It was at this time in late May 2006, that I officially began my time writing for the paper. I had written stories before in my position with Local 45 and for my employer for 38 years, PPG. Those stories were without my name attached. Mostly public notices or stories of individuals who worked in the plant. In one I wrote of a man who saw the 50-year-old whistle on top of the power house, which sounded several times a day, had worn out. Decades of high-pressure steam moving through the throat of the copper whistle had eroded its metal structure paper thin. He was a skilled craftsperson and decided with management’s permission to construct a replacement for the tired old whistle. He studied its design, and set about rebuilding it to the original specification. The story told around the plant was that the whistle came from a steam boat in the 1940s. Finally, he finished his project and maintenance pipefitters set it in place. Then came the test, a slightly different tone, but only those who heard it each day took notice. After a few days, it sounded much like the retired whistle.

Sometime after that, then sports reporter Bruce Crawford, began asking referees, coaches, umpires and announcers of sporting events, if they would write stories about their time working in the sport field. Bruce also asked me if I would like to write a story of how I saw those games through the lens of my camera, I agreed.

For the first time I was going to write a column for the paper, and the column would be called, Through the Lens, and have my name below the title. My first story was about Dave Cisar’s Blue Eagle Baseball team going to Charleston to play in the championship games.

I took Mary with me to Charleston to watch as I took pictures and wrote notes about the game. We found seats next to the Blue Eagle dug out, two rows back. Perfect seats. I was a little nervous if I could pull off writing a story of such importance. About that time a wild throw by one of the eagles sent a ball into the stands, hitting Mary alongside her head. Dave and the player came over quickly to make sure she was okay. Fortunately, the ball stitching was the only thing that grazed her head. Close enough to hurt, but fortunately no real injury, other than being embarrassed by the attention.

Having survived the ball mishap, Mary and I came home and I set about writing my first sports story. Don’t remember much about it, but I am sure it had lots of room for improvement. Over the years I have gotten a little better, but I still have lots to learn about telling a story. I still remember the pride I felt seeing my story with my name attached. My teacher Helen Pyles would have been pleased, even if she had to use her red pencil to circle my mistakes.

Those early days Mary proof read my stories and Bruce polished them up to make them printable for publishing. I enjoyed writing, but I have for my entire life dealt with dyslexia. I have a mild-form, but still, it makes writing and especially reading a challenge. Today my computer reads back my writings and it helps me see the many mistakes I make.

In those 20 years, I figure I have written between 900 and 1000 columns. I have written about talking frogs, elderberry wine, love, people I have known, and so many that even I forget. A friend asks how I come up with all my ideas for stories. That is easy, the world around me and my growing up in Wetzel County back in the 1960s gives me ideas. I have a memory that can recall events with a good bit of clarity. I believe that is because to help me with my reading problems, I see the events in real images in my mind, that helps me to remember as if I memorized a snapshot of the moment.

I enjoy writing stories of made-up characters, like Three Toed Jack, Angel with One Wing, and The Chifforobe. In each story there is a bit of my youth or a bit of a story I heard along the way. Above the Riffle is a story of a love lost to the green dark waters of Fishing Creek. The lost one returns once a year to find her love.

My Along the Way Stories are of people whose personal stories made a profound impact on my life. I told one of a man I met 50 years ago while I was in the service. He told me of how he was the tank driver for George Patton during the war. He had pictures and letters to prove his claim.