Books with author George E. Walsh

"A journey like you've never been on before""Inspiring story about love, courage and determination - a must read!""Amazing! Vivid! Heartwarming!"Suddenly paralyzed by a mysterious illness, George Walsh can’t move a muscle, breathe on his own, or open his eyes – but his mind is normal. He looks brain-dead but is aware of where he is and what is happening to him, and he can hear everything people say. He's terrified and helpless as he falls into the rare state called “totally locked-in” – a prisoner inside his own body. This vividly-told true story makes you experience what it's like to be locked-in, to exist in a dark world of pain and loneliness. Will his doctor find a way to save his life? Will his family hold together through his life-and-death crisis? Will he discover a reason to fight back when there seems to be no reason left to live?Part horror movie, part medical drama, part personal confession, A Fallen Marionette is an emotional, inspiring, life-affirming memoir that will hold your interest from start to finish. It's the powerful and poetic narrative of an everyman confronting the medical system, deadly disease, and his own humanity, a timely story with which every reader can identify.The book deals with mysterious and undiagnosed disease, paralysis, physical therapy and occupational therapy, patient advocacy, addiction to painkillers and opioids, communicating with locked-in patients, HMO and insurance company disputes, botulism, long-term medical care, transitional care, suicidal thoughts, finding encouragement despite catastrophic illness.

"A journey like you've never been on before""Inspiring story about love, courage and determination - a must read!""Amazing! Vivid! Heartwarming!"Suddenly paralyzed by a mysterious illness, George Walsh can’t move a muscle, breathe on his own, or open his eyes – but his mind is normal. He looks brain-dead but is aware of where he is and what is happening to him, and he can hear everything people say. He's terrified and helpless as he falls into the rare state called “totally locked-in” – a prisoner inside his own body.This vividly-told true story makes you experience what it's like to be locked-in, to exist in a dark world of pain and loneliness. Will his doctor find a way to save his life? Will his family hold together through his life-and-death crisis? Will he discover a reason to fight back when there seems to be no reason left to live?Part horror movie, part medical drama, part personal confession, A Fallen Marionette is an emotional, inspiring, life-affirming memoir that will hold your interest from start to finish. It's the powerful and poetic narrative of an everyman confronting the medical system, deadly disease, and his own humanity, a timely story with which every reader can identify.The book deals with mysterious and undiagnosed disease, paralysis, physical therapy and occupational therapy, patient advocacy, addiction to painkillers and opioids, communicating with locked-in patients, HMO and insurance company disputes, botulism, long-term medical care, transitional care, suicidal thoughts, finding encouragement despite catastrophic illness.

All little boys and girls who love animals should become acquainted with Bumper the white rabbit, with Bobby Gray Squirrel, with Buster the bear, and with White Tail the deer, for they are all a jolly lot, brave and fearless in danger, and so lovable that you won’t lay down any one of the books without saying wistfully, “I almost wish I had them really and truly as friends and not just storybook acquaintances.” That, of course, is a splendid wish; but none of us could afford to have a big menagerie of wild animals, and that’s just what you would have to do if you went outside of the books. Bumper had many friends, such as Mr. Blind Rabbit, Fuzzy Wuzz and Goggle Eyes, his country cousins; and Bobby Gray Squirrel had his near cousins, Stripe the chipmunk and Webb the flying squirrel; while Buster and White Tail were favored with an endless number of friends and relatives. If we turned them all loose from the books, and put them in a ten acre lot—but no, ten acres wouldn’t be big enough to accommodate them, perhaps not a hundred acres.So we will leave them just where they are—in the books—and read about them, and let our imaginations take us to them where we can see them playing, skipping, singing, and sometimes fighting, and if we read very carefully, and think as we go along, we may come to know them even better than if we went out hunting for them.Another thing we should remember. By leaving them in the books, hundreds and thousands of other boys and girls can enjoy them, too, sharing with us the pleasures of the imagination, which after all is one of the greatest things in the world. In gathering them together in a real menagerie, we would be selfish both to Bumper, Bobby, Buster, White Tail and their friends as well as to thousands of other little readers who could not share them with us. So these books of Twilight Animal Stories are dedicated to all little boys and girls who love wild animals. All others are forbidden to read them! They wouldn’t understand them if they did.So come out into the woods with me, and let us listen and watch, and I promise you it will be worth while.

Whip and Spur by George E. WaringThen the work on the Central Park had fairly commenced, in the spring of 1858, I found—or I fancied—that proper attention to my scattered duties made it necessary that I should have a saddle-horse.How easily, by the way, the arguments that convince us of these pleasant necessities find their way to the understanding!Yet, how to subsist a horse after buying one, and how to buy? The memory of a well-bred and keen-eyed gray, dating back to the earliest days of my boyhood, and forming the chief feature of my recollection of play-time for years; an idle propensity, not a whit dulled yet, to linger over Leech’s long-necked hunters, and Herring’s field scenes; an almost superstitious faith in the different analyses of the bones of the racer and of the cart-horse; a firm belief in Frank Forester’s teachings of the value of “blood,”—all these conspired to narrow my range of selection, and, unfortunately, to confine it to a very expensive class of horses.Unfortunately, again, the commissioners of the Park had extremely inconvenient ideas of economy, and evidently did not consider, in fixing their schedule of salaries, how much more satisfactory our positions would have been with more generous emolument.How a man with only a Park salary, and with a family to support, could set up a saddle-horse,—and not ride to the dogs,—was a question that exercised not a little of my engineering talent for weeks; and many an odd corner of plans and estimates was figured over with calculations of the cost of forage and shoeing.Stable-room was plenty and free in the condemned buildings of the former occupants, and a little “over-time” of one of the men would suffice for the grooming.I finally concluded that, by giving up cigars, and devoting my energies to the pipe in their stead, I could save enough to pay for my horse’s keep; and so, the ways and means having been, in this somewhat vague manner, provided, the next step was to buy a horse. To tell of the days passed at auction sales in the hope (never there realized) of finding goodness and cheapness combined,—of the stationery wasted in answering advertisements based on every conceivable form of false pretence; to describe the numberless broken-kneed, broken-winded, and broken-down brutes that came under inspection,—would be tedious and disheartening.Good horses there were, of course, though very few good saddle-horses (America is not productive in this direction),—and the possible animals were held at impossible prices.Those who rode over the new Park lands usually rode anything but good saddle-horses. Fast trotters, stout ponies, tolerable carriage-horses, capital cart-horses, there were in plenty. But the clean-cut, thin-crested, bright-eyed, fine-eared, steel-limbed saddle-horse, the saddle-horse par excellence,—may I say the only saddle-horse?—rarely came under observation; and when, by exception, such a one did appear, he was usually so ridden that his light was sadly dimmed. It was hard to recognize an elastic step under such an unelastic seat.

Washer was the youngest of a family of three Raccoons, born in the woods close to the shores of Beaver Pond, and not half a mile from Rocky Falls where the water, as you know, turns into silvery spray that sparkles in the sun-shine like diamonds and rubies. And, indeed, the animals and birds of the North Woods much prefer this glittering spray and foam that rise in a steady cloud from the bottom of the falls to all the jewels and gems ever dug out of the earth! For, though each drop sparkles but a moment, and then vanishes from sight, there are a million others to follow it, and when you bathe in them they wash and scour away the dirt, and make you clean and fresh in body and soul. Washer had his first great adventure at Rocky Falls, and it is a wonder that he ever lived to tell the tale, for the water which flows over the falls is almost as cruel and terrible as it is sparkling and inviting. But Washer knew nothing of this then, for he was a very young Raccoon, and not quite responsible for all he did. Perhaps it was Mother Raccoon that was to blame, for it was her duty to look after her little ones until they were old enough to hunt for themselves. It is a law of the woods that any mother of bird or animal who neglects its young shall be punished.

Washer was the youngest of a family of three Raccoons, born in the woods close to the shores of Beaver Pond, and not half a mile from Rocky Falls where the water, as you know, turns into silvery spray that sparkles in the sun-shine like diamonds and rubies. And, indeed, the animals and birds of the North Woods much prefer this glittering spray and foam that rise in a steady cloud from the bottom of the falls to all the jewels and gems ever dug out of the earth! For, though each drop sparkles but a moment, and then vanishes from sight, there are a million others to follow it, and when you bathe in them they wash and scour away the dirt, and make you clean and fresh in body and soul.

Excerpt from Whip and SpurHow a man with only a Park salary, and with a family to support, could set up a saddle-horse, and not ride to the dogs, - was a question that exercised not a little of my engineering talent for weeks 5 and many an odd corner of plans and estimates was figured over with calculations of the cost of forage and shoeing.About the PublisherForgotten Books publishes hundreds of thousands of rare and classic books. Find more at www.forgottenbooks.comThis book is a reproduction of an important historical work. Forgotten Books uses state-of-the-art technology to digitally reconstruct the work, preserving the original format whilst repairing imperfections present in the aged copy. In rare cases, an imperfection in the original, such as a blemish or missing page, may be replicated in our edition. We do, however, repair the vast majority of imperfections successfully; any imperfections that remain are intentionally left to preserve the state of such historical works.