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Jay Peters is the pen name of Mr. Jan Peter Blickenstaff, (a complicated name), who decided he had read enough western fiction and western history that he should try writing his own story.
Since High School, Jan wanted to write but never found a subject, or theme to write about, until now.
At age five and six was a fan of Gene Autry, "America's Favorite Singing Cowboy".
He was a printer in High School, a diesel mechanic in the US Navy, and Vietnam combat veteran on a Patrol Gunboat.
Jan earned a degree in Earth Science from Montana State at Bozeman, Montana. He worked 30 years for state and local governments in Montana and Idaho in land use planning and grant management.
He's now retired and living the good life with his wife in Texas.
Hello the house!” he called out as he turned off the road, walking into the farm yard, his loaded mule in tow. “Hello, anybody ta home?” He yelled again.
“What do you want?” a woman’s voice called thru a crack in the door.
“Mrs. Pettigrew at the Tavern said I should talk to you.”
“About what?” Read the full story HERE>>
The Haunted Shack
It is a bright, Texas-hot, August afternoon. All the residents of the retirement center, sarcastically called ‘Trails End’ by the live-in ranching folks, are sitting in the shade along the east facing veranda. Sitting in small groups or singly according to their preference. One small group of former cowboys and ranchers is intently listening and then bursting into guffaws at some windy tale from a yarn spinner. Read the full story HERE>>
Passing a door, I hear a call, “Mr. Franklin. Mr. Franklin would you stop in a minute?” I take a step back to the door of Hector’s room.
“Sure, Hector, what ken I do for you?” I asks.
“You been writin’ down people’s stories fer a book. Maybe, mine would interest you.”
“Sure would, Hector, it sure would,” As I drag over a chair to his bedside, digging my notebook out of my jacket pocket. Read the full story HERE>>
“Roll out, you old hay-waddy. Rattle yer old bones and let’s go introduce ourselves to the new residents at the end of the hall,” Isaiah calls from the doorway.
“Okay, Okay, you old printer’s devil. Give an old man a minute to get his slippers on.” I snap back at him.
We make our way to the newly occupied room. Noticing the Stetson, a calfskin vest and the mule eared, worn riding boots at the clothes tree along the wall at the head of the bed, Read the full story HERE>>
Ye Olde Printshop
“Out of the way old man. You insulted me one time too many with your last issue and I’m tired of it.” He throws copies of my one-page newspaper in the street at my feet. “We’re gonna fix your press so you kain’t do that anymore. You know nothing of ranching so stop giving me advice where none is asked. Get out of the way,” commands the older man at the center a semi-circle of riders at my front door. “Your old dove duster of a scattergun ain’t gonna stop any of my boys.” Read the full story HERE>>
By Jay Peters
It’s Christmas week of ’09 and my young friend, Ben, and I are bundled up, sitting here in the winter sun, on the veranda of the old folk’s home, trading windies and playing chess. Ben is the 50ish newspaper editor in town. He comes by, now and then, to visit. Usually, it’s when he has something on his mind. Read the full story HERE>>
Read more from Jay Peters in the Side Trail section HERE>>