To my friends in Boonville, California

 

Seven years ago I came from the bustling San Francisco Bay Area Metropolis to settle down in an old Barn as my chosen residence. The barn was located on a dirt road in the boonies considered part of this farming village called Boonville. Good things often come packaged in threes, and I would like to take this opportunity give a special thanks to a group of people in Boonville, CA. Boonville is a tiny little community on the edge of the Pacific Ocean in northern California’s Mendocino County.

As a newcomer in search of some new friends, I was not sure where to find them in Boonville. Then I discovered such a wonderful group of mostly retired airplane pilots. Some are still working and try to make a living at the littlest airport you can imagine. They only have a little house at their airport as most of the pilots house their little airplanes in big garages at their homes. In fact they have a number of antique flying machines that are well cared for with great pride and hope.

Conversations with these mostly retired pilots usually become historic encounters with nature of the air as they pass on their experiences accompanied by liberal doses of friendship that I will sorely miss if I ever leave this place. Airplane people are a unique group of individuals who have learned many lessons from life because they indirectly face death every time they step into one of the small contraptions their life depends upon once they are airborne.

As life is precious and can end suddenly, this fellowship of friends have learned to be tolerant of and appreciate each other’s differences. They have also learned by hard experience to be disciplined in living by the book: any mistake you make in the air has fatal consequences you will regret. So my weekly Friday night meeting for an hour at the local pub for a beer has usually ended up in somebody’s home where a potluck of some fantastic dishes miraculously appears from recipes not found in the most expensive cookbooks or restaurants. The warm fellowship and great foods enjoyed while sampling wine from everybody’s garden vineyard have given me memories that I will always cherish greatly.

And yes, I have found one more analogy here for my book. Perhaps socializing with this group of pilots who have learned to go by the book - be it regarding the repair of complex mechanics or flying by instruments instead of dead reckoning by the seat of your pants, subtly influenced how I wrote my books. My books are also instruction books on how to reach the other side of the Heh dimension, which we call Heaven. That there is another side is as real as finding an airport to land at after your fuel gauge’s warning light is blinking. Only after we land successfully do we stop and think to look around. Hopefully, my Boonville friends will read my book, as I think they will, because it will give them a much bigger horizon to fly towards in the blue sky of the universe.

My books tell us where we came from and why we are here in this contraption called a body. Truthfully, my old body is aging like their airplanes, and I’m quite interested in finding some good lodging and a chance to refuel for the next trip planned for unknown territory that I have never visited before. If I like it there, I might never come back. I expect it to be a place where there is a spring of eternal life, where all pain disappears, and there are no more tears. Once again I will become as strong and handsome as if I was 21 years old again.

So here is my book to commemorate your kindness, Boonville pilots, as an example for the local Christians who profess to be living according to the Bible, but failed to be hospitable to a stranger. Our Creator does not judge us on the external, but who we are on the inside. That is what will give us the ticket to the afterlife I discovered and tell you about in my books.