about

about

Oris GeorgeEvidently, the older a man gets the whiter his whiskers get, and when he grows them out, people call him things like Santa Claus. Or so they say…

The challenge is to grow old with attitude, at least enough to keep away the bad guys, and enough grace to let the nice folks remain in your life. So, does he still drink his own bath water, or has he outgrown that habit? If you see him, ask…

Oris GeorgeOris George lives in Colorado, a little closer to the river than he’d probably like, with a few more birds than he wants to listen to, and more often than not, he would rather be working with mules, donkeys, dogs, or kids.

His memories are peppered with enchanting stories picked up along the back roads through years of yesterday. His unique style of taking readers along the paths of boyhood adventures, days long past, and the gentler times we all wish we could once again experience, brings out the child in each of us. Capers only a young boy, a mule, a donkey, a dog, and friends could endure vanished along with the era of lemonade on the porch and Grandma’s home-baked cookies on Friday afternoon.

Oris Reed
Oris, Patsy and daughter Marcia

The nostalgia that brings these summers back for a lingering glance, a memory, and a flash of experience appears in each of his short stories.

These essays will be published in various forms, including occasional blog posts and on his website. (You’ll want to read each and every story to be certain you don’t miss a lesson, an experience, or the grand humor of a boy growing up in a time when birds still chirped, clouds still drifted across clear blue skies, and the only thing that disrupted a young boy’s childhood was nightly chores and Mama calling.

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