My first.

I have been working on a book.
I erase. I write. I re-write. I erase. I write. Over and Over and Over again. =/

Anyhow, the book is about my grandfathers life. He was a huge example to me. HUGE.
And he has some of the neatest stories ever. I wish he were still alive because I appreciate his journals and story so much. I have a billion questions. I'm pleased that I do have his journals and that they are so well written, as now I can look to those to hopefully have my questions answered. The is the beginning of the first chapter. I'd LOVE some feedback. I want to know if this is something that seems to catch your interest or kinda makes ya bored. :) It's a rough draft so I know that there are several mistakes. Anyhow, feel free to give feedback. I'd appreciate it.
xoxo,
Jade

I couldn't have been older then twelve. It was one of the most memorable spring days that I can think back to. The air was clear. I could see for miles before my eyes were stopped by great Mountain tops. Flowers were blooming all around me and I was at peace. I was strolling down a dirt road, most of the roads around the area, at this time, were only dirt. I enjoyed these walks. One of the many things that I delighted in. I was alone... alone most of my life, you see, I was an only child.
I was born July 10th, 1921 at about eleven that morning. This was the day that I was given my name, Herbert Walter Gellert. At this point in time there were no doctors, delivery rooms, nurses, or anesthetists, Just a German born midwife. My mother has told me the story of my delivery multiple times, each time she tells it with much enthusiasm and so much pride in me and in herself.
I can recall many times where I to was proud of my mother, Henrietta. She was an exceptional cook regardless of her terrible arthritis, and not until later in my life had I ever met a woman who could cook as well as my mother had. Growing up we had five delicious apple trees, raspberries, current, gooseberry bushes, and a large garden. My taste buds were undeniably fond of my mother's ox tail soup, cooked chicken feet, pickled pigs feet, and potato pancakes.
My father was an interesting fellow; I've tried many of times to think of a word to sum up him and his personality. All that I've ever been able to really come up with is the word interesting. I spent a lot of my time with my father doing my best to learn some tricks of the trade. He was a genius when it came to working on cars, this was something I whole heartedly admired and worked to be just like.

My Parents both had a favorite past time. They called it "The Time to Relax", However, Most would call it "The time to be wasted". Both of my parents were quite different when they drank, my dad would become really cheerful and jovial while my mother would become morose and complain. Most often she would complain that I was not my father's son. In my later years I learned of the story behind her complaint. My mother was actually married to a Gottlieb Moench when she met my father, so I was considered to be conceived out of wedlock due to her affair. This comment really did hurt both my father and I. I recall my father telling my mom often to go to bed and sleep off her anger, this reminds me of one incident when my mother hit her head against an open door and cut her head open. Dr. Williams came over shortly after and put in six stitches. This ordeal was the cause of there divorce years later…but that’s another story.

Lets get back to the good stuff, My story.

"HERB! HERBERT!" I could hear my mother's voice louder than the train horn that often raced by my home. My friends and I scrambled together trying to hide the Camels. The smoke was overbearing though, and I feared she would know right away what we were up to, although, I wasn't really much of a smoker, I was never really able to actually inhale the smoke down into my lungs because I was disgusted by the burning sensation. However, my mother was a undeniable fan of her Camels, Chesterfields, and Lucky Strikes. I would often straighten out her shoe rack where she would hide the cartons, and I'd steal her loot. I became curious what it was like to smoke after witnessing her and my father smoke as far back as I could remember. They probably were keen to smoking a few packs a week out on the front porch. "HERB, are you in chicken shack?!" I remember that statement clearly, as I held my breath and said to myself 'It's not the chicken shack, it's my playhouse!' Right about that moment, my mother ripped open the door. Almost immediately she grabbed the cigarettes out of my hand and in the same motion bent me over her knee. I received the most lickings out of all of my friends. I promised her I'd never smoke again. I've kept my word.