Caleb cut story starts

He was just a little bit taller then me, really just a little bit. But that small diffrance really bothered me for some reason. All the men there where just place holders to me, and so was I, I was just like anyone else. But Oscar was a diffrant breed. You could normally tell who signed up, who was drafted, and who signed up too not get there but got there anyway. But Oscar I was sure he signed up, but apprently when I asked him myself he said he was drafted. It's not that Oscar was a happy man, or a brave man, in fact he wasn't a very brave person, he shook and put he's head down like everyone else. Oscar was just a bright person, not bright as in smart, just as a warm person. I'd imagine any girl would probably feel safe around him. Oscar was actually the first negro I ever been around, or ever talked too. I was a little apprehensive at first, given I didn't know what to exspect from one, but he turned out alright. He was from New York state, which was a lot more put North then I've been since I was younger. But I was born in Pennyslvania, and the diffrance between being born in Texas and rasied in Texas is a big one too me. He carried the mind set and aditude of Northeners, but still had a gernal American feel. He was one of the few men I known that didn't get injered in any way in the war, good for him. I wish we would have come back to America at the same time. Sure we wouldn't have been on the same plane I don't assume, or the same boat if it went that way. But I did look forward to our last meeting before we went out seprate ways. But that didn't happen. I got shot in the gut two times while retreating. I wasn't able to stand right after it happened, and it was so bad a guy who I didn't know he's first name, but I known he's last name was James and he had a ugly face, that's all I remember of him, and he had to drag me back. I have a hard time remembing the order of things after that. I was just a month away from being sent home, I had already served nearly four years, but since I couldn't walk for a while after getting shot, I was sent home. If I was a stronger man I could have just walked it off, but every time I stood up I felt red rot pain, and I just couldn't do it. Not that I was sad to leave by any means at all. In fact if it wasn't for the fact that I could never touch my toes standing up ever again, I was rather glad. A lot of the men I worked with there died that last month I would have had to be there. In really unpleasant ways too. After coming home to America again, in later days I only got in touch with two of the men I worked with then, and one of them had no feet, and the other lived the rest of he's life with a thin line around he's neck, God knows how he got that. My scars where somewhat ugly too, very weird looking scars to say the least. And not to be crude, but they where close to my penis and that always made me somewhat uncomturbal. I won't hide it from you, I fooled around a lot back home before I was drafted. There was this Sue Orr girl mainly, she wasn't a clean girl but I spend a lot of my free time around her. A lot of people in town known how she was, and I didn't want everyone knowing about me being around her. The only one in my family that known was my little brother Ed, and he didn't understand it I don't guess. A lot of younger boys then me would privately ask me how- uh, much I got. They thought me some sort of play boy. After I came back home, I changed my ways. Not because I saw God or I just grown up some, or even because of my gross scars, I can't tell you why I stopped having sex, I just didn't have any intrest in it anymore. 

I laid on the ground and switched a few times. The first thing I really noticed was the wetness in my left arm, there was a lot of wetness in one arm. Then I heard noise around me, a person's voice though I couldn't tell who it was. Then I turned my head without even thinking, and saw what the problem was. My left shoulder had been shot with a rifle, that was my fault. Now weather it was the person over top of me or myself that I shot I didn't know, but it was my fault regardless. Then I noticed my clothes. I wasn't in green, I was in a light blue thin shirt, and Church pants. Then I remembered where I was. I was home, in America. And I wasn't in a poor behind the times town or a wet forest, I was in the Texan outback, where all the grass that was below me covered in blood was already dyed up from the sun from the second it came out of the ground. "It'll be alright, I just yelled for my boy he'll help me carry you up onto he's car. Dear God please be quite!" Then I realized I was screaming.

I have a naming problem. My friends out of the country call me Lois, as a way to short handily make fun of me. My co workers call me Mr Paster. And my family calls me Caleb. And there's even a another name I never use anymore! Ruckus. So you can call me any one of those names. Ruckus is the only one I ever used by chose, when I moved away from one into the north. I have a lot of life to go over, and a lot I could tell you, so I think just to make this easier on both of us I'll shorten it down to what matters, at least to me anyway. I'm both a weird odd person who has seen some interesting things, and a very very boring person. If you happen to own this book, that means that your surely related to me, maybe even born after I have died. I don't look it but I'm quite the writer. But I don't write this fantasy that getting popular, or science fiction boys seem to love so much, and I'm not a western writer or any genera writer. And I don't write about horrible things or romantic things, because to be frank anything that is too intense makes me uncomfortable, and I don't want this book to make you uncomfortable. No my favorite thing to write is letters. My favorite past time beyond reading the news paper, is writing letters. I'm interested in only what is real. And I don't enjoy made up stories like I did when I was a boy, because anything as romantic horrifying or as interesting as you could find in fiction, you can find in real life. But the problem with letter writing, is that you can't keep the letters you write, so sometimes I dwell over how pointless my work is, and I know from visiting the people I write later on, is that sometimes they just throw away my work like it was a boring update letter like everyone else's is. Well maybe what I write is boring, but I think it's amazing in a way. It's never been easier to document one's own life more then it is now. So consider this book dear family member whoever you are, this to be a non personalized letter to you.

Now a problem I have come across is, I so far have two drafts of this book. One where I went over my childhood, but now that I think about it that isn't really my story to tell, so I believe I'll only briefly cover it here. And the second draft I did quickly go over my time in the military, and in fact a good deal of this book was going to be about that. But after thinking it though a little more, I don't want to go over that period in my life. That time is only for me and God to know about, and I'm sure no one would see me the same way again if I go over it. So I'll just give a very brief overview of my life up until after military service. I assume most of the people reading this already know a little bit about my life anyway.

So, I have four half siblings. Abe, Becky, Deb, and Ed. Our mother was related to all of us, while the man that raised us, the one we called father, wasn't actually related to us at all. We all had different fathers, and I don't know mine well so I won't say anything on him. When I was 12, our parents died in a car crash. Mother died instantly, while father dispute he's horrible life long health, he didn't want to let go. He asked to have me and Abe see him before he had to leave, I still remember it very well, but I won't go over it because it's vary too personal for me.