Mitchiner's Last Stand So this will be it, either my 4th book gets everyone's attention and the world starts to enjoy my books what I write or I will stop writing and publishing anything. I will keep writing in private, because that's what I love to do, but I wont be self publishing any more books and running around nearly naked trying to get my babies off the ground. This is a simple formula that I will follow as I grow older.  I write books, you read them, and I'll keep writing them.  If I write a book and no one reads them, I won't write them anymore.  I will let you decide if you want me to become a Great American Author.  I promise you that my 4th book will entertain the world over...  Here are the first 2pgs of my 4th book.  The Chapters are all done based on the age that I am at the time.  I'm about 80,000 words into this book with another 80,000+ to go.  Chapter 0-2 Whenever someone asks me where I’m from I never know how to answer that.  Where am I from?  “You mean where was I born?”  I always ask.  Because to me, where someone is from, means, where did they spend the majority of their years living in one place.  I mean, I was born in Fayettville, North Carolina.  Do I feel that I’m from there?  No, I lived there from 0-2 years old, but I have a birth certificate and social security number from there.  So I guess on July 13th at 5:23 AM, 1976, I became a Tar Heel.  But to me, where I’m from is a tough one for me to tell people because I’m pretty much from a little of everywhere.  I’ve moved around so many times in my childhood that by the time I’m whatever age I was at, I had lived in as many different places.  Meaning, by the age of 5, I had moved around at least 5 times, by 10, I had moved around at least 10 times, etc.  So you now know where I spilled out of from my momma’s womb, now I will share with you where I came from and all of my wonderful childhood adventures. Chapter 2-5.5 Berchtesgarden/Frankfurt Germany.  That’s right, you guessed it, I was an Army Brat, but not for long.  Memories come back[kk 1]  to me of my early years in Germany.  The taste of good German chocolate, fresh bread from the bread store, fresh meats from the meat store.  Germany’s food were hearty and all so fresh, smoked pork from a farm, fresh vegetables from the field.  The fields had beautiful flowers growing in the summer, and the delicious foods in the shops, and clean kobble stone streets in town.  We lived on the bottom floor of a two story, German home, filled with cats.  My biological father was an officer in the United States Army and he could live off base with his family, which consisted of me, my sister and my biological mother.   This time in my life, was a happy time.  The older German couple that rented us their home were named Herman and Fra Paiter. Herman was a nice, gentle, old man.  He would watch German tv with me and teach me German traditions, like his obsessive collection of fresh jellies and jams that he kept in glass jars in the basement.  Some people had wine cellars in their basement but not Herman Paiter, he had every different type of fresh jam that he loved to make, bottle and let me taste, before giving me a jar of the jam I liked most.  He had a nice old man smell to him, German culture wasn’t to bath as often as Americans, not because there was a water shortage, they just didn’t do it as often.  Fra Paiter would take me for walks to the meat market and she would get me fresh Wurst.  I loved that so much how there was a market for everything you wanted to get, unlike in America, where its all under one room in a super market.   Fra Paiter use to tell me not to stare at the sun because it would damage my eyes.  So I would stare at the sun for a long time in front of her, just to prove that nothing happened to my eyes.  She said to me, "Jason, you are a very strong willed child.  Not a smart one."  I started kinder garden in Germany and I could speak both German and English.  We would go to church every Sunday as a family.  Church was very important to both of my biological parents.   I believe this was a good time for my biological parents as they had my grandparents from my biological mother’s side of the family, fly out to Germany and spend time with us.  I remember my Grandfather was a real, live cowboy.  He wore cowboy boots, a hat, belt buckle and talked a lot about hunting and fishing.  He would let me ride on his back like he was the horse and I was the cowboy.  He would have a gun duel with me anytime I liked with our fingers.  I thought he might be some kind of superhero because he was so cool.  I knew whatever entails being a cowboy is what I wanted to be when I grew up.  On one of his visits to us in Germany, he pulled out from his suitcase a pair of red cowboy boots just my size.  I wore those red cowboy boots everywhere I went and I was proud to be an American cowboy in Germany.  I was so proud to be a cowboy that on Halloween, I dressed as Superman with a cape on and as a cowboy and went to school.  All of the German kids laughed at me as they didn’t know who Superman was, yet (It always takes longer for American fads and culture to catch on in Europe) and American cowboys aren’t as cool in Germany.  I was five years old and proud of my American culture but walked home in a puddle of tears that day.  I remember crying all the way home and saying to my biological mother, “I hate Superman and cowboys.”