BOOKS ... my friends and I wrote
Eleven Miles South of Half Moon Bay
by Bill Sullivan
Coming of age in the sixties was an adventure. At least it was in the no-frills neighborhood where my cousin, Bruce, and I survived it—barely—in southwestern Ohio. That neighborhood was a tiny sliver in the middle of Mad River Township, a narrow strip bordered by Springfield Pike and Northcliff Drive on the north, the old trolley levee on the south, Glendean Avenue on the east, and Planters Avenue on west.
Whenever the boys in our neighborhood crossed those boundaries on foot, particularly the eastern and southern borders, we learned to be vigilant. Our neighbor to the east was Harshman Homes, a World War II military barracks development converted into low-rent housing. To the south was “the plat,” a hodgepodge of tiny homes, many only shacks thrown together with the wood of salvaged crates, and in some cases nothing more than a retired streetcar with its wheels removed. Although we had many friends in these areas, there were always other youthful residents who seemed to delight in tormenting those they considered trespassers.
At various times when passing through these areas I experienced the adventure of being surrounded by a gang of twenty roving punks seething for a fight, being shot with BB guns, and being threatened for my life with broken bottles. It could be said without hyperbole that the boys in our neighborhood were afforded an excellent educational opportunity at an early age: the opportunity to learn how to fight, how to run, and equally important, when to do which.
One thing that the boys in our neighborhood took seriously was the game of marbles. Some lads, myself for instance, took it a bit too earnestly. My goal was to acquire a treasure of a thousand marbles, and I could have cared less whose marbles I had to win, or how, to achieve it.
Every marble player had a favorite “shooter,” the marble he propelled with a flip of his thumb in the hope of smacking another marble out of the “pot,” thus claiming it as his own. Over time, though, a good shooter would become marred and chipped from its frequent bashes against other marbles. Bruce was like a well used shooter, marred and chipped from frequent bashes against his neighbors.
One need not look below the surface to discover my cousin’s imperfections, for his character flaws were clearly visible to the naked eye. He made no attempt to hide them. Unlike the marble masses, uniformly round and flawlessly common, differing only in circumference and in the pretty colors they wore to impress their neighbors Bruce was a rare and magical marble. But alas, a magical marble is slippery and ever so difficult to grasp. For those privileged few, however, who were permitted or compelled to gaze beneath the surface, there was the rare prize of profound allegiance.
Tragically, like a magical marble, Bruce was slippery. One day he was here; the next he was gone. On April 5, 1970, at age 22, he joined in a rescue effort at the beach on a Sunday afternoon and slipped into the sea—forever—sacrificing his life for a total stranger. His body was never found.
No death before or since has affected me the way Bruce’s did. My book is a monument to him and a cathartic grieving for myself. It is Bruce's story, my story, and the story of others who are inseparably connected to my beloved cousin. It is the story of everyone who has ever lost a loved one and pondered why. It is the story of conflict and bonding between young men coming of age in the sixties. It is the story of spiritual awakening.
Come with me back to a time that rocked the world. Dare to return to the mind bending days of Vietnam, Easy Rider and Woodstock. Experience the turbulence of adolescence in mid-America during a tempest of social change. Join the boys of Mad River Township as they swim naked at the YMCA and resolve blood feuds among themselves. Struggle with these lads in neighborhood battles, as they unwittingly prepare for a battle some of them will soon be facing in another neighborhood—a neighborhood in Southeast Asia.
Feel the exhilaration of freedom blowing in the faces of three cousins as they gallop their two-wheeled ponies across the land. Shiver with them on the cold planks of their park table bunks. Grieve with two at the incomprehensible loss of the third. Join one on his aching quest for meaning from the madness.
Become a witness to youthful visions of loved ones lost. Make the incredible journey from the back yards of Mad River Township to the pounding surf of North Pescadero Beach--Eleven Miles South of Half Moon Bay.
Anyone desiring his or her own autographed copy of Eleven Miles South of Half Moon Bay is invited to contact author Bill Sullivan at [email protected].
***I, too, grew up in Mad River Township, in the 'plat' Bill described. On the bus, Bill and Kenny Earwood would often take up a seat and, since we weren't allowed to sit three in a seat, I frequently sat with one or the other. They protected me from the 'bus bullies', the bubble gum wads and spit balls. I considered them angels with a slipped halo because 'they' didn't INTENTIONALLY save me ... just did it ;)!
Whenever the boys in our neighborhood crossed those boundaries on foot, particularly the eastern and southern borders, we learned to be vigilant. Our neighbor to the east was Harshman Homes, a World War II military barracks development converted into low-rent housing. To the south was “the plat,” a hodgepodge of tiny homes, many only shacks thrown together with the wood of salvaged crates, and in some cases nothing more than a retired streetcar with its wheels removed. Although we had many friends in these areas, there were always other youthful residents who seemed to delight in tormenting those they considered trespassers.
At various times when passing through these areas I experienced the adventure of being surrounded by a gang of twenty roving punks seething for a fight, being shot with BB guns, and being threatened for my life with broken bottles. It could be said without hyperbole that the boys in our neighborhood were afforded an excellent educational opportunity at an early age: the opportunity to learn how to fight, how to run, and equally important, when to do which.
One thing that the boys in our neighborhood took seriously was the game of marbles. Some lads, myself for instance, took it a bit too earnestly. My goal was to acquire a treasure of a thousand marbles, and I could have cared less whose marbles I had to win, or how, to achieve it.
Every marble player had a favorite “shooter,” the marble he propelled with a flip of his thumb in the hope of smacking another marble out of the “pot,” thus claiming it as his own. Over time, though, a good shooter would become marred and chipped from its frequent bashes against other marbles. Bruce was like a well used shooter, marred and chipped from frequent bashes against his neighbors.
One need not look below the surface to discover my cousin’s imperfections, for his character flaws were clearly visible to the naked eye. He made no attempt to hide them. Unlike the marble masses, uniformly round and flawlessly common, differing only in circumference and in the pretty colors they wore to impress their neighbors Bruce was a rare and magical marble. But alas, a magical marble is slippery and ever so difficult to grasp. For those privileged few, however, who were permitted or compelled to gaze beneath the surface, there was the rare prize of profound allegiance.
Tragically, like a magical marble, Bruce was slippery. One day he was here; the next he was gone. On April 5, 1970, at age 22, he joined in a rescue effort at the beach on a Sunday afternoon and slipped into the sea—forever—sacrificing his life for a total stranger. His body was never found.
No death before or since has affected me the way Bruce’s did. My book is a monument to him and a cathartic grieving for myself. It is Bruce's story, my story, and the story of others who are inseparably connected to my beloved cousin. It is the story of everyone who has ever lost a loved one and pondered why. It is the story of conflict and bonding between young men coming of age in the sixties. It is the story of spiritual awakening.
Come with me back to a time that rocked the world. Dare to return to the mind bending days of Vietnam, Easy Rider and Woodstock. Experience the turbulence of adolescence in mid-America during a tempest of social change. Join the boys of Mad River Township as they swim naked at the YMCA and resolve blood feuds among themselves. Struggle with these lads in neighborhood battles, as they unwittingly prepare for a battle some of them will soon be facing in another neighborhood—a neighborhood in Southeast Asia.
Feel the exhilaration of freedom blowing in the faces of three cousins as they gallop their two-wheeled ponies across the land. Shiver with them on the cold planks of their park table bunks. Grieve with two at the incomprehensible loss of the third. Join one on his aching quest for meaning from the madness.
Become a witness to youthful visions of loved ones lost. Make the incredible journey from the back yards of Mad River Township to the pounding surf of North Pescadero Beach--Eleven Miles South of Half Moon Bay.
Anyone desiring his or her own autographed copy of Eleven Miles South of Half Moon Bay is invited to contact author Bill Sullivan at [email protected].
***I, too, grew up in Mad River Township, in the 'plat' Bill described. On the bus, Bill and Kenny Earwood would often take up a seat and, since we weren't allowed to sit three in a seat, I frequently sat with one or the other. They protected me from the 'bus bullies', the bubble gum wads and spit balls. I considered them angels with a slipped halo because 'they' didn't INTENTIONALLY save me ... just did it ;)!
Witch
By Glenn Puit
The true story of Las Vegas's Most Notorious Female Killer,
Brookey Lee West
1615 Fir Drive, Los Banos, CA., the home of Al and Sandra Corona
the second house down belonged to Brookey Lee West
Excerpts from pages 172-176, also more on pages 184-186
Sandy Corona has faced her fair share of obstacles in life. The pretty, sweet-natured, Ohio native was born with congenital progressive nerve deafness, a disability tha wasn't diagnosed until she was nine. ... as a child, she faked several school administered hearing tests to stay in a traditional school.
"I taught myself to lip-read well enough that I was actually the first handicapped student to integrate into the (public) schools in Ohio."
She eventually married her first husband, Dan Turner, and bore two lovely children. ... the marriage was dissolved.
Corona met her second husband, Al Corona, in Dayton, Ohio in 1987, the couple married and moved to Gilroy, CA. Tragedy shattered their world, in 1992, when Sandy's son, Gregory Douglas Turner, was brutally murdered in Ohio. The killer was caught and sentenced to twenty years to life in prison, but the punishment was of little solace--life would never be the same again.
... in June 1993, Sandy felt it was time to move from the house where her son had visited them in January of 1992. They purchased a two-story home on Fir Street, moved in November 1993, around the same time that Brookey Lee West and her mother, Christine Smith, moved into their home nearby.
Sandy Corona sensed Christine, an older, weathered woman, had experienced a lot of trials in her life. "My mother passed away when I was thirty-five, so I thought it would be nice to be friends with an older woman."
By Christmas, Christine was scaring Sandy Corona.
The Corona's concluded Christine was someone they didn't want to associate with.
****321 pages with 8 pages of pictures (graphic warning); Brookie was found guilty of a one-woman crime spree that spanned two decades, stretched from Nevade to CA., and may have included not only her mother but her own husband and brother.
www.penguin.com ISBN 0-425-20719-6
Sandy Corona has faced her fair share of obstacles in life. The pretty, sweet-natured, Ohio native was born with congenital progressive nerve deafness, a disability tha wasn't diagnosed until she was nine. ... as a child, she faked several school administered hearing tests to stay in a traditional school.
"I taught myself to lip-read well enough that I was actually the first handicapped student to integrate into the (public) schools in Ohio."
She eventually married her first husband, Dan Turner, and bore two lovely children. ... the marriage was dissolved.
Corona met her second husband, Al Corona, in Dayton, Ohio in 1987, the couple married and moved to Gilroy, CA. Tragedy shattered their world, in 1992, when Sandy's son, Gregory Douglas Turner, was brutally murdered in Ohio. The killer was caught and sentenced to twenty years to life in prison, but the punishment was of little solace--life would never be the same again.
... in June 1993, Sandy felt it was time to move from the house where her son had visited them in January of 1992. They purchased a two-story home on Fir Street, moved in November 1993, around the same time that Brookey Lee West and her mother, Christine Smith, moved into their home nearby.
Sandy Corona sensed Christine, an older, weathered woman, had experienced a lot of trials in her life. "My mother passed away when I was thirty-five, so I thought it would be nice to be friends with an older woman."
By Christmas, Christine was scaring Sandy Corona.
The Corona's concluded Christine was someone they didn't want to associate with.
****321 pages with 8 pages of pictures (graphic warning); Brookie was found guilty of a one-woman crime spree that spanned two decades, stretched from Nevade to CA., and may have included not only her mother but her own husband and brother.
www.penguin.com ISBN 0-425-20719-6
My Books
NOW AVAILABLE
Limited editions
An Artistic Appreciation of Jesus, my illustrated poetry book, self-published, is now available at blurb.com. The above is a preview of the book which also includes several writers/photographers from Authors' Den and NetHugs.com.
A preview of the first 15 pages:
http://www.blurb.com/images/uploads/catalog/17/290217/231767-795860e131eb26db68caf724b0a7dc01.pdf
If you would like to order a copy, I can order in quantities of 10 or more to get a discount. Please email me.
"An Artistic Appreciation of Jesus"Baptised, a Christian, this illustrated poetry book bears some of my best art to date and is my tribute, an appreciation, to Christ. AVAILABLE--$30.00 S/H included/order via guest page
S/H Free expires on all books as of April 15th, 2010
********************
NOW AVAILABLE
"A Little Hope" republished Feb. 2010, an assortment of poems, illustrations and short stories, an autobiographical book.
AVAILABLE--$14.95
S/H included/order via guest page
(Free s/h expires on April 15th, 2010)
************************
"WINGS"--published March 2010, the life, times and murder of my only son, Gregory Douglas Turner, Dec. 3, 1992 in what was then
the most brutal murder in the history of the state of Ohio.
Avail--$14.95
(Free s/h expires on April 15th, 2010)
*********************
~Coming Soon~
Published as ebooks (no longer available)
--converting to paperbacks in 2010
***********************************
" Touch of the West" available as ebook 2004, no longer available on CD
"Wings" Remembering and coping with the murder of my only son, this book is about accepting the things we cannot change. Faith and laughter help heal even the deepest wounds.
"Funny Flies" 'Monkey Me' . . . being without you is 'Unbearable'--funny poems and pictures about animals of all sorts and sizes.
"Lettuce Dance" Just as "Funny Flies" was about hilarious situations involving animals, "Lettuce Dance" is about food in a similiar vein.
"I Found You" Faith in the good of man, belief in God, and love of country are the foundations upon which America came to be 'the land of the free'.
"Love Is A Rose" A celebration of love of every variety.
"Idie Claire, People Are Funny" Meet the funniest people on the planet earth.
" Allure" Sexy ... beautiful people attracted to one another and in love.
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