You are still reading I see. That can only mean one thing. You, foolish human, are totally out of your mind, and you want to know a little more about me (okay that's two things, but only one in principle). I presume I must slake your thirst for knowledge, now. So--as I have been in the habit of warning my friends--grab yourself a machete and come along on a frightful adventure into the great unknown I call "My Mind".

I was born in Grand Forks North Dakota (you might remember it being flooded some years back). Oddly enough, it took me quite some time to learn to use a fork. After multiple fork injuries as a child (I think I stabbed my brain once or twice), I learned about this wonderful invention called a spoon. Now, History will tell you that the blessed spoon was invented first and had been in use for a long time before the fork, but that didn't matter to my infant mind so much as the dull edge not drawing blood. In college, Howard Payne University, the spoon took on new meaning. It no longer was a way to deliver food safely to my head, but funtioned as a space age cutting tool.

According to campus legend, (and every campus of note will have one or two at least) a young man once injured himself with a butter knife in a duel over a beautiful young lady. Not only was the young man rejected and never loved again, but the powers-that-be, thereafter, declared that never again would knives threaten the collegiate populace. And so each knife edge was ground down to the point that even a karate instructor would fail to cut through a luke-warm stick of butter. This was proved in my day, but I digress.

Now, between these two momentous incidents I lived quite a bit of life (thanks to the blessed spoon). The son of a military man and traveling often, I learned a very important phrase that served me faithfully throughout my life. It goes something like this, "Hola me llama..." wait let me try that again, "Hi, my name is Frank Wacholtz, would you be so kind as to not hurt me and direct me to the nearest spoon of convenience." I made many new friends this way and saw many strange faces I'll never forget (no vicious fork to gouge them out of my memory). I uttered this phrase of welcome in such places as England, Idaho, Colorado, Texas, Alabama, California, South Korea and even North Korea (the border gaurd just looked at me funnny).

I remember when I was only nine years old. My father thought it wise to provide my two brothers and I with a new basball bat. This was not a fork and was thus assumed safe for my use. How wrong he was. The plastic had not even been off the bat for an hour before I mercilessly clobbered my middle brother with a well placed strike between the eyes. I rushed my brother to the screen door leading into the house and was about to help him in when my brother screamed, "No! I can't bleed on the carpet! Mom will kill me." Please keep in mind this is why I had been forbidden the use of forks in the first place. My Mom laid down some newpaper and rushed my bleeding brother through the house and into the car for a trip to the hospital. Tears welled up in my eyes because I thought I had killed him. (good thing I'm a lousy baseball player). My Father took my youngest brother and I to a restraunt and bought us icecream while my middle brother was stitched up. Once again a spoon was involved and I was spared further injury. I still tease my brother that he got a scar and I got icecream.

I'll fastforward now to my days of waiting tables in Irving, Texas, in a small, family-owned Itallian Restraunt. I was handling forks now (age had steeled me for the ordeal) mostly by rolling them neatly inside a napkin beside a spoon. This provided a measure of protection that was both acceptable and profitable. However, all good things eventually come to an end. I came to a fork in the road. I tried to take it like an old baseball player suggested, but injured my brain so badly that I decided to write a book. I know, you do crazy things when forks are around. And so began the writing of "The Fall of Mahkinoc". It took some time to come up with that name. I wish I could tell you all the other forks that were presented, but they gouged pieces out of my brain, and I can no longer remember them.

After a brainstorming session with my middle brother, (you can find his site at www.crestfallen.us) I cleaned the wound in my brain and got to writing. Did I mention that my brain was so thoroughly injured that I took up substitute teaching for 6 months during the writing of the rough draft? Well, I did. I got to serve every detention I failed to be awarded through all my years of school. Did I mention that in-school suspension is worse for the teacher than the student? I did, did I. Okay then. It is. Espescially when the room is kind of cold and your mind starts drifting because the students are temporarily obeying your instructions... So I took up bringing a book with me. I learned the history of seafaring that winter and spring. The best thing about seafaring is that there were no forks, just lots of rope and the occasional paddle in the early days. (Okay and a few pointy sticks, but they don't count.)

I hope you've enjoyed this rambling session. Did I mention I get along great with the ADD crowd? I'm quite convinced this is my mother's doing. She's a great mom. Protected me from forks, she did. You all should have the privilage of knowing someone like her. I still remember one night when I was fifteen years old. I looked up to her and said, "Mom, I was a real pain as a little kid. Wasn't I?" I won't give you her response, but with a loving smile she said, "Yes, Frank. Yes, you were." I told her I would try to make it up to her. Of course, now that I have two little ones of my own who are so much like me... I keep them well away from forks and spoon-feed (not fork-feed, mind you) them useless information they'll remember forever but never use.


I bid you good morning, and May Peace favor you and blessing dog your every step,

Frank S. Wacholtz