CHAPTER 26

The Morning Song

Mister Mac spent the evening in the Meadville Medical Center at Tim’s bedside. Mrs. McIntyre, Aunt Marguerite, and I joined him the next morning. “Tim had a quiet night,” Mac told us.

“How’d you sleep, love? I brought your razor,” Mrs. Mac told him, brushing his cheek.

“Decent enough. They brought me a cot. I’ve spent worse.”

We retreated to a peaceful room reserved for families of folks gravely ill. Paintings of farmsteads and sunny meadows were hung on the wall and lit by their own quiet little lights. Bibles and books of comforting verse rested on the polished cherry tabletops.

“I just saw the doc. They’re moving him up to ‘Guarded.’ Maybe even up to ‘Stable’ by tonight or tomorrow. Swelling’s down.”

“He’s doing better then?” said Mrs. Mac, bright with relief.

“Heard me snoring in the night. Guess that’s doing better.” And we laughed. Mister Mac beamed, an expression I’d never seen before.

I felt important signing for Tim as requested, but soon we were all speaking slowly. For . . . he could hear us, to his great satisfaction. 

“Yhou hall . . . sound . . . lhoud.” And we laughed again.

Though he was wrapped in traction, Tim seemed pretty lively, if pale. He could move only his eyes and they were regaining their sparkle. He asked about the game. Yes, we won.

“We play the Eagles again next game,” said Mac, leaning on the bed’s footboard. “Bearcat’s leaving for Montana . . . big family wedding in Glacier. So we need y’ to suit up by Friday.” Mrs. Mac jabbed her husband.

“In the dugout, maybe, not on the field, son.” Her tone sounded like a mother just then, not a teacher in front of her class.

*

I would have given a dollar to hear two conversations that summer of 1992.

The first, the exchange between Mister Mac and Tim when both awoke the morning after the accident. I would probe the matter and gently prod Tim into revealing its content. A perfect eavesdropping opportunity evaded me. In my mind’s ear, though, I cooked up all manner of possibilities. The second conversation would take some planning: I wanted to be there within earshot when the McIntyres told Tim he’d been adopted.

How would they go about it? Who would speak first? Would it take Tim by surprise or had he a clue? His dream of a family coming true. His dream of someone there in the doorway waiting when he came home. Would adoption be such a shock he couldn’t trust his new ear?

It appeared Little League Baseball for “Hawkeye,” “Sidewinder”––or––“Halfway” Hathaway was over in 1992, at least. Good news, though, he seemed to have recovered seventy percent hearing in his left ear. The attending physician thought he was a good candidate for a transplant in the right ear. “Had this boy had some parental attention years ago, he might have been spared all this.” 

The specialists and auditory techs called him, “a case you remember. An operation looks promising. Surgeons from the Cleveland Clinic are volunteering to do it or assist.”

“Something they take from a dead guy,” Tim signed of the procedure. “That thing that looks like seashell? They take yours out and stick his in.”

During the week to come, Tim volunteered what happened as he recalled the night of his accident and the days that followed. “Yhou know what?” he asked. “Last night, I woke hup afraid I might lose my hearing again. That something would go haywire hand shut it off. It would be so bad. I try not to think hof hit.”

“Yeah, but they know what ails you now. So they could fix it––your other ear too.”

“So . . . no worry?”

“Right. Think about all you can do from here on out.” 

“Ummm.” He nodded with his whole chest and shoulders, careful not to jar the brace he wore to keep things rigid. “You cannot believe how different life his.” 

Then he signed: “When I was in the hospital, the first bird I heard was a crow. Then a blue jay. And later that morning, a robin, right outside my window––the nurse told me what it was. I was still locked down in bed or I would have got up to have a look. 

“The nurse said: ‘There is the robin’s morning song, Timbo. He heard you were here and came by . . . just to say hello, old friend––hello and welcome to my world.’ And do you know what?”

“What?”

“The nurse started to cry. And he was a guy. A bald-headed black guy. I will never forget that, for sure.” 

I smiled. “Things are just beginning for you . . . Timbo.”

I could say such safely without tipping any hint of what lay ahead for my friend, Tim Hathaway. Perhaps he’d become Timothy McIntyre in the weeks ahead. But to me and likely to the Panthers, he’ll always be, foremost, Tim “Halfway” Hathaway.

The night we played the Eagles, Tim appeared on the field in his neck brace and uniform, including the pants he lost on his way to first base in practice. Several of the girls from school crowded around and crowed how great he could hear them now. Naming Tim “a miracle from our Lord,” Mary Ann Holzer introduced him to her Mennonite parents, putting in a rare appearance on Summers Run Field. But, unfortunately, they would be disappointed. No game was played.

The Eagles were poised, focused on revenge. Loser of this contest would be eliminated from the playoffs. But we were confident, until Nathe had us huddle in the dugout. Mister Mac stood leaning in the doorway. Uncharacteristic for him as he usually paced around and about, taking care of the lineup, checking the field, and alerting the umpires to Tim’s condition. 

Nathe knelt on one knee across from us where he could look each Panther in the eye. He was rolling a baseball in his hand, the one with the missing thumb, long before he spoke. He had our attention. Finally he looked up.

“Boys, Trent Smythe will not be with us tonight. His little sister has been missing for more than a day now. You likely haven’t heard, but they found her body this afternoon in an old refrigerator. Trent won’t be with us tonight.” We knew we’d never forget this moment.

“The Eagles want us to forfeit so they’ll have a break. There’s a regulation we have to have nine men on the field. We’re one shy.”

“Sir, couldn’t we borrow one from Worthe Drug or Longmeier Roofing?” I asked, looking toward Mister Mac who kept track of these matters and the rules. “They’ve got some players hanging around.” Such substitutions had been allowed before in regular play: I filled in once when a team from Cochranton ran short because of an injury, and I helped them finish their game.

“‘Fraid not, Claude,” said Mister Mac. “I asked. The Eagles said they’d protest, since it’s not our regular roster and this is a playoff game.”

There we left it. No pizza at The Shack after the game. None of Uncle Albert’s homemade ice cream on the porch at Summers Run Farm. We would next gather for a funeral to “bring the final curtain down” on what the Tribune sportswriter called, “an unusually bittersweet season. The star that shone over the Pickett Township Panthers winked out last night, the team losing by forfeiture to the Meadville Eagles. In the past few weeks, strangers––not just parents and neighbors––started driving out to the legendary Summers Run Field for a nostalgic Little League Baseball experience. 

“Once there, they witnessed play by a scrappy bunch of farm kids and took them to their hearts. Beautifully resurrected from the full-size diamond many old-timers of the area remember, the scaled-down field witnessed some of the purest and best Little League play this writer can recall during his years following local teams. . . .”

Country Craftsmanship

Here's a stand-in for the covered bridge spanning Summers Run. Principal construction element shown here is the Burr Arch, extending the length of the structure. Quite a feat and wooden to boot. Found at Twin Bridges, central Pennsylvania.

And here's the cover painting for Summers Run: An American Boyhood as rendered by Montana artist Brent Cotton. It graced the first of the Summers Run Series.

CHAPTER 25, "I Hear Yhou"

Hoyt Wilhelm, Joe and Phil Niekro, Tom Candiotti were my patterns, models, players to study and copy. When they played in the majors, they were known for their knuckleballs. I wanted some day to throw one as well.

My Granddad C. J. had schooled me in this aspect of the game. His friend, J. J. “Smoke” Leffingwell, pitched in the minor leagues and twice nearly made it to the “show.” “Smoke” would come by both the Jarrett house in Texas and the youth baseball practices and offer his advice to us who aspired toward pitching. 

“Well,” said “Smoke” of the knuckleball: “It’s not a common pitch, but the boy has quite a large hand––bigger than most. Good control, excellent mechanics. I’d say he should try it. This is a league where y’ try things and learn.”

“You should try it, lad,” said C. J. “If y’ get good with it, well, maybe there’s a college career with the thing, maybe even a shot at the majors. Knuckleballers have a long career because it doesn’t wear your arm down.”

I took the mound for my third inning and looked toward the Kinkades and my maternal grandparents watching me. Thus far, I had held the hard-hitting Eagles scoreless. The knuckler had them buffaloed for now. Granddad C. J. pumped a vigorous thumbs up when I put the side out, one-two-three.

Fourth inning and down they went again on a single, a double play, and a strikeout. Now it was our turn at the plate. Jules Alphonse donned his batting helmet and told us: “I think the Eagles are gettin’ plucked tonight. I see tail feathers falling all over the place.”

Our bats woke up in the fourth inning and we scored three runs. Could it be? A little country mouse scampering past the “Screaming Eagles” as they called themselves? Fifth inning and my first sign of trouble.

After the first Eagle grounded out, the second reached first on an error, and then I gave up a blooper single that fell into short left field. Mister Mac came to the mound and told me and Carmine: “Now, we’re in good shape here. Claude, if you feel comfortable throwing the heater you’ve been working on, this might be the place.”

Up came their number three batter and then the cleanup man, the very ones who stared at us insolently during warm ups. I threw the heater––to their surprise––and got ahead in the count on both. Then a combination of the knuckler, a couple sinkers, and then another fastball, and they both whiffed. This time my gramps stood and pumped both thumbs up, danced a little jig, and applauded. 

No question he and I belonged to each other. We were of the knuckleball fraternity.

We faced a new pitcher in the fifth but we stuck to the fundamentals learned in the batting barn and Nathe’s instructional version of “move up.” We added two more runs and were threatening with a third when it happened.

I stood on second base with a double. Tim’s job was to bunt me over to third. He laid down his trademark beautiful drag bunt along the first base side and tore down the line to beat it out. It became one of those times in life when we humans just stand in wonder.

In the course of his furious flight toward first base, Tim’s helmet came ajar and whether he knocked it away or it bounced loose of its own accord, no one can be sure. I didn’t see Tim fall.

Folks later described the pitcher’s throw to first as a rocket and how they cringed when they saw the ball fly skyward from its contact with the back of Tim’s skull. When I turned at third to see where the play now stood, I found Tim in a heap on the first base bag.

Mister Mac waved me to come with him and we tore across the mound. The umpire, correctly, grabbed me and shouted, “All players back, all players stand back!”

“This kid’s deaf,” barked Mac, retrieving me, “and he’s our signer.”

“All right, all right. Everyone else, stay back. Give us some room here.”

By the time Mac, Nathe, and I knelt by Tim’s side, he had rolled off the bag and was looking straight into the sky.

He looked so gone.

I bit my lip for I felt the tears welling. Was I looking into the sightless eyes of my friend? I thrust my hands directly in front of his face and signed and repeated what Nathe and Mac told me: “Lie still. Lie very still. Do not move.” I wiped my tears for Tim’s face was now a blur.

He had not stirred.

I took hold of Tim’s jaw as Mister Mac directed so he wouldn’t turn left or right, while my Grandmother Ronnie ran up and stood over us and signed away. Mac told her to sign for Tim to remain still. Nathe left to get the first aid kit, ice, and blankets. Tim looked listless.

He began to fade.

My grandmother signed away. Could he even see her? She bent over him and I felt her hair brush mine as she signed: “Do not move your head.” Then she asked me, “Does he read lips, Claude?”

“Yes,” I told her, “a bit.” I looked into those dark eyes, urging them silently to not go sightless. Ronnie knelt even closer to where Tim could see only three faces I’m sure: hers, mine in the middle, and Mac’s. Tim’s gaze seemed to narrow, and I wondered if he were slipping away from us now with no way to slow the slide.

Then I heard Mister Mac say: “Jack! Good! Move back, Claude. We got an EMT here.” I eased away from Tim and released his jaw. Then I saw that gaze squint, hinting an approaching grin, the grin I now knew so well. Jack, the emergency tech, had crawled to where he could check Tim’s pulse. Tim did as he was told, lying still as death. But it was the eyes.

No longer sightless, no longer listless. His gaze, moving from my grandmother, to me, finally resting on Mac standing behind the EMT and looking down. The grin broadened into a full-on smile. Tim raised his arm and pointed toward his coach and said, “I . . . hear . . . yhou.”

Representing Summers Run

The inviting riffles of Summers Run. 

Its waters reach back into the basement of time and have slaked the thirst of many who have lived or journeyed along its banks. 

Represented here by Lick Creek, central Pennsylvania. 

The Reading Boy

From the creative genius of N. C. Wyeth, American artist and popular illustrator of the 20th century, active until 1945 when he perished in tragic car-train accident. He took up residence at Chadds Ford in southeastern Pennsylvania and established the area as the home ground for son Andrew and grandson Jamie––a patrimony of great importance to American art today.

We here think this wonderful illustration depicting soaring imagination is a very fitting symbol. A symbol for this blog's interest in encouraging boys, the reluctant readers in most households, to learn the wonders of good and classic books. 

House on the Summers Run Farm

One of the settings for today's "Feel Good" novel, The Boys of Summers Run. Watch for others featured in this blog.

Claude Kinkade is your narrator of The Boys of Summers Run

Claude tells his story from a two-pronged narrative, describing the action at the time and then applying a 20-year perspective. His job description includes: Farm-boy-in-training, pitcher and right fielder for the Pickett Township Panthers, and signer for his deaf friend and the book's orphan, Tim.

The Boys of Summers Run, a "Feel Good" novel swimming upstream

The Boys of Summers Run is written for seniors . . . parents . . .  grandparents . . . middle-grade teens . . . and boys, likely the reluctant readers in most households.

The back cover reads:

Fatherless boys become the Four Horsemen of the Outfield

Autumn, and high above the fields and forests of his family's historic farm, Claude Kinkade surveys his life there thus far. His future in rural Pennsylvania remains cloudy. His mother's marriage may move him to the deserts of Las Vegas and far away from his beloved Little League Baseball team, the Panthers.

Worse, Claude's loyalty is spreading its cloak over Shadeland, his father's ancestral acreage. He senses his departed father's shadow following him as he becomes the "farm-boy-in-training" of Summers Run. Must he forsake the memories he yearns to make among the Clan Kinkade? Will Shadeland suffer in his absence?

"Runs" are the brooks and streams linking the countryside together in Claude's new world. Summers Run is one of these, and The Boys of Summers Run is a story of deep roots and timeless springs, nurtured by traditions of family and folkways. It describes the friendships only boys can forge while learning of life and loss, the triumphs and tragedies of it all. One unsolicited reviewer writes:

"I think this is the best book I've read in a long time. I enjoyed it because it taught so many lessons. . . . I would recommend this book for all ages."

Be aware Boys is not a sports story. Nor the typical coming-of-age account. It is a story of a family preserving the land and the values it is duty-bound to protect and honor.  

To order from Barnes & Noble: The Boys of Summers Run

From Amazon: The Boys of Summers Run

From IndieBound: The Boys of Summers Run

(IndieBound is a huge community of independent bookstores found in your hometown and on the street corners across the nation. IndieBound members offer all manner of book services, shipping, and ordering of ebooks for your tablets and readers or softbound versions for your nightstand. Patronize them whenever possible.)

Award to The Boys of Summers Run !

Many thanks to indieBRAG for judging The Boys of Summers Run worthy of its Medallion program.

Submissions are juried and then judged by a panel. As a rule, fifty percent of those works are then passed on to a reader group, hence the title, Book Reader Appreciation Group or B.R.A.G. 

Forty percent of those submitted are winnowed down to ten percent as deserving of a Medallion.

We are pleased and humbled to be included in this exclusive group whose works are recognized for their excellence. Here's a link. . . .

http://www.bragmedallion.com

When there, click on the "home" link to find our novel among those recent inductees. Works are judged on plot, writing style, characters, copy editing, dialogue, and cover/interior layout.

One final criterion readers apply?  "Would I recommend this book to friends or family?"

How to order The Boys of Summers Run

So-o-o easy!  Just scroll to the bottom of this page and click on the big cover like this smaller version.

There, you'll be taken to Amazon's website where you can order a softcover or e-book version of this "book for all ages," my hymn to boyhood. The "folklore of friendship", page 334, soft cover, is the premise of this, today's "Feel Good" novel. It's "country."

Or, better yet, patronize your local bookstore on the corner. It should be able to order The Boys of Summers Run through its network of distributors including the IndieBound system. Also, through Indie, the Kobo platform provides a variety of e-book formats for those of you with tablets and the like. 

From the Online Book Club: A review

"One gripe I had with this book is the meandering plot. I am normally a fast reader, but this book took me an unusually long time to finish. Some readers may not mind this, as some of the side stories and passages are absolute gems. 

"This isn’t a book you should race through, as you might with a thriller; you should savor every sentence. The writing is lovely and lyrical. I enjoyed reading the book as much for the author’s use of language as for the storyline itself. The story is quite engaging and Claude is a likeable main character. All of the characters are vividly written, particularly Claude’s friend Tim, who is deaf and an orphan.

"The dialogue is easy to understand, even with the heavy use of rural Pennsylvania dialect. I usually find the use of a dialect distracting, although it was natural and flowing in this case. I felt like I knew these people well and became used to their manner of speaking.

"I rate this book 3 out of 4 stars. I wish I could have given the book 3.5 stars. The story will tug at your heartstrings. This book would appeal to anyone who likes to read wholesome stories about country life and boys growing up. Actually, I would recommend this book to anyone who appreciates good writing."

Thanks, Carolyn, for this insightful and accurate review. Sample chapters of The Boys of Summers Run can be viewed at Amazon. com

Order through your local bookstore. Or, if you are comfortable shopping online, there's Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Kobo.

 ***

My reaction to this review? A decently accurate and honest review. Claude’s detours and sidetracks, however, were designed to provide him with tools, insights, (and later) a mature perspective from which to tell his story and those of his boyhood friends.

While Claude is the narrator and first person protagonist, the work does portray the dysfunctional homes other boys endure plus the yearning of one orphan for the grounding Claude enjoys at Shadeland. Hence, the title, The Boys of Summers Run.
 

Interview Highlights: The Boys of Summers Run

Have to say, the Montana portion of The Boys of Summers Run is not very flattering.

Yes, some might take offense. But Montana life is more than majestic log resorts or pristine trout streams. What's depicted is ranching without the romance. There are harsh realities within cowboy culture.

Just drive US Highways 2 or 200 and one can appreciate the state does desolation or isolation rather well. One also has to admire the tenacity of those living there within a stark and grudging beauty. It portrays how folks manage to prevail on what nature provides. Eastern Montana contains redeeming qualities I find attractive and challenging for a photographer such as myself. And, viewed through a wide angle lens, it can define The Big Sky. However, there’s little of the pastoral or idyllic such as Claude Kinkade, my narrator, has known in Pennsylvania.

Nonetheless, the family he meets there in the badlands serves him well. The dysfunctional Smythes allow the hardscrabble surroundings to shape their brittle and brutish behavior. And, Claude samples how things can go awry within clannish dynamics. Claude and and his friend Trent Smythe are born on the same day: Claude clings to his roots while Trent Smythe loathes his and lives for the day when he can watch the ranch disappear in his rearview mirror.

Would you say The Boys of Summers Run is a coming-of-age, young adult work?

Perhaps, but publishers try to pigeonhole fiction because it’s convenient. I consider it more an intergenerational novel as there are strong relationships linking my narrator and elders of his community. Farm boys and Little League Baseball create the backdrop, but it’s not a play-by-play sports story, either. More an account of the lessons from life and loss played out in rural Pennsylvania. Amazon lists it as "Men and Boys".

You’ve said the book could be read in Sunday School. How so?

Well, my main character develops a crush on a Mennonite girl from a neighboring farm. Then, in Las Vegas, he teams up with the Haupleton twins, from an LDS family . . . for a school project on urban gardening. And, the funeral takes place at St. Matthew’s in the Meadow, an Episcopal setting. So, it became rather ecumenical. In contrast to some works in the genre, the language is very tame and the narrative portrays likeable people doing pleasant things.

Unlike some of the grim plots found in young adult novels, your character Claude takes up life on what looks like a prosperous, historic farm. 

Yes, Claude and his recently widowed mother land there, trying to sort out what’s next for them. But Shadeland is facing the realities of taxes, markets, the constant upkeep and challenging stewardship of keeping the place intact, in the family, and providing a livelihood for the next generation or two. It’s roots for Claude, something he yearns for. So his loyalty quickly spreads its cloak over Shadeland and the family of his departed father. He becomes a farm-boy-in-training.

That’s why the move to Las Vegas is such a wrench. Shadeland is grounding, its bedrock extending deep into the values of another era. Las Vegas pits Claude against his mother’s new chapter and her in-laws who are deeply invested in casinos, hotels, and a high-octane lifestyle.  

So, does he return to Summers Run and Shadeland? Ever?

Aside from the Haupleton twins, things do not go so well for Claude in Nevada, particularly on the baseball diamond where he’s a pitcher for a local team. But a mentor in Pennsylvania once told him: “It’s not always your friends, Claude, who become your best teachers.” So, he applies such to his new life. 

I’ll risk a spoiler here. Yes, Claude does return to Summers Run and Shadeland and his old teammates, the Panthers. In one passage, he tells us: “It’s summer, and I feel my stride matching that of my tallest shadow.” Some of us recall being twelve or thirteen, standing on the cusp, looking across the chasm between boyhood and manhood.  Claude and his friends grow . . . sometimes within an afternoon. His Uncle Albert remembers: “the pure joy of being a boy. It doesn’t last long.”

And the book seems to portray that through Claude and the others. Would you call it a bittersweet account? 

There’s that element, yes, but Claude joins the other fatherless boys of Summers Run––Tim, Aaron, Kevin, and Jeff––banding together and negotiating the terrain their fates have defined as best they can. Outcomes are hopeful. Baseball becomes but one unifier.

The Turnip, a huge hot air balloon, is referred to occasionally throughout the work. And then there’s the rooster. Did you plant these to tie the work together?

Well, the balloon is from an event staged by my hometown, Meadville, PA, every June, where a couple dozen hot-air balloons are launched and put on a show. The rooster comes from Kinkade family lore. Claude’s father, at the age of four, went a-climbing up to touch the “wooster” on the weather vane high atop Shadeland’s giant barn. The rooster comes center stage drawing Claude’s narration together. Like a good motif should.

Do readers ever ask how Claude could be so perceptive as a young teen, telling his story?

We tried to point out early on, that the narrative is two-pronged. Claude relates the action at the time it took place, and then he often applies his perspective from twenty years later. This dual approach is tricky for an author to navigate but ultimately gives the reader the three-dimensional picture and a richer progression. 

You call your book a “feel good” novel. Aren’t you afraid prospective readers might think it too syrupy?

The works of Rosamunde Pilcher and Jan Karon often deal with tragedy and grim realities. Yet they remain “pleasant reads” or “heart-warmers.” It takes a deft hand to deal with the grit of life and yet not wallow in it. I think those of us who write in this vein, expect any art to uplift. If it doesn’t, what’s the point? 

Any respectable work of fiction should have a Table of Contents

Presently, The Boys of Summers Run––latest in the Series––can be ordered through Amazon. com as a softcover book or formatted for various e-readers and the Kindle platforms. Here's one link:

The Boys of Summers Run

Others of the series can be found there as well or ordered from Barnes & Noble. 

Also, your local bookstore should also be able to order Summers Run: An American Boyhood or Return to Summers Run, the first and second book of the series, and The Boys of Summers Run, the third.

Do try to patronize your local bookstores on the corner or Main Street. Like our libraries, they are seasoned, concerned, and thorough offering community interaction between authors, readers, and book lovers of all stripes. 

Your local store should be able to order The Boys of Summers Run through its network of distributors including the IndieBound system. Also, the Kobo platform provides a variety of e-book formats for those of you with tablets and the like. 

Kobo is affiliated with the local bookstore network, IndieBound, and is geared to those who read e-books on various devices. You'll likely find your device listed. 

You can go to Amazon Books to read the opening chapters and the dedication to the Oregon Little League team which inspired it all. Set in rural P. A., this work is what Barnes & Noble used to list as a “Heartwarmer.”

Each work in the series includes a Table of Contents, listing the chapter titles––helpful to those searching for clues as to "what's this book about, anyway?"

A book without a Table of Contents, listing chapter titles, is severely compromised in my view. Like the cover, the TOC can tell you a lot about the book. And yes, I believe you can "tell a book by its cover" especially today when so many covers are grim and graphic. Would you want some of these in your home . . . where your grandkids might pick up such and read the trashy content?

Written from the country and back roads of rural America, The Boys of Summers Run honors old-fashioned values and manners yet presents timeless and pertinent insights for today’s families, especially those concerned with raising well-grounded boys into leaders and true gentlemen. 

(Yes, there are some chapters set in Montana, depicting how not to do such.)

Boys draws from the first two of the series, condenses, adds new material, and is pitched toward teens––ESPECIALLY BOYS WHO ARE RELUCTANT READERS. An intergenerational novel for all ages.

"Ruffy"

plays a supporting role in The Boys of Summers Run. Ruffy is an English Shepherd (not an English Sheepdog; there's quite a difference) and follows the breed's characteristic personality. They exhibit a highly-developed work ethic; are a loyal companion to the home's youngsters; and a natural herder and guardian of the farm's livestock and farmstead. Sometimes known as "America's Farm Collie." Ruffy found a home in Pennsylvania, moved to Montana, then returned to "P. A." during the course of this "feel good" novel.

Number Three in the Series

Pleased we are to announce The Boys of Summers Run, third novel of the series. 

It is narrated by Claude Kinkade and will feature most of the same characters. Here's a view of the famous Lamade Field, South Williamsport, Pennsylvania, where the Pickett Township Panthers wrote their history in 1993. It didn't come easy, getting here.