The Feral Cat
This is a poem that was written by my Grandfather, Raymond H. Jones. We don’t really know when or where he scribbled in his yellow notepad. But I picture him walking through a park in some foreign port, waiting to go back to sea…..
The Sublimity Hotel
It was the summer of 1989, and our little town was growing. Grass fields and acres of replanted Douglas fir were being replaced by subdivided lots and cul-de-sacs. At the BMX course on lot 504, we were desperately trying to figure out a way to make some spending money. Ditter’s store just started selling…