In the far reaches of southern Arizona, tucked away amidst the cactus and hay fields, on the banks of the mighty San Pedro River, is the sleepy town of Pomerene. At a glance, it's an idyllic small town. But sometimes, that slumber was quite fitful. Sometimes, in the dead of the night, old timers would wake up wondering if that was just a normal sound in the night, or if the savages were on a rampage again. Tribes of painted grade school children, scaring his livestock and egging his house. I grew up in that small town, and sometimes feel that I am still growing up there. I may not be located there, but I carry that town with me everywhere I go. It's heavy, not considered carryon by most of the major airlines, and is difficult to keep clean. But, it's there when I need it. It helps me make what I hope is the right decision.
My self-view of my younger self is of a cherubic, and misunderstood, child who was often cast in the role of villain unjustly. And I am convinced that a concerted effort has been made to alter history. There is how others remember things, and then there is the truth. I appear to be the only one that remembers I had an Evil Twin (E.T.) for instance. Couple that with other incidences of mass amnesia and you can see just how vital it is that I clear my good name.
