This pair of books was ghostwritten for the client named as author, Joe Abb Overby.
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“Please, Bill, don’t shoot!”
A blast from a shotgun would change young Joe Overby’s life forever. After his father shoots the county sheriff, three-year-old Joe sets out on an unimaginable series of adventures.
Just A Dumb Kid From Nowhere will take you back to Depression-era Mississippi. There, you’ll join Joe as he experiences life in an orphanage, a series of sharecropper’s shacks, a log cabin, and a farm. You’ll learn what it was like to pick cotton by hand, to harvest sorghum and make molasses, and to work the wheat harvest during World War II. With Joe, you’ll experience the joys, yearnings and desperations of a growing boy as he discovers the world and his place in it. Through this anything-but-dumb kid, you’ll laugh and cry, always pulling for the boy who was determined to make something of himself.
Do you want a true feel for what life was really like in the rural South during this formative time in America’s history—the food, clothing, culture and customs? Just A Dumb Kid From Nowhere is your express ticket there.
Movie stars, cowboys, and German spies...
Those who see Naval Station Mayport as it is today may not realize that the property where they now stand once held a thriving resort called Wonderwood By-the-Sea. Acres Aweigh! is the story of that time, and of the woman who developed the resort, Mrs. Elizabeth P. Stark. Get to know and love this fascinating woman as young tug master Overby himself knew her.
But Acres Aweigh! is more than Mrs. Stark's story. It's also the story of a growing Navy base during the author's tour of duty there and his adventures aboard his aging tugboat, jokingly called "June-Moon-Uniform". It will bring a knowing smile to the face of any sailor who's ever served at Mayport or aboard a Navy ship.
This book is selling like hotcakes! If you enjoy a good story and a personal view of history throughout the 20th Century, you'll enjoy it.
At Christmas time, Dad actually had enough money this year to buy us each a present. John and I each got a sack of marbles and Dub got some firecrackers. We still got our stockings from the welfare with an apple and an orange in them. I also got a bag of switches—little peach switches, all cut into the same length—with a note from Santa telling me to shape up. I found out later that John and Dub had done that. We didn’t have a Christmas tree in the cabin, but there was one at school. We all helped decorate it by making ornaments out of tinfoil.
The Grit newspaper continued to bring us gloom and doom about the war in Europe. The Germans were bombing London, and British troops were marching into northern Africa. “We’re going to end up fightin’ in this war, yet,” Dad would say.
He was almost as distraught at the deaths of authors F. Scott Fitzgerald and James Joyce, just a few weeks apart. “Boys, they were two of the greatest writers of this century, one American and one Irish.”
“What’d they write?”
“Fitzgerald wrote a book about rich folks back in the ‘20s. First time I ever read that book, it was like I was taken into a whole different world. It was nothin’ like I ever knew here in Mississippi. Joyce was from a working family in Ireland, and he wrote about that. But, outside of the settings, they both wrote about the most basic human feelings and actions. Yep, people are the same everywhere, no matter how much money they got or where they live. You boys’ll get to read some of those books later on in school.”