Pop’s Day Starts Here … on a Buzzard’s Stump!

Pop’s Day Starts Here … on a Buzzard’s Stump!

POP’S DAY BONANZA!! FREE GIFT-WRAP AND HANDWRITTEN MESSAGE PLUS BUZZARD BOOK FOR $12. (Purchase here onAmazon under new/used sellers “bookswithverve”)

I promote this book alongside author Alva Harris for a number of passionate reasons. Born on a Buzzard’s Stump is a rare type of memoir; in fact, it’s more like a fun bunch of stories that would be told around a campfire or after dinner on the back porch.  It is both comedic and poignant.

At any given point in his eight decades of life, Alva has a charming story to tell.  If you’ve touched the perimeter of any of the following, you’ll embrace this book:  college professor, student of biology and the life cycle of beings, hunter, fisherman, taxidermist, mountain climber, card player, a mischief-maker, writer, military man, sailor, captain, fisherman, traveler, husband, father, dreamer, do-er.  My guess is every one of us will find something to relate to and share with another.  And the beat goes on.

It is also my wish that this book be recognized around the country as slices of history lived by a man who once was so mobile that he could not be contained, however, now wages a daily battle with Parkinson’s and other related diseases. That his story will be told and passed along is how he now moves, communicates, and dreams with all of us.

This author, a savvy adventurer and superior artist of literary imagery, has seen some things.  I mean, he has . . . Seen. Some. Things. Luckily for us, he’s a natural storyteller, and with that, he embraces the imperative balances of embellishment, humor, self-deprecation, and goodwill. “Welcome to My World. Proceed at Your Own Risk.” There is a sample on his website (www.buzzardsstump.com) where he shares the entire chapter of “KASKA THE MAGIC LAKE INDIAN.” It’s a riot.  But I won’t repeat that one. Here’s a fresh piece o’ meat:

 Listening to his laughter, and assuming I might escape unharmed, my confidence returned. I asked a very foolish question. “Does Mister George understand just how well you’re protecting Snowflake?”

The red-bearded giant switched demeanor, picked his gun up off the counter, and slowly faced me. “If I thought for a cat’s whisker tonight’s happenings would enlighten his understanding, your ship would sail minus one sailor. Are we clear on that?”

All next day, the weather moderated to above freezing, and ice fell from the riggings, aided by the blasting of water from fire hoses. Prudence whispered in my ear to stay aboard ship and fold my hand in the dangerous game played between Snowflake and her poaching watchdog.

Besides, many Snowflakes flutter and melt in countless ports, waiting to kiss my ilk with forked tongues. God bless ’em, one and all.

If writers like Alva are hatched on buzzards’ stumps, then I think we need to reconsider our whole take on buzzards in general. Thar’s gold in them thar stumps! Buy this adventurer gold here.

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