. There was no sign of plant life of any kind.  What remained in some areas were the twisted skeletons of buildings, trucks and cars,  reduced to rubble. On one of my ventures I headed South on the Thruway. When I reached Newburgh, I continued on Route 303 to the airport.  There on the tarmac stood the brittle, frail outlines of aircraft sitting quietly on the tarmac of what once was the Stewart Airport. After that discovery, I decided to search no more and headed back to Saugerties.

On my trek back to my shelter I thought of how could this have happened? Is it possible that no one took the warnings of this mishap seriously?  Could it be that no one other than myself prepared for what was labeled the December Doomsday?  True, the media made jokes about what would happen if the meteor hit came to pass.  Experts around the world concurred that the earth was safe from the meteorite’s path. No one appeared to be concerned. Was this the reason the event wasn’t taken seriously?  Am I the only person who thought it was possible?

I remember when I made up my mind that I was going to be prepared.  I dug and blasted deep into the cliff behind my house.  My neighbors said that I was crazy.  They made fun of me.  I was the talk of our small town of Saugerties and probably beyond.  I blasted day and night and worked on building the door to my safe haven as the date of the expected Doomsday approached. Building my fortress deep into the side of the cliff gave me the confidence that I had a chance of surviving.  There was room enough for a sleeping bag, my bicycle, spare tires, first aid kit, and toolbox. I stored food, water, batteries and books, enough for 6 months. I moved my two laptop computers into the shelter with extra battery packs and a couple of journals. I was prepared for the worst case scenario. Today I wonder if I was crazy for saving myself.  At this point I have saved myself for nothing …for no one.

Tonight on the evening of my 103rd day as the last man on earth I sit down to eat my dinner when I hear a noise that sounds like a knock on the door.  I stop, put down my folk and hold my breath while I listen for the sound.  Again, there is the noise and it is a knock.  I jump up from my seat and rush to the door and open it.  Standing in front of me is a young woman.  I stare at her taking in her beauty.  Her long golden brown hair, her brown eyes, her flawless complexion and lips the color of the petals of a pink rose.  She smiles at me and says, “Hello, my name is Eve.”


copyright 2014 by Annie Fiore Nicoletti


 Annie Fiore-Nicoletti grew up in The Bronx.   She and her husband relocated to Saugerties in 1998.   She is retired from more than twenty-five years working in an administrative capacity in the health care sector.   Annie had a great imagination all of her life.  She started storytelling for her two granddaughters who she refers to as The Sunshine Girls.  It was Tanna and Teah who prompted her to put one of their favorite stories on paper.  Since then she has written several children’s short stories and is working on her first novel. Annie enjoys writing for pleasure and hopes to some day be published.  She is also the founder of the Saugerties Writer’s Club.

Monday, February 24, 2014

My Mother's Stick



 by Darlene Jennings

Chapter 1       



               God, it was hot.


              Not even the two red and white checkered cotton napkins (recently made for my daughter’s wedding) that I had tied together and carelessly wrapped around my forehead an hour earlier could contain the sweat that was running down my face and burning my eyes.  The frozen bottle of water that I kept refilling with the garden hose didn’t help and the cigarette wasn’t comforting either.  I would work a while and sit awhile.  No one in their right mind especially at the age of 50 should be out in this heat and humidity.  Ok, I said to myself  just have one more cigarette, drink some more water and  sit down here on the stoop  and get your breath.

             It was then that I notice my mother’s stick.  Or at least that is what I had been calling it now for over 20 years.  For the past few months it had been holding up some flowering vine that I had purchased this spring.  The vine kept growing and falling over so at some point I had remembered the stick and  along with a piece of fish net ( which also had recently been used for decorations at my oldest daughter’s wedding) I anchored the vine to the porch post.  Now sitting there sweating like a stuck pig I had to laugh at the stick stuck in the ground. 

             God, if that stick could only talk.  I first remember it when I was about sixteen as I think that must have been when I first started washing my own clothes.  The instructions from my mother were to first fill the washing machine with a cup of Tide, start the water, wait for the tub to fill, and then stir like crazy with the stick to dissolve the Tide so you wouldn’t end up with white powdery splotches on your clothes.  I hated that stick.  What sixteen year old has time to stir water in a washing machine?  My mother must be crazy.  I swear she would catch me every time I didn’t stir and I don’t care where I thought she was in the house or the yard or out by the pool, she just would mysteriously appear every time I washed clothes. 

             The stick over the next few years went from stirring my cheer leading blouses to stirring baby diapers.  The baby belonged to me and I loved the baby but really began to hate the stick.  Now I had to stir for soaking, pre-washing and the final wash.  My goodness, how my father was ever able to pay the water bill at that house amazes me.

             Within seven years of the first stirring of baby diapers, the stick took on a new life.  As my mother lay dying of cancer at home in her bedroom the stick now became a tv remote.  The television set had a large dial for channel changing and with the addition of a  hook and black electrical tape to the stick, I was able to rig it just perfect so that mother could reach out, grab the dial with the hook and turn the channels on the television. 

             Sitting there on the porch it amazed me that almost 23 years later that black electrical tape on one end of the stick still looked the same.  The stick had changed somewhat in appearance as my oldest daughter at 17 had used it to stir the can of black paint that she painted her room with that year.  There were also shades of blue and pink  as the stick had been used for the same purpose by my youngest daughter a few years earlier.

             Funny thing about that stick.  I can’t seem to lose it.  Not that I have tried its just that I haven’t tried to take care of it so why is it that it keeps showing up?  Ok, maybe I stirred a few loads of clothes here at this house after moving in 1979 when my father sold the house on the beach.  The house that I loved, the house that I brought my children home to, the house that had the Atlantic Ocean on one side and a swimming pool on the other side.  The house that withstood Hurricane Hazel in ‘54 and the house that every year had the best Christmas party in town.  The house that was home to a beautiful mother, an infamous father and five children and then two grandchildren. The house that every relative within 250 miles visited at least once each summer of their teen age life and the house that every relative brought their first girlfriend or boyfriend to especially to meet my Mom.  They never knew about the stick.

             Ok, maybe my father wasn’t “infamous” but he was certainly a black sheep in this southern - baptist belt - soon to become booming tourist town.  He was also the envy of every man who ever laid their eyes on his wife and my mother, Becky Jennings.  I don’t remember how old I was the first time that I realized that she was beautiful.  Maybe around 8 when I would watch her put on her makeup for hours and brush her gleaming black hair for another hour and then stand in front of a full length mirror for another hour making certain that every hair, every fiber of her stylish dress was perfect.  And the smell....Shalimar...I still keep a lavendar velvet box that once held a bottle of her Shalimar perfume and every now and then when I yearn for her I will open the box just to embrace that smell and the memory of her.

             No other woman in town could hold a candle to her beauty but it is a funny thing that no other woman in town was ever jealous of her.  And as far as I know, no other woman was jealous of the fact that their husband thought she was beautiful.  Maybe it had something to do with her commitment to the community and to her five children and even to her husband even though he was never totally committed to her.  She was always the first mom at the school to help with the Christmas party or recitals or decorating for Halloween and organizing the carnivals.  She along with her best friend, Faye Taylor, are still know in the Chamber of Commerce circle as being two of the first ambassadors for Myrtle Beach, SC, in the early fifties.

             I’ve kept all of the newspaper clippings of the contributions that she made to this town.  Not money but time and energy promoting the community.  One of my favorite memories is the Beaux Art Ball where she and her friends would all be in costume (usually some group like ‘Lil Abner characters) and, naturally, mom was the sexy  Daisy Mae.  There were other community events like the annual Sun Fun Festival (again all in matching skimpy police outfits) and the Minstrel Shows where her dancing skills were the best on stage.  The whole town got involved in the shows which included (in black face) jokes about almost everyone, dancing, singing and just simple fun.  I think Mom really missed doing that show when it no longer seemed appropriate because of the change in our times.  I still have old scripts and programs from the shows tucked away in a box with pictures of the good times that she enjoyed with her friends in the community.

             Of course, all of this was years before the stick.  Now the stick is a reminder of how long ago she was beautiful and vibrant and how quickly life can change.  Life changed in 1964 when she told my father that he was no longer welcome to sleep at home.  At the time I didn’t realize that it had anything to do with another woman but that’s what it was.  No divorce, no legal separation, no nothing, except he didn’t sleep there anymore.

            Too bad she just didn’t beat him with the stick.

copyright 2014, Darlene Jennings


 Darlene Jennings is a native of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina and dates herself by remembering when "we turned off the two downtown traffic lights in the winter." She grew up with sand between her toes and sand-spurs to boot.  Proud mother of two and grandmother of two, Darlene has been self employed for over thirty years in Community Management.  (A job that sucks the soul right out of you, she says.)  Her relief is community service and writing spur-of-the-moment short stories. Many stories have been shared with family and friends who suggested she write a book.  But that just sounds like another job to Darlene!


Sunday, February 16, 2014

Getting To The End of It



by Hugh Singleton




            If we live to the natural end of our lives, we may well find ourselves confronted by questions that challenge our knowledge, our experience, and even our faith.  If we find satisfactory answers, we are blessed indeed and the satisfaction we feel leads us to share  our  enlightenment with friends and associates, most  or perhaps all
of whom find our views too different from their own to seriously consider.  Built into the answers we cherish is a caution that we must not ignore; that the answers we so cherish are not the only answers, and that we are not to challenge what others have found to satisfy their needs.  Herein lies much of the world’s problems.

            I refer here to the question of what causes the events in our lives; are we blessed or cursed by what we do or fail to do, and why can’t we change our lives to avoid all unpleasantness?  Does prayer really work and if so, why do our prayers go unanswered?  If our thinking is wrong, how do we correct it?  Philosophers have for centuries offered their theories of life and death and the meaning of both.  Man seems to have picked and chosen from what these wise men have said, yet life remains a mystery for most.  My personal feeling as I approach the end of my life is that each of us are different and each life will differ from every other life, including how it begins and how it ends.

            Much of mankind, perhaps most of mankind, has accepted that invisible forces surround us.  Some feel that these forces are divine in nature and exist to sustain us, protect us, and guard us from harm as we go through life and return safely to a world of spirit.  Others are certain that these forces are entirely natural, a part of the earth’s environment  which have no connection with spirit, or good, or evil. Until we learn to communicate with or  become conscious of these unseen forces, it is unlikely that we will recognize what they are or why they exist.  I suspect that we are surrounded daily by the actions of unseen influences and I wonder if we could not, simply by trying, become conscious of untold wonders happening  right under our noses, so to speak.  It has been suggested that mental telepathy will be the next major step in  the evolution of man; I believe it might.

            Toward the end of each life, those not already immersed in a faith will naturally wonder what will happen at the moment of death.  Researchers will read about  near death experiences of those who seem to have physically died and then are revived to live out their lives.  Other researchers, using some form of regression report in great detail of a spiritual existence between incarnations on earth or some other place.  In short, there is much to give us hope for life after death. 

copyright 2014, Hugh Singleton

Hugh Singleton was born 1931 in Cuthbert, a small agricultural town in southwest central Georgia.  The Singletons date back to the pre-civil war days, with older roots  paternal roots go back to England; maternal to Ireland.  Hugh’s higher education consists of business school training in accounting and administration.  He served four years in the U.S. Navy, 1951-1955.  Hugh  enjoyed a career with the NCR Corporation and retired at the end of 1993.  Hugh and his wife  live in a retirement community near Leesburg, FL where they enjoy a number of activities.