Nature-respecting two-legged humans believe that the Creator is All-Truth and All-Knowledge. The more
truthful you keep yourself and the more knowledge that you seekespecially nature reflecting knowledgethe
more god-like you become. Quite simple, is it not? Conversely, the more you stray away from truthful morals
and a harmonious lifestyle that distances you from the Creator’s obvious goals for humankind, the further away
you move from the fruitful goals that can await us all in the beyond. Furthermore, I believe that this beyond is a
place of all truth and all knowledge as well. Would not an all-truthful Creator make it so? But its offered
advancement will not be attained by an unprepared, selfish, unfocused, and disinterested mind. Meeting and
learning from those who obviously are strongly fortified on their own path is a wonderful gift from those who
are watching out for us. I was utterly amazed and so deeply satisfied after reading Jerry’s many adventures.
Yes… and I learned… new knowledge.
When you set yourself upon this path of knowledge-seeking, you must listen and be grateful to those
teachers you find yourself suddenly blessed with. Read on.
Oglala Sioux, OST-15287
Author, Mother Earth Spirituality
As I watched my brother drowning not ten feet from where I tread water, my mind froze. I was six years old;
Bob was four. I had no idea what needed to be done to save him from imminent death, but when the voice
instructed me about what to do, I listened!
Chapter One: The Voice
Sometimes we hear voices when we least expect them!
The sun filtered through the trees along the small dirt drive that wove quietly into the Ashburnham woods.
The camp was in a small hamlet near the New Hampshire border. As the old Chevrolet made its way toward the
cabin, the smell of pine needles was everywhere. I reached out the window of the car to touch the bushes that
brushed alongside as we made our way toward the clearing.
There were four children in our family at that time: my oldest brother, Tommy; my sister, Mary; my younger
brother, Bob, who had just turned four; and me. (I was six.) Like so many families in those days, people shared
what they had with family and friends. My Aunt Maura and Uncle Johnny were kind enough to offer the camp
to our family, and it certainly made our summers something to remember.
Dad was a fireman in Jamaica Plain, a small suburb of Boston. Mom was a teacher in West Roxbury, not too
far from where we lived. We were a happy family, and although we always seemed to have what we needed, we
didn’t have much more than that. Receiving hand-me-down clothes and passed-along bicycles was a constant
ritual among the boys. Mary got many of her clothes from cousins who had outgrown them. Yet we were
content. Like most children, we thought we were special, and nothing would ever change that.
We leapt from the car and ran toward the cabin, tripping over one another in an attempt to be the first one
through the door. The entrance took us into a small kitchen. On the drain board next to the sink was the old
hand pump, where we quickly took turns pumping water from the well into the old copper sink that had been
tarnished over the years into a myriad of blues and greens.